All was still in the night. Not even the frogs croaked. She waited, expecting something to happen.
Nothing did.
Finally, she could be silent no longer. “What are we doing?”
“Hiding.”
His curt, obvious answer brought out a healthy flash of temper, an emotion she seized to keep other fears at bay. She rolled over to face him, intent upon giving him a much-needed rebuke. He accommodated her by shifting his weight and she ended up on her back. However, once there, Lyssa knew shedidn’twant to be underneath him this way.
There was even less space here than in the Gypsy wagon and she found herself practically nose to nose with him…not to mention the fact they were fit together—intimately.
All anger vanished from her mind as the slow heat of embarrassment stole up her body. Her heart suddenly kicked up its beat. His lips were less than an inch from hers and his breath smelled like Cook’s warm buns when fresh from the oven, a scent that could lure her to the kitchen at any time and was disconcerting when connected to him.
However, he was clearly annoyed with her maneuvering. His “Are you settled?” was like a slap in the face.
“I’m trying to be,” she returned. “Areyouenjoying yourself?”
He did not mistake her meaning. Tension tightened his body. He raised his upper torso to glare down at her, the movement joining their lower bodies even closer. Lyssa caught her breath at the bold intimacy, realizing it was one thing to tweak the pride of a dandified lord on a dance floor and something else completely to challenge this man, who knew no rules…or boundaries.
But then he slid over as if the contact had been of no consequence and wedged himself closer to the shrubbery roots…and she felt a disquieting stab of regret. Uncertainty was not a comfortable feeling. She didn’t know if it came from the loss of his body heat and the safety his strong presence provided or the possibility that she had insulted him—not that Lyssa was afraid to stand up for herself.
However, as she and the Irishman lay side by side, quiet as hunted rabbits, she remembered that even a so-called gentleman would take advantage of a woman if he thought her beneath him. She’d learned to be wise to the nuances of male behavior and knew how to protect her reputation. She’d even administered a slap or two.
But the Irishman was a completely different species of the male sex than any who had crossed her path before.
This time, he broke the silence, his voice low and deep in the darkness. “If they discover us, I want you to run as fast as you can. Don’t worry about where you are going, just keep moving.”
“What about you? Where will you be?”
“I’ll hold them off here.”
Her pique of temper vanished. “You can’t do that. There are at least two or three or more of them. And they are armed.”
The flash of even white teeth gave his grin a wolfish expression. “Nowyou are worried about me? Miss Harrell, you could have saved usallthe trouble by staying quietly in your bed back in London.”
His criticism hit home—especially when she thought about how completely she’d been gulled by her Gypsy imposter friends. The feel of the tarot card tucked in her bosom only rankled her more. “I doubt if I’m much trouble to you. Not with the reward I’m certain my father is paying.”
“You would be less trouble if you would be quiet.”
Lyssa’s temper flared red. Didn’t he know who she was? Who her father was?The man paying him?
And she was going to tell him. She was going to rise up and give him a piece of her mind—
His hand clamped over her mouth. He lay one leg over hers, pushing her down to the ground while his right hand above her head raised the pistol. His thumb cocked the hammer.
Startled, she listened and heard what he’d heard: the sound of men beating through the bushes.
She edged closer to him. He removed his hand from her mouth and placed his arm protectively around her.
A moment later, their pursuers stood mere feet from when they hid. One man held a lantern, and Lyssa, too frightened to move, prayed she’d pulled in all of her plaid so it could not be seen from the road.
Go on by, go on by, she wanted to whisper to them, and for a moment she thought they would—until the beat of horses’ hooves vibrated through the ground.
Two mounted men rode up and her mind frantically attempted to assimilate the horrid fact that a party of over five men had been sent to murder her. She leaned even closer against the Irishman.
“Have you seen anything?” one man asked the riders.
“Nothing. But hell couldn’t be blacker than this night.”
