Lord Crayle's Secret World. Lara Temple

his own loaded pistol to his right hand, aiming back. He cursed silently. He was sure he had scored a hit.

      ‘It throws right, sir,’ said the rider calmly. ‘It is always risky to borrow someone else’s firearm.’

      He almost faltered at the voice and he heard his sister give a faint squeak of surprise. It was deep and intentionally husky, but most definitely a woman’s voice and a cultured one... He contained his surprise and focused on the problem at hand.

      ‘It seems we are at an impasse,’ he said after a moment.

      ‘Indeed,’ the robber replied laconically, not appearing the least bit concerned. ‘Still, I am sure we can reach an understanding.’

      He marvelled at the steadiness of her aim. It was no simple feat to keep a pistol firmly trained for any length of time. Nevertheless, he had little doubt he had the advantage. He heard a moan from outside, no doubt from his servant reviving. Surely she realised there was no way she could win this standoff? And yet she sat there calmly, apparently unconcerned. An ‘understanding’. An outrageous idea flickered through his mind. The giant groaned at his feet. Obviously, he had not hit him hard enough. The man must have a head like a rock.

      ‘An understanding?’ he queried politely.

      ‘It is late, sir. I have no doubt you and...the lady...are anxious for your bed.’

      Michael’s hand tightened on his pistol at the insinuation.

      ‘You let my friend go and toss his musket after him and we will let you be on your way.’

      ‘That is a rather generous hand you are dealing yourself,’ he replied.

      ‘You have some use for a pre-war musket then, sir?’ she asked mockingly.

      He paused, interested in testing this further. The idea had settled like a butterfly on a blade of grass. It was still tenuous, but it had potential.

      ‘What would you say to another arrangement? You run along and I will keep your big friend. I will even give you a pound for him. You could buy two better highwaymen at the price—’

      He was cut off as a bullet tore through the squabs, inches from his head. He had to hold himself back from returning the compliment, with more extreme effects. He kept his arm firm despite the heat of sudden rage that surged through him.

      ‘I don’t sell out my friends,’ she bit out.

      Her voice shook slightly as she swiftly pulled another pistol from her saddle and cocked it. He saw her arm waver again as she raised it. She was tiring, he realised, his calm returning. He had tested her and he should be happy that she had exceeded his expectations.

      ‘Miss, now be good and take yerself off, as the gentleman said,’ the giant said from the floor, surprising them all.

      Michael decided to cut to the chase before they got into further unnecessary arguments.

      ‘All right, enough nonsense. You, man, get up and step back. The three of us are going to have a little talk.’

      The giant hauled himself up and groggily stepped back onto the road. Michael stepped down after him. He knew it was a risk, but he had a feeling he understood the parameters of this particular game. As he descended, he noticed the mangled remains of his coachman’s rifle that lay on the road and his brows rose in appreciation. So that shot had not been mere luck.

      ‘Higgins, unhook a lamp for me and back on the coach with you. And, McCabe—I want you to pull up the road some twenty yards and wait for me there.’

      ‘My lord?’ The coachman faltered.

      ‘I believe I was clear, was I not?’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’ When he employed that tone his men knew it was best to act swiftly and without argument.

      With a lamp in one hand and his pistol in the other, Michael faced his assailants. He surveyed the woman first. She had lowered her firearm and was resting it on the pommel of her saddle. In the lamplight he caught the glint of light-coloured eyes above a black kerchief. He bent to set the lamp carefully at their feet and noticed something else. A small dark puddle on the ground just by her horse. The giant noticed it at the same moment.

      ‘You’re hit, miss!’ he exclaimed.

      ‘Not hit. Grazed. I am perfectly fine.’

      Michael stared at the rider. Up close he could see she was smaller than he had expected. And she had sat there holding him marked throughout this whole episode with a bullet wound. His resolve grew. This could prove extremely interesting.

      ‘You should see a doctor,’ he said mildly.

      ‘Of your offering? Make sure we go healthy to the gallows? No, I thank you. What the devil do you want?’ The veneer of politeness faded and he could hear the edge of pain in her voice. He decided to move quickly to his proposal before she fell off her horse. He had much rather they depart under their own steam.

      ‘I have no intention of seeing you to the gallows. In fact, I have a business proposition for you, young woman. I would like to offer you a job at a government institution I help operate and where I believe your particular skills may be...useful. It is all above board, if that has any appeal. And with good pay. Twenty pounds a month to start with and more if you prove suitable.’

      * * *

      Sari stared down at the madman standing before them. Now she knew what they meant when they said ‘mad as a lord’. Or was it ‘drunk as a lord’? And yet he had hardly appeared mad or foxed.

      It had seemed endless, but the whole affair had probably not lasted more than a few minutes. The numbing throb of pain in her arm told her she would pay a price for her bravado in holding her ground. This man had knocked out George and taken his shot with a speed that had completely taken her off guard. If it were not for George’s relic of a firearm, they would both either be dead or be on their way to the local magistrate. The thought sent a chill through her. Not merely for them, but for her brother Charlie.

      From her limited experience, she’d thought of all aristocrats as indolent—men more concerned with cravats than with fighting skills. This man was probably an officer from the wars. Trust her to hold up someone of his calibre.

      She inspected him more carefully. Until now she had focused on him so intently she had hardly registered anything about him apart from the most crucial facts such as his firm aim. Now she could see he was tall, a few inches short of George’s six and a half feet. In the half-darkness she could only make out the main lines of his sharply cut features. The lamp at their feet accentuated deep-set eyes, a tight mouth and clearly defined chin and cheekbones. She tried to lock all of those into one image, but it escaped her. She knew she was tiring. The throb had spread to her fingers and deep into her chest. She wished he would go so she could get home and lie down.

      But a job, above board, with good pay. Offered by a man, a lord according to his servants, whom they had just tried to rob and whose carriage now sported a bullet hole courtesy of her pistol. He was clearly demented. She decided to humour him. Anything to get rid of him.

      ‘It sounds most appealing...my lord,’ she added as a slightly mocking afterthought.

      Ignoring the nervous movement of her gun, he reached into the pocket of his coat.

      ‘This is my card. I am usually in during the early morning. And you may bring your...friend here if you feel the need for protection,’ he offered drily.

      He moved to hand her the card, then with a glance at the rigid way she was now holding herself he handed it to George, who took it promptly.

      ‘I am quite serious about this. If, however, you decide not to accept my offer, I hope you have memorised the coat of arms on my carriage as I would rather not run into you two again.’

      The smile he gave them made Sari’s hand clamp on to her pistol more firmly. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but it was unequivocally a warning.

      *