1
Essex, England. 1763.
“Stand and deliver!”
The poorly sprung coach lurched to a halt, and the horses whinnied in alarm. Five of the six passengers in the vehicle exclaimed in fright, twittering and shrieking to each other.
Jessica Colfax sat quietly in her seat. She smoothed the heavy twill skirts of her serviceable traveling costume as she peered out the mail coach’s window. The forms of three large saddled horses blocked her view of the forest lining the road. As for the riders, Jessica only saw a trio of broad and powerful silhouettes in greatcoats and tricorns.
“Awfully calm,” a dowager in silks yelped at Jessica, “considering we’re about to be robbed, harassed, and murdered right here on the road to London.”
There were shouts from the coachmen, and the sounds of a gun being wrestled away from someone before the driver and guard quickly fell silent.
“None of the broadsheets have mentioned this gang assaulting female passengers in any of their many robberies,” Jessica returned mildly.
“Well, I cannot countenance the loss of my valuables, even if you are so tranquil about it.” The dowager whipped open her painted fan and frantically waved it in front of her face. Her free hand hovered over the triple strand of pearls encircling her neck. “Perhaps today is the day these villains break from tradition and decide they would prefer us gagged and on our backs.”
“Quiet!” a vicar sitting opposite the older woman snapped. “The more you chatter, the more you snare their attention. It must be Ezra Brody and his gang. The scoundrels are known for holding up carriages on this road.”
The door to the carriage was hauled open, and the dowager screamed.
A man filled the doorway. His hat was pulled low, while a black piece of fabric covered his nose and mouth. His greatcoat was of black wool, but beyond that, Jessica couldn’t see much more of his clothing. In his large hand, he carried a flintlock pistol—pointed upward, at the sky.
“Come now, madam.” The highwayman’s voice was husky and low, carrying a slight country accent. “Such displays of terror aren’t necessary. Simply do as I say, and no harm will befall you.”
Despite his words, the dowager continued to screech while tears streamed down her pale cheeks. The vicar patted her hand, but it was more of a slapping than comforting touch.
“Reasoning with her will do no good when she’s this distraught, Mr. Brody,” Jessica murmured to the highwayman.
The thief’s gaze snapped to Jessica, and her breath seized in her lungs.
He had eyes of the palest gray, the hue of a mist-covered moor in the early dawn. Even beneath the brim of his hat, she could see them clearly—or rather, she felt them, sharp and assessing. His sable hair was pulled into a loose queue, held back by a thin strip of leather. What she could see of his nose indicated that it had been broken more than once.
His hands were bare, and the skin tanned, threaded with veins. Strong hands. Capable. And comfortable holding firearms.
“Between the two of us, my lady,” the highwayman said, with a smile in his tone, “when it comes to soothing overcome women, I’d say that I have more experience with that.”
“Do women often scream in your company?” Jessica quirked her eyebrow.
Brody’s own thick eyebrows raised. “Depending on the circumstances. The quality and reason for the scream varies, as well.” He paused. “You know my name.”
“A certain notoriety has attached itself to you.”
“What variety of notoriety?”
“A considerable variety.”
Jessica and the thief stared at each other for a long moment. The beat of her heart, which had been steady, suddenly accelerated beneath the sheer muslin of her fichu.
Brody’s gaze flicked down to the thin fabric tucked into the low neckline of her bodice, as though he could actually hear her heart’s quickening pace. It was a hot gaze, piercing through the fichu, and caressing the flesh of her upper chest.
“Oi!” A man’s voice sounded outside. “Are we robbing this coach or dawdling like milkmaids at the fair?”
The highwayman seemed to return to himself. “Right, everyone, out of the carriage. Lively, now.”
He gestured with his pistol, yet he continued to keep the weapon pointed away from the passengers.
The travelers twittered nervously amongst themselves as they awkwardly clambered out of the vehicle. Jessica joined them as they lined up beside the mail coach, everyone’s hands up. The driver sat on his perch, his hands also skyward, same as the man beside him, whose long gun now was in the possession of one of the thieves.
