Enchanted in Regency Society: Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress / The Gamekeeper's Lady. Ann Lethbridge

mounted, the Marquess walked his horse to stand directly before her. The big-boned mare towered over her and Mist. Raising her gaze, Eleanor watched his eyes, ready to drop to the ground if he decided to fire. You didn’t grow up with older brothers and a soldier father without learning something useful.

      Atop his horse, his face stern, he looked like some avenging god of war. Beautiful in the way of a cold marble statue.

      ‘Well, wench, we meet again.’ His gazed raked her from her head to her heels. ‘An interesting costume. You don’t expect me to believe you are a boy, do you?’

      She’d opted for the freedom of breeches for the work she had to do tonight. She cast him the saucy half-smile she’d copied from Lizzie, the upstairs maid at Castlefield. A lass with an eye for the lads. ‘Well, well, if it ain’t the Markiss Boworthy. So we meets agin’, milord. Come for another kiss, ’ave yer?’

      Casually, he gathered his reins in one hand and prepared to dismount. The nodcock. Underestimating her because she was female. She tensed. As his foot touched the ground, his body turned and his pistol moved off target. She tore her sword from the scabbard on her saddle and clutched the blade in her left hand. As he squared up, she lunged. A swift arc with the hilt knocked his pistol up. It exploded harmlessly into the air. A flick and she tossed the sword into her right hand, ready to run him through.

      ‘Stand back,’ she ordered.

      Steel hissed as he drew a sword from the scabbard at his side. He was carrying a sword? Only the military carried them these days, or those with nefarious intent. He must have noticed hers on her saddle the other evening. Damn it. Now what?

      He must have seen her surprise, because he laughed. ‘Nice move, wench, but I am an expert swordsman. You might as well give up now.’

      The way he said swordsman, almost like a caress, sent a shiver down her spine. Arrogant man. She would dashed well show him a thing or two before she presented her nice little surprise. ‘Damn yer eyes, Markiss.’ She slashed at him, testing his skill.

      He stumbled back, yet parried the unexpected thrust. He chuckled softly. Was he enjoying this? He had the reach, without question, but he was nothing but an idle rake, whereas she had practised for hours with William every day before he left for his regiment. She hacked at him in a flurry of blows.

      At first, Beauworth gave ground to her attack. He fought lazily, his tip dropping time and time again. Always managing to recover before she broke through. He kept glancing around. ‘Where’s your accomplice?’ he asked in insultingly conversational tones as he parried a particularly tricky thrust with seeming ease.

      ‘Takin’ care of business in Lunnon.’

      ‘So you thought you’d try thieving on your own?’

      ‘Like taking lollipops from a baby it is.’ In spite of her bravado, her heavy breathing meant she found engaging in a conversation difficult. She’d tried every trick she knew. Sweat trickled into her eyes. She dashed it away on her sleeve, circling her opponent and taking advantage of a brief reprieve.

      ‘Had enough, wench?’ he jibed.

      Enough? She’d almost pinked him twice. She had the upper hand, despite her tiring arm. She gulped air into her desperate lungs. ‘Not ’til I have yer ’ead on me spit.’

      His husky chuckle drifted maddeningly into the night. Damn him. She was wilting and he seemed not the slightest bit discomposed.

      Without warning, he changed his stance, attacked her hard and fast, lunging and stabbing. No more did his sword point waver, it flashed in a quicksilver blur. The grate of steel on steel screeched into the silence. Forced back by his superior strength, she retreated toward the great oak tree, which had stood guard over this clearing for centuries. She bit her lip. Had she been too confident?

      His sword tip closed in on her throat. She defended and recovered. Again, he forced her back. She tripped on a root, staggering back, her arms wide.

      He flicked his wrist and her coatsleeve was cut from elbow to shoulder. They both knew it could just as easily have been her flesh. She could see it in his eyes and the arrogant tilt of his head.

      Air scraped her throat dry. Trembles shook her hand. Her wrist ached. The point of her blade wavered badly. Tip up. Tip up. Her father’s laughing voice rang in her ears. Her wrist refused to comply. This man was dangerous and she was running out of time. She glanced over her shoulder, lined herself up.

      The Marquess’s grin exuded arrogance. At any moment, he would have her. He knew it. She knew it. He was far better than he’d let her believe. She should have been more wary right from the beginning, more focused on what she needed to do.

      The tree trunk loomed behind her. She thrust at him one last time. He twisted his wrist. Her sword spun free. He caught it neatly and effortlessly in his left hand and crossed both blades at her throat.

      Her heart beat wildly. Her stomach pitched. She swallowed dust. This was not supposed to happen.

      His teeth flashed white and his eyes gleamed. While her ribs ached with the need for air, his chest barely rose and fell. ‘Now, Lady Moonlight, we need to talk. But first, let’s see your face.’ He tossed her blade aside.

      Eleanor’s knees shook so hard, she feared she might stumble on to his point, yet somehow she dodged his hand. ‘Put up…I concede.’

      He gave a little ground, but his sword point did not waver from the base of her neck. ‘So, you thought you would have my head on a spit, did you? I wonder how yours will look stretched on the gallows. Give me the mask.’

      She lifted her hands away from her sides in an extravagant gesture of defeat, felt the dagger slide into her palm. She flicked it free of her sleeve. The blade flashed wickedly.

      His jaw dropped, then he laughed. ‘You think to defeat a sword with a hat pin?’

      God, she hoped so. She cast it underhand at the branch behind his head. He dodged. The net dropped, tangling his sword in the mesh. He cursed. Sawed at the ropes to no effect. She ran for the coil of rope behind the tree, hauled it through the block and tackle she’d nailed above his head. The mouth of the net tightened, trapping him and his sword inside.

      She ran for her pistols and spun around. ‘Methinks…yer took o’er long, Markiss,’ she gasped. She wrapped the length of rope around his torso, while he glared at her through the mesh. ‘You should ’ave finished it when you had the chance.’

      

      A net. The little hellion. Garrick’s face heated. She’d caught him like a cod fish. No matter how he twisted, he couldn’t break free and could get no leverage with his blade.

      ‘Drop yer sword,’ she said, pointing her pistol at his head. With his legs free, he could try a flying leap and no doubt one of them would get shot. Trouble was it was more likely to be he with his arms trapped against his body. He released the hilt of his sword, and she extracted it from the net, kindly not slicing him in the process.

      He tried stretching the ropes with his shoulders and elbows.

      ‘Save yer strength,’ she advised, tying the free end of the rope to her horse. ‘You’ve a long walk ahead of yer.’

      ‘Like hell.’

      ‘Yer choice. Walk or be dragged.’ She mounted the grey and gathered up Bess’s reins.

      Bloody hell. He was going to see her hang for this.

      It was a long walk back to the barn he’d found the day before, but she took it nice and easy, and if he hadn’t been bundled like a sack of washing, he might not have minded the exercise.

      Inside the barn, she bade him sit.

      ‘What now?’ he asked as she tied his ankles and fastened the rope about his waist to a metal ring on the wall.

      ‘I would think a Markiss ought to be worth a guinea or two.’

      That