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Her parents must be beside themselves with worry—or, in Papa’s case, rage—and she hated to think the condition Aunt Millicent must be in. Delilah could only hope her father was not yet in hot pursuit. At least he had no clue to her direction. Though at present she wouldn’t mind being caught and taken home, she would mind very much what Papa would do. The Devil was not short-tempered, but even his patience could be tried too far, and the result would be deadly. If he found them, he’d be certain to kill Lord Berne first and ask questions after. Then Papa would be hanged—and it would all be her fault.
If she had been more discreet, Lord Berne would have known nothing about the manuscript but what the gossips said. Then he would not have stolen it. It was a stupid thing for him to do, and so clumsy. Papa would have had a much cleverer scheme, untraceable to himself. Still, she was to blame for the viscount’s foolhardiness. She’d demanded heroics and Tony, romantic fool that he was, had performed them.
Even Mr. Langdon had tried, in his way, to be heroic. Only he’d failed, poor man. How embarrassed he must be. She could picture him, his hair all rumpled and his cravat limp and wrinkled and his face flushed ... and she wanted to weep, because she would have given anything if, at this moment, she might have smoothed his hair and straightened his cravat... and covered his flushed face with kisses and told him she loved him anyway.
This last reflection resulted in an urge to weep so violent that she had to focus all her energies upon resisting it. Being so occupied, she did not at first comprehend the sudden halt of the carriage, or the meaning of the hoarse shout, “Stand and deliver!”
Not certain she had heard correctly, Delilah raised her head—to behold a masked figure astride a dark horse. The figure was pointing a pistol at Lord Berne’s head.
Delilah’s heart seemed to shoot up into her throat, but her brain instantly cleared. Under cover of the rug which wrapped her, she drew her reticule closer and opened it. Her hand had just clamped round the handle of her pistol when the harsh voice rang out once more, making her start.
“No, madam. Throw it down—now—or your lover dies.”
“For God’s sake, Delilah, do as he says,” Tony whispered.
Delilah threw her reticule into the road in front of the robber’s horse.
“Now you,” he said hoarsely to Lord Berne. “Give the lady the reins and down into the road with you.”
Tony scrambled down from the carriage.
“Off with your coat—and your waistcoat—and your boots. And be quick about it.”
Though Lord Berne promptly obeyed, Delilah could see, even in the weak moonlight, that his face was contorted with rage. She could not think what to do. She dared not whip up the horses. The highwayman might shoot Tony—not to mention her. Her reticule was now far put of reach, and she could hardly expect to overcome their assailant by throwing the manuscript at him—even if she could get to it without attracting his attention.
She wracked her brains for some comparable experience of her father’s to guide her. But Papa would never have been so careless. Gad, how could Lord Berne have been so foolish as to continue travelling after dark? Why was he not armed? Why had he not suggested they spend the night at the inn where they’d stopped earlier?
While Delilah was plaguing herself with If Onlys, her companion had completed his undressing.
Keeping his pistol trained on the viscount, the robber dismounted and collected Lord Berne’s belongings and her reticule. He tied his horse to the carriage, then climbed up onto the seat beside her.
“Turn the carriage,” he growled, his pistol now aimed at her.
“I can’t,” she lied. “I don’t know how.”
“Turn it!” the thief hissed.
“Don’t argue with him, Delilah,” Tony pleaded. “He’ll hurt you.”
Muttering a most unladylike oath, and certain she would be hurt regardless, Delilah turned the curricle. With the pistol pointed at her, she could do nothing else but drive on as ordered, leaving Lord Berne behind in his silk-stockinged feet, in the dust.
Considering her peril, Miss Desmond ought to have been frightened out of her wits, but she was too furious to be afraid. To be at the mercy of a common thief—she, the daughter of Devil Desmond—was the outside of enough. At the first opportunity, she vowed inwardly, she’d drive the carriage into a ditch. At worst, they’d both be killed. At best, she might make an escape. In any case, she would not wait quietly to be raped by this low ruffian.
Rape seemed inevitable. Why else had he not left her behind with Lord Berne?
They were rapidly approaching a fork in the road. The highwayman told her to take the right turning—which was odd, she thought. This was the way she’d come from London—but no, there were other turnings. He must be heading for some out-of-the-way spot. His hideaway, no doubt. Some thieves’ den.
Her mouth went dry. He must have accomplices. Lud, what would Papa do? The odds. Weigh the odds first. One man, one pistol, versus one woman. Later, who knew how many cutthroats, or how soon she’d be in their midst? It must be now.
Delilah slowed the carriage, ostensibly for the turn, then pulled hard on the reins. As the horses reared in protest, she threw herself at the robber.
The sudden attack took him by surprise, and the pistol fell out of his hand to the floor of the carriage. Delilah lunged for it, but was taken up short when he grasped the hair dangling at her neck and yanked her back.
He tore the reins from her hands. “Damn you,” he rasped as the horses settled down. “Are you out of your mind?”
Somewhere in the periphery of her consciousness was a jolt of recognition, but Delilah was in too violent a state to pay attention. Her fist swung towards his face, only to be grabbed and wrenched aside. Then a hard chest pressed upon her, pushing her back hard against the carriage seat. She could scarcely breathe, but with what little breath she had she informed him in Arabic that he was the product of an interesting relationship between a camel and a dung beetle.
As she tried to twist away from the menacing masked face lowering to her own, she thought she heard him snicker.
Startled, she looked at him. Behind the narrow slits of the mask were glittering eyes. In an instant, the glitter turned to darkness as his mouth descended upon hers.
Though she twisted and struggled, she found herself slowly, inexorably sinking back onto the seat under the relentless pressure of her attacker’s body. Unable to budge him, she shut her eyes tight and willed herself to be rigidly unresponsive. That much control she had at least.
Unfortunately, her position was awkward and painful to begin with. Maintaining a stiff posture made it more so. Her body ached horribly, and she was badly winded. Even her will was rapidly deserting her. Struggling had done nothing, evidently, but drain all her strength, for her stupid body was weakening, warming, succumbing to the brutal, seeking kiss. Sick and miserable, she gave up battling because she simply couldn’t continue. Later, she promised herself... later she would kill him.
In the next instant, to her astonishment, the weight was lifted off her. She opened stunned eyes to meet her attacker’s serious gaze. Serious? It could not be, she thought hysterically.
He’d started to move away from her, but in a flash she caught hold of the scarf covering his face and yanked it down, unmasking him.
“You,” she gasped. “Good God, Jack, I nearly killed you. Why didn’t you say right off it was you?” Joy, relief, welled up inside her, and she was about to hug him when he moved hastily away and gave the weary cattle leave to start.
“I was about to,” he answered irritably, “when you attacked me. What on earth possessed you, Miss Desmond? We might have both been killed. If the horses hadn’t been so tired, they might have taken off and overturned us.”
Miss Desmond? Delilah squelched a sigh of vexation. “I thought I was being abducted by a highwayman,” she said, striving for patience. “What did you expect me to do? It’s the middle of the night. You were wearing a mask. How was I
to know it was you?” Her lower lip quivered. “I think you’re monstrous unfair to scold me,” she went on unsteadily, “after you’ve frightened me half to death. You might at least have said something, instead of—of assaulting me.”
“As I recollect, it was you struck first,” he shot back. “Since I could not hit back, I tried to restrain you. When that didn’t work, I resorted to the only response that ever does seem to work with you. I’m sorry I frightened you, but really, you left me no choice.”
She threw him a reproachful glance, but he was staring stonily ahead, his posture rigid. She could not comprehend how a man could kiss one so passionately one moment and be so coldly indifferent in the next.
Yet she did understand. He’d only wanted to subdue her, and he’d succeeded because, as he’d said, that way always seemed to work. Without answering, Delilah turned her mortified gaze to the trees that lined the road. She heard a bird cry somewhere in the distance and another cry answering it. She wanted to cry out too.
They rode on in tense silence for a few minutes. Then he spoke. “You’re shivering,” he said, his voice gentler.
She pulled the rug up over her.
Mr. Langdon drew a long breath. “Miss Desmond, have I made a mistake?” he asked. “Did you truly wish to go away with him?”
“I don’t know if you’ve made a mistake, Mr. Langdon. You still have not told me why you came,” she hedged.
“Why I came?” he repeated in amazement. “I thought he’d made off with you. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you sitting so tamely beside him. I’d thought surely to find you trussed up and unconscious. I could not believe you’d go away with him of your own free will.”
