No Other Love. Candace Camp

and Nicola knew that he had noticed the family coat of arms drawn in gilt on the door. No doubt he was pleased to have stopped someone wealthy. She only hoped that he did not intend to seize her and hold her for ransom, assuming that the Earl of Exmoor would pay a great deal for his passenger’s return. Under her breath, she cursed Richard’s insistence on sending his carriage for her. A plain post chaise would have been a far better vehicle, upon reflection.

      Drawing a calming breath, Nicola turned the handle of the door and opened it, stepping out with what she hoped was cool aplomb. She thought of her friend Alexandra’s American habit of carrying a small pistol in her reticule. Everyone had looked askance at her for it, but right at this moment, it seemed a remarkably good idea.

      She paused on the step of the carriage, standing ramrod straight, and looked at the leader with a steady gaze. She was determined not to appear cowed. The man on horseback stiffened and muttered a curse.

      “Well done,” Nicola said with icy sarcasm. “You have managed to capture an unarmed woman.”

      “No woman is unarmed,” the man returned, his mouth quirking up into a smile. He dismounted in a smooth muscular sweep and stepped forward, making a formal bow to Nicola.

      The man was tall and well-built in his dark clothes, a figure of power and even grace. Watching him, Nicola felt an unaccustomed quiver dart through her. Most of his face was covered with a soft dark mask, only the square jaw and chin visible, and a neat black goatee and mustache further disguised those features. But there was no way to conceal the clean-cut, compelling lines of his face—or the wide, firm mouth, now curved in a mocking smile. White, even teeth flashed in the darkness as he straightened and moved toward her, reaching up to help her down. His black-gloved hand closed around hers, neatly pulling her the last step down to the ground. He continued to hold her hand for a moment, his eyes boring into hers.

      Nicola raised one eyebrow disdainfully. “Let me go.”

      “Oh, I will, my lady, I will.”

      In the dark night, his eyes were utterly black—soulless eyes, Nicola thought a little breathlessly. She could not tear her own gaze away from them. His hand tightened fractionally on hers. Then he released her.

      “But you must pay a toll first, for passing through my lands.”

      “Your lands?” Nicola curled her hands into fists, struggling to keep her voice cool and slightly amused despite the strange torrent of sensations that was rushing through her. She made a show of glancing around. “But I thought we were on Exmoor property.”

      “In a legal sense.”

      “What other sense is there?”

      “One of right. Does not the land belong to those who live upon it?”

      “A radical notion. And you, I take it, claim to be the representative of ‘the people’?”

      He gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders, a more genuine smile parting his lips. “Who better?”

      “Most of the people I know who live upon this land would not consider a thief a proper representative of themselves.”

      “You wound me, my lady. I had hoped we could be…civil.” There was a faint caressing note in his low voice.

      Once again something stirred in Nicola’s abdomen, shocking her. “It is difficult to be civil when one is being threatened.”

      “Threatened?” He raised his hands in a gesture betokening innocence. “My lady, you shock me. I have made no threat to you.”

      “It is implicit, is it not, in stopping my carriage and demanding money?” She glanced around significantly at the men waiting silently on horseback, watching their exchange. “Why else are these men pointing guns at us?”

      One of the men let out a soft grunt. “I am afraid she has you there, my friend.”

      This voice, too, came in the crisp accents of the upper class, and Nicola glanced in his direction, surprised. “What is this?” she asked, suddenly suspicious. “A group of town swells on a lark?”

      The man who had just spoken chuckled, but the man before her said grimly, “No, my lady, it is no lark. It is business. So let us get down to it. Your purse, please.”

      “Of course.” Nicola jerked open the drawstrings of her reticule and held it open to him.

      He reached inside and deftly withdrew the leather money purse, gently bouncing it in his palm as if to measure its weight. “Ah, you do not travel lightly. A bonus for me.”

      “I suppose you want my jewelry, too,” Nicola snapped, pulling off her gloves to reveal the two simple silver rings that adorned her fingers. If she exposed such valuables, he would not go searching for anything hidden. And she could not let him take the token she wore on a chain beneath her dress. It was worth very little, of course—except to her—but this obnoxious fellow would probably take it just to spite her.

      “I am afraid I wear no bracelets or necklaces,” she continued. “I rarely travel wearing jewelry.”

      “Mmm. I find it is usually carried on a journey rather than worn,” he said, his tone amused, and made a gesture toward the carriage. Two of the men dismounted and swarmed up on the roof of the carriage, jumping down triumphantly a moment later, carrying Nicola’s traveling jewel case and a small square strongbox, which they proceeded to stow on their mounts.

      Nicola hid her relief at the thief’s acceptance of her statement. He stripped off his own gloves and took her hand in one of his, and Nicola jumped at the contact. His hand was hard and warm, and as he slid the rings from her fingers with his other hand, her breath caught in her throat.

      She glanced up and found him looking down at her enigmatically, the faintly jeering expression gone from his mouth, his eyes black and fathomless. Nicola jerked her hand from his.

      “Now,” she said bitingly, “if you are finished, I would like to be on my way.”

      “No. I am not quite finished,” he replied. “There is one more item I would steal from you.”

      Nicola raised her brows questioningly. His hands gripped her shoulders, and she sucked in a startled breath. A dark flame flashed to life in his eyes, and he pulled her to him, his mouth coming down on hers.

      Nicola stiffened in outrage. His lips moved against hers, soft and seductive, searing her with their heat. Involuntarily, she went limp, her body suddenly hot and liquid. Wild, turbulent emotions bubbled through her, surprising and disturbing her as much as his insolent action had. Nicola was a beautiful woman, with a petite but curvaceous body, thick pale-gold hair and wide, dark-lashed eyes. She was accustomed to men being attracted to her, even to their making improper advances. But she was not accustomed to feeling such a response herself.

      He released her as abruptly as he had seized her. His eyes flashed in the darkness, and Nicola was certain he had been aware of the way she had melted inside. Hot anger surged through her, and she reached up and slapped him sharply.

      Everyone went still and silent around them, frozen in a tableau. Nicola faced him, certain that he would punish her for what she had done, but too furious to care. The man gazed at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

      Finally he drawled, “My lady.” Then, sketching a bow toward her, he turned and fluidly remounted his horse. He wheeled and vanished into the darkness, followed by his men.

      Nicola watched him leave. Her lips burned from his kiss, and every nerve in her body seemed to be standing on end. Anger roiled inside her, making her tremble. The problem was, she didn’t know whether she was more furious at the highwayman because the wretch had had the audacity to kiss her—or at herself for the way she has responded to his kiss.

      “DAMN HIS IMPUDENCE!” The Earl of Exmoor slammed his fist down onto the closest thing to him, a small table of knickknacks that shook and rattled at the blow. He was a tall man, as all the Montfords were, and looked younger than his nearly fifty