Enchanted in Regency Society. Ann Lethbridge

him in the dark with his thoughts, his growing anger and the scent of hay and horse manure in his nostrils.

      He struggled inside his bindings. Nothing he did made them any looser and he found nothing within reach to serve as a blade.

      The more time passed, the more fury filled his heart until his head ached. He imagined his captor swinging from a gibbet, or hanging by her arms in some dark dungeon. But each time he got to the point of murdering her, he found himself kissing her instead. More frustration.

      What would Uncle Duncan do when he received their ransom note? He’d be worried mindless. He’d probably pay the damned ransom, too. Something the estate could ill afford, apparently.

      She’d have to set him loose at some point and then he’d find a way to break free. In the meantime, it would be better to think of something other than his captor if he wanted to remain sane.

      The delightful vision of Ellie Brown floated across his mind’s eye. Now there was a maid worth thinking about. She reminded him of untouched spring mornings and pristine golden beaches—all that was good in the world—whereas Lady Moonlight was dark nights and silk sheets and the heat of lust—pure wickedness.

      Given the choice, which one did he want? Both. Together in one bed. He groaned as his body expressed approval of the image then let his mind take him where it would. Better to be driven mad by sexual frustration than rage.

      Garrick opened his eyes to the sound of raised voices. Two voices, one male, one female, outside the barn. A falling out of thieves? He blinked to clear his vision. He must have slept. His neck and back were sore and his hands and feet were numb. The barn door swung open and sunlight streamed into his prison. He squinted at the large figure outlined in the doorway. Her accomplice had returned. He looked furious.

      Pistol in one hand, knife in the other, the masked man slashed through the net and then the ropes. He yanked Garrick to his feet. Blood rushed into his extremities. He bit back a protest. ‘Outside,’ his captor said.

      Struggling to regain his wits, Garrick shuffled out on feet pricked by a thousand pins, and every joint in his body complaining. Outside in the dazzle of a fine morning, the woman, also masked, bent over a pan on the fire. The blankets piled nearby suggested she’d camped there.

      As usual, her hair was covered with her peruke. She looked up as Garrick sat down cross-legged against the wall of the barn. ‘You walk like an old man.’

      He glared at her. ‘So would you if you’d been tied like a parcel all night.’

      She collected more wood for the fire from a pile at the side of the barn. On the way back she sniffed as she passed him. ‘You stinks. Ben, take ’im to the pond to wash.’

      So her partner’s name was Ben.

      ‘On your feet, my lord,’ the man said.

      ‘Why bother?’ he said, glowering at Ben. ‘You’re just going to murder me.’

      Ben picked up his rifle, grabbed Garrick by the upper arm and marched him down to the pond where he untied the ropes at his wrists.

      ‘Strip.’

      Garrick glanced at the woman. ‘No.’

      ‘Then I’ll do it fer ye while she holds the rifle. Leave your damned breeches on if ye must.’

      Garrick huffed out a breath. No point in arguing for the sake of it.

      He removed his coat and dropped it at his feet. His shirt followed, and he sat to remove his boots and stockings. Retaining his breeches, he stood. With a wary eye on Ben, he backed into the water.

      ‘You’ll see my bullet coming,’ Ben said.

      Garrick didn’t trust either of them and let disbelief show in his face. When the water was deep enough, he sluiced the water over his arms and face. The woman strolled to the water’s edge and tossed him a bar of soap, then she picked up his shirt and stockings, rinsed them and hung them to dry over the fence.

      ‘I’ll have those back, wench,’ Garrick called. She ignored him.

      Although the mud on the bottom oozed between his toes, the water was cool and reasonably clear. Garrick could not help but enjoy the freshness after his ghastly night. He kept an eye on Ben who, while he held his rifle casually, held it with the assurance of a man practised in its use. Garrick was sure the man had seen military service from his disciplined movements and ramrod carriage. A hard man, who would not make escape easy.

      He soaped his hair and sank beneath the water to rinse. When he came to the surface he saw Ben alert, his rifle cocked. He stood up slowly, aware of the wench watching from the bank, her gaze travelling over his torso, her lips parting slightly as if she’d never seen a man without his shirt.

      Heat pooled instantly in his loins. Damn her. She’d done it on purpose. He splashed more water over his face, forcing his body under control before he could think of leaving the water. Fortunately, she returned to her cooking.

      So Garrick made his way out of the pond and headed for his clothes.

      ‘No need to be shy,’ the woman said. ‘Put them on when they are dry.’

      Ben looked scandalised. He muttered something under his breath, but gestured for Garrick to go ahead.

      The scent of bacon assaulted his nostrils. Whether because it was being cooked outside, or because he was ravenously hungry, his mouth watered. He kept his face impassive and returned to his place against the barn wall.

      ‘Sit by the fire,’ she ordered. ‘We don’t want yer catching a chill.’

      He curled his lip. ‘Not before you get my money, at least.’

      Ben jerked the rifle. ‘Sit near the fire.’

      Garrick cursed and sat as directed.

      The woman slapped the eggs and bacon on to a slab of bread and handed it to him. She did the same for Ben. It tasted as good as it smelled. It would do no good to starve himself. He’d need every ounce of strength to escape these two.

      She stood up. ‘We need fresh water.’ She walked away.

      Moments later, he heard her gasp behind him.

      Ben looked up from his food. ‘What is it?’

      Garrick knew what had caught her attention. It was the reason he never removed his shirt in public. He glowered, but said nothing as she placed a cup of water beside him, her gaze still fixed on his back.

      ‘Look at this,’ she said to Ben.

      Unfolding his brawny body with a grunt, Ben stood up and joined her at Garrick’s shoulder. He whistled softly through his teeth.

      ‘Who did this?’ she asked.

      Garrick heard the pity in her voice and cringed. He did not need her sympathy, damn her. ‘An accident, years ago.’ Uncle Duncan had lost his temper. He’d expressed his regret as Garrick lay on his stomach, bandaged and medicated. Le Clere had never lost control like that again but it always served to remind Garrick what lay beneath the surface.

      ‘An accident?’ She stared at Ben, her face full of incredulity. ‘Have you ever seen…?’

      ‘In the army, I have. An officer’s cane can do that kind of damage.’

      She reached out and pressed a finger on his back. Garrick jumped with a curse.

      ‘Sorry,’ she said, whipping her hand away.

      ‘Forget it,’ he ground out through clenched teeth.

      ‘Just give me my shirt if the sight troubles you.’

      But once again she touched him, gently now, tracing the three straight diagonal lines across his back. His skin jumped and flickered, although her touch was as gentle as a butterfly, as light as a whispering breeze, almost a caress. He felt his chest constrict. The women he had known in London