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

little hellion broke free and leapt back, breathing hard, her eyes in the slits in the mask sparkling with reflected sequins or some deeper, hotter fire. Chest rising and falling in quick succession, she levelled the barrel at his chest. A point-blank shot. ‘Stay back.’ Her glance darted to the servants. ‘All of ye.’

      Laughing, he reached for her. ‘Surely we can find a more amenable way for you to earn a living? One we would both enjoy.’

      She stilled, those rosy just-kissed lips curving in a saucy grin. She curtsied, full and deep. ‘I think not.’

      ‘Look out, my lord,’ Johnson called.

      Garrick caught a blur of movement at the corner of his eye. With a curse, he whirled around. A large masked man, a pistol clutched in his fist, raised his arm high. Garrick dodged. The blow hammered against the side of his head. A blinding light flashed. He fought descending darkness. The ground hit his knees as he fell into black.

      

      Blood rushed in Lady Eleanor Hadley’s ears. Her head swam. Her heart raced. At any moment she would measure her length beside the man at her feet.

      She took a deep breath, crouched at her victim’s side and found a strong steady pulse in his wrist. She stood upright, glaring at Martin. ‘Did you have to hit him so hard?’ she muttered.

      ‘What the devil are ye doing, letting him get so near?’ Martin’s deep, low mutter rang harsh with anger. He levelled his pistol at the men on the box.

      Panting, she stared at the inert body on the ground. What had she been thinking? That he was tall and impossibly handsome under the soft light of the moon? That the easy smile on his lean, dark face held no danger? If not for Martin, she might have fallen into his trap like a wasp in a jam pot. He had to be cocksure of his abilities as a lover if he thought to overpower her with a kiss. A laugh bubbled up. Hysterical, born of nerves and the strange sensations he’d sparked in her body. Never had she felt so horridly wonderfully weak, as if her bones were liquid and her mind was mush. Not her normal self at all.

      If it wasn’t for his grab for the pistol, he might have swept her off her feet.

      ‘Where were you, Martin?’ she muttered. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be covering the driver?’

      ‘I never saw you start forrard. The plan was for me to give the signal.’

      Even in the dim light, she saw his skin darken. Poor Martin. The best man to lead a charge, according to her father, but he made a terrible highwayman. She’d tried to send him away after their first foray. He’d refused point blank. Dear loyal Martin.

      ‘Never mind.’ She pointed to her victim and raised her voice. ‘See wot ’e’s got on ’im before ’e wakes.’

      As Martin bent to do her bidding, the coachman fumbled under his seat. Oh God, this could get out of hand very quickly. She jerked her pistol in his direction. ‘Don’t try it.’

      He straightened and raised his hands again. The angelic-looking boy beside him sat rigid, his shoulders shaking, his teeth biting down on his bottom lip. No heroics there, thank heavens.

      Martin rolled the man on the ground on to his back. He moaned, his head lolling against his shoulder, his brow furrowed as if, even unconscious, he was aware of pain. The strong column of neck disappeared into a crisp, elegantly tied neckloth and merged with powerful shoulders encased in a snug-fitting dark coat. Dark hair and olive skin gave his strong features a foreign cast.

      Her heart pounded a little too hard. He was beautiful. Not an adjective she normally used about a man. They were usually either rough, or gentlemanly, or they were simply men she saw every day and gave no thought to at all. This one was beautiful in the way of a bronze sculpture: a perfectly moulded jaw, smooth plane of cheek, straight dark brows above a noble nose. Her fingers itched to trace his features, to feel the texture of bone and skin, much like one might run a hand over a fine statue. The line of his full bottom lip echoed the feel of his mouth on hers, warm and unbelievably exciting. And his voice, with its faint French accent, had brushed across her nape like the touch of velvet.

      Madness.

      He moaned again. She jumped back. To her relief, he did not open his eyes. Martin had struck him hard. She swallowed. Hopefully not a fateful blow. She didn’t want him badly hurt, for all he’d seemed so careless with his life. Nor did she want to face him again. ‘Time to go. Into the coach with him. You,’ she said, pointing at the coachman, ‘get down and lend a ’and. And no tricks.’

      The coachman heaved his portly frame over the side.

      Martin went to his head. ‘Pick up his feet,’ he ordered the coachman, who bent with a grunt and grasped the man under the knees above black Hessians polished to an impossibly glossy shine.

      ‘Hold,’ she said.

      ‘What now?’ Martin said in a growl.

      ‘Take his boots.’

      Stiff with anger, he dropped the man to the ground. He pushed the coachman aside with a grunt of disapproval and heaved off the tight-fitting footwear. He returned to his post at the man’s head.

      Eleanor opened the door of the carriage and stood back. The two men hoisted their burden on to the floor of the coach. Martin slammed the door.

      ‘Be off with you,’ she said to the panting coachman. ‘As fast as you can before I change me mind.’

      The coachman wasted no time in climbing up and a moment later the carriage sped down the road. Its swaying lamp disappeared around the corner.

      Martin bent and cupped his hands and boosted her on to Mist, her steady little gelding, who had waited so patiently all this time.

      Eleanor struggled awkwardly with her skirts as she settled into the saddle. ‘Next time I’ll wear William’s breeches.’

      ‘There ain’t going to be no next time.’ Martin stuffed their booty into his saddlebags and climbed aboard the chestnut. ‘Mark my words, you’ll end up like her, my lady. On Tyburn tree.’

      Eleanor’s stomach twisted at the worry in his voice. ‘Do you have a better idea?’ She dug her heel into Mist’s flank and they galloped swiftly into the protection of the woods. Eleanor used to love the freedom of riding at night. Many times, she and William, her twin, had slipped out to roam the countryside around their Hampshire estate after midnight. They’d been best friends in those days. She’d borrowed his clothes. And why not? She’d ridden as well as, if not better than, her brothers, shot as well as they did. And that was her downfall. She thought she knew better than them.

      Look at tonight. This victim had been wonderfully rich, but the night had almost ended in disaster. Everything she touched went horribly wrong. William was on his way home, his ship due in Portsmouth any day now, and he’d come home to find himself ruined.

      All because she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Heat flooded her body. He’d think her such an impetuous fool.

      Unless she could put things right before he arrived.

      It didn’t take long to reach the barn where they hid their horses. Eleanor slid out of the saddle and led Mist inside. She swept off the mask, wig and hat, casting them to the floor, scrubbing at her itchy scalp as her hair cascaded around her shoulders.

      ‘Do you know who he was?’ Martin asked, following her in.

      ‘A dandy with gold in his pocket and jewellery to spare.’

      ‘It was Beauworth. I recognised the coach.’

      ‘What?’ A cold, hard lump settled in her stomach. Beauworth? The man bent on destroying her family. She’d flirted with him, let him kiss her. Her face warmed at the memory. How demeaning. She yanked the leading rein through the metal ring in the wall. ‘You should have told me.’

      ‘Weren’t much time for talking,’ Martin said, turning from the task of lighting a lantern hanging from a beam. His voice