The Bride Thief

Chapter Two

p›It happened as quickly as a lightning flash.

Kneeling, gently cupping a firefly in her hand, Sammie lifted her head at the rustling in the nearby bushes. Without further warning, a black horse emerged from the trees, vaulting over a low hedge. Her heart nearly stalled with surprise, then fear flooded her as she realized the horse was headed straight for her.

Springing to her feet, she stepped hastily backward. She caught the shadowy glimpse of a rider who clearly didn't see her as he veered in her direction. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but before she could issue so much as a peep, a strong arm scooped her off the ground.

Her breath left her body in a loud whoosh and pain shot up her backside as she was deposited sideways on the saddle with a bone-jarring thud. Her glasses flew from her nose, and her bag of insects fell from her fingers. What appeared to be a bouquet of flowers sailed past her. Cyril's distressed voice cried out, "Miz Sammie!"

The strong arm tightened around her like a vise, pinning her sideways to a large muscular frame as the horse raced into the woods. "Do not worry," a deep velvety whisper flavored with a faint Scottish brogue sounded in her ear. "Ye are perfectly safe."

Speechless with shock, Sammie tried to move her arms, but her captor held them trapped to her sides with his own. Turning her head, she found herself staring at a black mask. Fear snaked down her spine and clogged her throat. What manner of madman was this? A highwayman? But if so, why had he taken her instead of simply demanding money?

Realization slapped her. Dear God, was she being kidnapped! She shook her head to clear it. Logic labeled the idea utterly preposterous, but the fact that she was speeding through the night in the iron-clad grasp of a masked man certainly indicated an abduction. Why on earth would someone kidnap her? While her family was financially comfortable, they were not wealthy enough to pay an exorbitant ransom. Had he made a mistake and abducted the wrong woman? She didn't know, but she had to get away from him.

Drawing as deep a breath as she could manage, Sammie opened her mouth to let loose with a scream. The sound had no sooner left her throat when the arm anchored around her middle tightened, cutting her cry into a mere wheeze.

"Don't scream," he whispered against her ear. "I won't harm ye."

Unconvinced, she opened her mouth again, but his lips pressed against her ear stopped her.

"I don't want to stuff my handkerchief in your mouth, but I will if I must."

Sammie reluctantly swallowed the scream trembling on her lips. Although she was not one to panic, she couldn't stop the alarm quivering through her. "I demand that you stop this horse and release me. Immediately."

"Soon, lass."

"You've made a mistake. My family cannot pay a ransom."

"'Tis not a ransom I'm after." He leaned closer, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. "Fear not, Miss Briggeham. You're saved."

Cold dread filled her. He knew her name. Clearly this was not a case of mistaken identity. But who was he? You're saved. Saved? What on earth was he talking about? God in heaven, he really must be insane.

"How do you-?"

"Quiet, please," he whispered. "We'll talk after we arrive at the cottage."

Cottage? A fresh wave of fear rolled over her, but she forced herself to concentrate. Inhaling as deep as his binding arm would allow, she logically and quickly weighed her options. Obviously he couldn't be reasoned with, persuaded to release her. Did he mean to harm her? Anger edged some of her fear aside, and she pressed her lips together. If he had it in his mind to hurt her or force himself upon her, he'd have a devil of a fight on his hands.

Escape. That's what she had to do. But how? The horse was running at full gallop. She attempted to wriggle a bit, but his muscular arm only tightened around her, pinching her ribs and expelling the air from her constricted lungs. Even if she managed to throw herself from the saddle-which judging by his strength would be impossible-the fall would no doubt kill her. At the very least injure her gravely. And then she'd be at his mercy.

She pushed that disturbing thought aside with a resounding shove.

Who on earth was he? She peered up at his masked face. Black material covered his entire head. There was a slit for his mouth, two small holes for his nostrils, and narrow oblong cutouts for his eyes. She squinted, trying to determine their color, but could not.

Apprehension prickled her skin as she noted the power in his frame. Even through the layers of their clothing, there was no mistaking his hard muscles. His chest, pressed into her side, possessed all the flexibility of a brick wall. And the thighs cradling her felt like stone. He held her as if she were a doll in his grasp. There was no way she could physically overpower him.

Unless she found a weapon and struck him over the head with it. A wave of grim satisfaction washed over her at the thought of rendering the brigand unconscious.

Unfortunately she'd have to wait until they reached whatever destination he had in mind. But then she would escape him, either by outwitting him or coshing him.

In the meanwhile, she forced herself to focus on her surroundings. They were traveling deep through the woods, but without her glasses, any landmarks she might have recognized were mere blurs. Glimmering shafts of moonlight filtered through the trees, but still the path was shrouded in darkness. Sammie wondered that he could even see, between the darkness and his mask.

They traveled for nearly an hour, and try as she might, she could not determine where they were. His grip on her never relaxed, and she forced herself not to think about the strength of the masculine body pressed against her. Her backside felt bruised, and her arms tingled from lack of circulation caused by his tight hold on her.

Finally he slowed their pace to a trot. Clearly they were approaching the cottage he'd mentioned, but without her spectacles, she couldn't see it in the darkness. She had no idea where they were and she wondered if he'd purposely ridden in circles to confuse her. Still, by the time he slowed the mount, she'd planned her strategy. It was simple, straightforward, and logical: get off the horse, find an object to cosh him with, commence coshing, get back on the horse, then find her way home.

He pulled back on the reins, and the horse halted. Squinting, Sammie discerned the outline of a cottage. Still holding her, her captor dismounted and set her on her feet. Frustration suffused her when her watery knees threatened to buckle. If he hadn't retained his grasp on her upper arms, she would have slithered to the ground. How was she to attack the libertine if she couldn't even stand? Gritting her teeth, she locked her knees and prayed for the quick return of feeling in her numb limbs.

"Damnation, did I hurt ye, lass?" His husky whisper held a note of concern that surprised her. Before she could answer, he swept her up in his arms and carried her toward the cottage. "Shouldn't have held ye so snug, but I couldn't have ye falling. Let's get ye inside and take a look at ye."

Sammie silently swore that if he tried to take a look at her, she'd poke his eyes out. She wanted to pummel him with her fists, but to her infinite disgust, her arms possessed all the strength of porridge. However, tingles pulsed up her limbs, prickling her skin, a sure indication that feeling would soon return.

Perhaps it was best if he thought her weak and defenseless. That would surely lower his guard. Then she could find something inside the cottage to use as a weapon-a nice sharp knife or fire poker-and escape this fiend.

He opened the cottage door and entered, pushing it closed behind them with his foot. A low fire burned in the grate, casting the small room with a pale golden glow. Sammie looked around and her heart sank.

The room was empty. No furniture, no rugs, and nothing resembling a weapon.

His boots clicked against the wood floor as he crossed to the fireplace. Her gaze ran over the mantel, hoping to spy a candlestick, but like the rest of the room, the mantel was bare. Hope leapt through her when her blurry vision locked on what looked like a set of brass fireplace tools propped against the wall on the opposite side of the fireplace. Too far for her to reach, but she'd figure out some way to grab one. All she needed to do was bide her time.

Her captor knelt, lowering her to the floor near the fire with a gentleness that surprised her. The instant he released her, she scooted backwards until her back hit the wall.

"Stay away from me," she ordered, proud that her voice didn't quaver. "Don't touch me."

He went completely still. Sammie stared at him, wishing mightily for her spectacles so she could see him more clearly. Although she could barely make out his eyes between the slits in his mask, she felt the weight of his steady stare.

"You've nothing to fear from me, Miss Briggeham. I wish only to help ye-"

"Help me? By kidnapping me? By holding me against my will?"

"Not against your will." Bowing his head, he said in a husky rasp, "Rejoice, lass. 'Tis the Bride Thief, come to rescue ye."

Eric watched Miss Briggeham through the slits in his mask and waited for relief and joy to replace the apprehension shadowing her eyes.

Miss Briggeham regarded him with a blank stare. "Bride Thief? Rescue?"

Poor woman. She was clearly dumbstruck with gratitude. "Why, yes. I'm here to help ye start a new life… a life of freedom. I know ye've no wish to marry Major Wilshire."

Her eyes widened. "What do you know of Major Wilshire?"

"I know he is your betrothed, and that ye are being forced to marry him."

Her expression immediately changed, and unmistakable annoyance streaked across her face. "I've had quite enough of people telling me I am engaged." Straightening her spine, she pointed her finger at him, punctuating each word. "Major Wilshire is not my betrothed, and I am not going to marry him."

Eric froze, unease creeping down his spine. Not her betrothed? Damn it all, had he taken the wrong woman? Is that why she wasn't leaping about with joy that he'd rescued her?

His gaze slid over her, taking in her disheveled appearance. Her bonnet hung from her neck by its ribbons. Dark hair surrounded her face in wild disarray, several strands sticking straight upward in a way that reminded him of devil's horns-not a happy comparison under the circumstances. Her eyes appeared huge in her face-a plain, pale face that currently bore an expression of clear displeasure. Definitely not a look he was accustomed to seeing on the faces of the women he rescued.

"Are ye not Samantha Briggeham?" he asked.

She glared at him and squeezed her lips together.

Damn stubborn woman. He leaned closer to her and ignored the twinge of guilt when her eyes flickered with fright. "Answer the question. Are ye Samantha Briggeham?"

She nodded stiffly. "I am."

Confusion assailed him. He had the right woman. Bloody hell, had Arthur's information been incorrect? If so, Eric had made a terrible error. Forcing himself to remain calm, he studied her carefully. "I understood your father had arranged for ye to marry the Major."

She watched him through wary eyes. "Indeed he had, but as I'd never heard of a more unappealing, not to mention idiotic, plan in my entire life, I unarranged what my well-meaning but ill-advised father arranged."

Eric's unease tripled. "I beg your pardon?"

"I visited Major Wilshire this evening and explained that, while I hold him in high esteem, I have no wish to marry him."

"And he agreed?"

She averted her gaze, and a crimson blush stole over her cheeks. " Er, yes. Eventually."

Eric's hands fisted in his gloves at her clearly embarrassed reaction. Damn it, had the Major attempted to take liberties with her? "Eventually?"

She squinted up at him for several seconds, then shrugged. "Not that it's any of your concern, but even after explaining in the politest of ways that I didn't want to marry him, I'm afraid the Major was still rather… insistent."

By God, the reprobate clearly had touched her. Feeling totally out of his element, Eric raised his hands to rake his fingers through his hair, only to encounter his masked head.

She cleared her throat. "Fortunately for me, however, no sooner had the Major finished his long-winded 'you-most-certainly-will-marry-me, the-arrangements-have-already-been-made' speech, then Isadore appeared. He quite saved the day."

A breath he hadn't even realized he held, escaped Eric. "Isadore? He's your coachman?"

"No. Cyril is my coachman. Isadore is my toad."

Eric knew that if his mask wasn't so tight, his jaw would have dropped. "Your toad saved the day?"

"Yes. Isadore likes to nestle in my reticule and accompany me on coach rides. I'd quite forgotten about him until he hopped out and landed right on one of the Major's highly polished Hessians. Heavens, never have I witnessed such a fuss. Anyone would have thought he'd been stripped of his rank the way he carried on. Amazing how a man who claims such acts of military bravery could harbor such fear and aversion to a toad." She shook her head. "Of course, seeing as he objected so strenuously to Isadore, I thought it best to warn him about Cuthbert and Warfinkle."

Bemused, Eric asked, "More toads?"

"No. A mouse and a garden snake. Both perfectly harmless, but Major Wilshire turned quite pale, especially when I hinted that I housed them in my bedchamber."

Half-amused, half-horrified, Eric asked, "Do you?"

There was no mistaking the sheepishness in the myopic glance she sent him. "No, but then I only hinted that I did. Surely I cannot be held accountable for any incorrect assumptions the Major may make, do you not agree?"

"Indeed. What happened next?"

"Well, as I chased Isadore about the room, in a fashion the Major later described as 'appalling and unladylike,' I deemed it only fair to share with him some of my other hobbies."

"Such as?"

"Singing. I raised my voice in what I thought was a particularly well-done rendition of 'Barbara Allen,' but I'm afraid the Major found my voice less than adequate. I believe 'dreadful' is the word he muttered under his breath. He appeared quite alarmed when I informed him that I sing every day, for at least several hours.

"And he grew even more alarmed when I told him about my plans to convert his drawing room into a laboratory. Really, he raised an incredible fuss, even after I assured him that the few times my experiments had resulted in fires, the flames had been doused very quickly and with almost no damage at all."

Bloody hell, the chit was a menace. But undeniably clever. "Dare I wonder what came next?"

"Isadore, who was proving quite impossible to catch, saw fit to jump onto the Major's lap. Goodness, I never would have suspected the Major possessed such… agility. By the time I captured Isadore and restored him to my reticule, then coaxed the Major down from the pianoforte, the gentleman was quite willing to concede that we would not suit." Her expression turned fierce. "I was returning from his house, intent upon telling my parents of the dissolution of my betrothal, when you so rudely absconded with me. Perhaps now you would care to explain yourself?"

Momentarily robbed of speech, Eric's mind raced with the unholy mess he'd landed himself in. He rose to his feet and stared down at her. Unmistakable apprehension flickered in her eyes, and she scooted farther into the corner, an action that annoyed him further.

"Stop looking at me as if I'm a bloody murderer about to hack ye to pieces," he uttered in a husky growl. "I told ye, I won't hurt ye. I was trying to help ye. I'm the man they call the Bride Thief."

"So you've said, and in a tone that suggests I should know you, but I'm afraid I don't."

Eric stared at her, completely nonplussed. Surely he'd misheard her. "Ye've never heard of the Bride Thief?"

"I'm afraid not, but apparently you must be he." She looked him up and down twice, and his skin actually heated under her scathing stare. "I cannot say I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Saints above, lass. Don't ye ever read a newspaper?"

"Certainly. I read all the articles pertaining to nature and scientific matters."

"And the Society pages?"

"I do not waste my time reading such drivel." Her distasteful expression clearly stated that she found him sadly lacking if his name could be found only in the Society columns.

Sheer disbelief rendered him speechless. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. How could she not know about the Bride Thief? Did the chit dwell in a dungeon? Not a day went by when the Bride Thief wasn't discussed in London's clubs, at Almack's, in country pubs, and written about in every publication in the kingdom.

Yet Miss Samantha Briggeham had never heard of him.

Well, bloody hell.

If he wasn't so confounded by the realization, he would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation-and at his own conceit. Clearly he wasn't quite as notorious as he'd believed.

His amusement quickly vanished, however, when he realized the gravity of his error. Miss Briggeham was not being forced into marriage. He'd nabbed a woman who did not need his assistance. And now the Bride Thief would have to do something he'd never done before.

Return a woman he'd rescued.

A woman who was squinting toward the fire poker with a gleam in her eye that indicated she'd like to see it wrapped around his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment and silently cursed his rotten luck.

Damn it all, sometimes being England's Most Notorious Man was a bloody pain in the arse.