Madame rose. Duci gathered the cards while her husband put away the folding chair and the reading table. No one seemed to notice that Lyssa still had the Knight of Swords. She stole a look at it and then turned to secretly tuck it into her bodice—
And that is whenheappeared.
He stepped out of the darkness into the waning firelight, as if appearing out of nowhere.
For a second, Lyssa thought her eyes deceived her. No man could be so tall, so broad of shoulders. Smoke from the fire swirled around his hard-muscled legs. His dark hair was overlong and he wore a coat the color of cobalt with a scarf wrapped around his neck in a careless fashion that would have done any dandy proud. His leather breeches had seen better days and molded themselves to his thighs like gloves. A pistol was stuck in his belt and his eyes beneath the brim of his hat were those of a man who had seen too much.
Here was her Knight come to life.
He spoke. “Miss Harrell?” His voice rumbled from a source deep within. It was the voice of command.
Lyssa lifted her chin, all too aware that her knees were shaking. “What do you want?”
The stranger smiled, the expression one of grim satisfaction. “I’m from your father. He wants you home.”
Chapter Three
IANwas well pleased with himself. His entrance had been perfect—especially his waiting untilafterthe card-reading mumbo jumbo. At the sight of him, the self-named “Gypsies” turned tail and scattered off into the woods. They knew the game was over. But best of all, the headstrong Miss Harrell stared up at him as if he were the devil incarnate.
Good.
This task was turning out to be easier than he’d anticipated.
With a coin slipped here and there in the dark corners of London, he’d learned of a wealthy young woman who had hired some “Gypsies” to transport her to Scotland. Supposedly, the heiress was to stay hidden in the wagon, but after time, she had felt safe enough to show herself along the road and thus became very easy to track. More than one person, upon seeing the miniature, told Ian that the young lady’s red hair was a hard thing to forget—especially among dark-haired gypsies.
Now he understood why they had felt that way. Here in the glowing embers of the fire, the rich, vibrant dark red of Miss Harrell’s hair with its hint of gold gleamed with a life of its own. She wore it pulled back and loose in a riotous tumble of curls that fell well past her shoulders. It was a wonder she could go anyplace in Britain without being recognized.
And her clothing would catch anyone’s eye. It was as if she were an opera dancer dressed for the role of “Gypsy”…except the cut and cloth of her costume was of the finest stuff. The green superfine wool of her full gypsy skirt swayed with her every movement. Her fashionably low white muslin blouse was cinched at the waist with a black laced belt and served to emphasize the full swell of her breasts. She must have had some sense of modesty, because she demurely topped off the outfit with shawl of plaid that she wore proudly over one shoulder.
He was surprised she didn’t have hoops in her ears.
Her awestruck silence was short-lived. She tossed back her curls, ignored his hand, and announced, “I’m not going with you.”
“Yes, you are,” Ian countered reasonably. “Your father is paying me a great deal of money to see you home safe, and see you home safe I will. Now come along. Your maid is waiting at an inn down the road with decent clothes for you to wear.”
Her straight brows, so much like her father’s, snapped together in angry suspicion. “You’re Irish.”
Ian’s insides tightened. Bloody little snob. But he kept his patience. “Aye, I am,” he said, letting the brogue he usually took pains to avoid grow heavier. “One of them and proud of it.”
She straightened to her full height. She was taller than he had anticipated and regal in her bearing. Pride radiated from every pore. A fitting daughter to Pirate Harrell. “I don’t believe you are from my father.Hewouldneverhire an Irishman.”
“Well, he hiredme,” Ian replied flatly, dropping the exaggerated brogue. He rested a hand on the strap of the knapsack flung over one shoulder. “The others couldn’t find you. I have. Now, are you going to cooperate with me, Miss Harrell, or shall we do this the hard way? In case you are wondering, your father wants you home by any meansIdeem necessary.”
Her eyes flashed golden in the firelight like two jewels. “You wouldn’t lay a finger on me.”
“I said ‘by any means I deem necessary.’ If I must hog-tie and carry you out of here, I shall.”
Obviously, no one had ever spoken this plainly to Miss Harrell before in her life. Her expression was the same one he imagined she’d use if he’d stomped on her toes. The color rose to her cheeks with her temper. “You will not. Abrams and my other Gypsy friends will come to my rescue. Won’t you, Abrams?” she asked, lifting her voice so that it would carry in the night.
But there was no reply save for the crackling of green wood in the fire and the rustle of the wind in the trees.
“Abrams won’t,” Ian corrected kindly, “because, first, he knows he’s not a match for me. I have a bit of a reputation for being handy with my fists, Miss Harrell, and that allows me to do as I please. And secondly, because he’s no more a Gypsy than I am. Are you, Charley?” he called to “Abrams.”
“Who is Charley?” Miss Harrell demanded.
“Charley Poet, a swindler if ever there was one. You probably think Duci is his wife?”
“She is.”
