Page 94 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“Because shooting people is stupid,” said the other highwayman. She knew this voice too: Eric Alexander. “Take his money, and let’s go.”

Still Philippe fingered the gun. Would he really murder the earl? She understood why he might wish to, but he must not. Good God, playing at highwaymen was bad enough. They had to get away from here as fast as possible.

“You. Woman.” Philippe motioned with his gun. “Get his money and give it to me.”

She bristled at this form of address, but acquiesced. He was playing a role, so she must too. “The key to his strongbox is in his pocket.” She was trembling, more because of his harsh tone than from relief. She extracted the key from Hythwick’s pocket, dragged the strongbox from under the seat, and opened it to find a substantial purse. She stalked over and handed it to Philippe, who stowed it in his greatcoat pocket with a coarse, brutal laugh. He trained his gun on the servants, while Mr. Alexander retrieved their weapons.

The servants seemed surprisingly undisturbed. She walked around Hythwick’s motionless form and approached the box. “Your master has swooned. Kindly convey him to the next village—the one to the north of here—and have him seen by a doctor.” She dug in her reticule and handed a couple of coins to the coachman and groom, and then walked briskly away toward Town.

“But-But miss, what about you?” The coachman clambered down from the box. “It ain’t safe out here, miss.” He glanced uneasily at the highwaymen. The groom climbed down as well, approaching his unconscious master. In the moonlight, she saw him prod the earl with his boot.

“I shall be safer on my own than with your master. I pity you, obliged to serve such a man.” She continued down the dark road, clutching her reticule in one hand and Hythwick’s gun in the other.

A few seconds later, Philippe cantered past without so much as a glance at her. Eric Alexander followed. They disappeared into the night.

~ ~ ~

A couple of hundred yards down the road, Eric came to a halt. “This is far enough. We have to fetch her and get out of here.”

Philippe reined in. “It won’t hurt her to walk awhile. She understands the role she is to play.”

“Is this another idiotic French way of doing things?” Eric said. “Because if you don’t return for her straightaway, I shall. What if the servants decide to come this way?”

“They won’t,” Philippe said. “Didn’t you see how much the groom enjoyed giving Hythwick a taste of his boot?”

“Fine, but what if that horseshit wakes up and orders them to drag her back?”

“We have their weapons, and she has a gun. I know from experience that she is not afraid to shoot.”

“You’re angry with her, aren’t you?” Eric asked. “Why? She warned us about Hythwick’s gun, she knocked him over the head, God knows how, and she played along with our charade. I find that rather impressive from a woman who’d been abducted by a villain.”

“Impressive indeed, but that is no surprise. I would not ask an unimpressive woman to marry me.” But why did she get into his coach?

She must have been duped. “I am not angry with her. I am enragé that she had to suffer at the hands of that cochon. I do not wish to speak to her until I have controlled my rage.”

“Aha,” Eric said, “it is because you are an aristocrat, isn’t it? You’re afraid he has raped her, and now you will never know whether the son who inherits your title will really be yours.”

Philippe huffed, thankful his future brother-in-law was so far off the mark. He would not abandon Gloriana for such a reason. Or for any reason. He had asked her to marry him. He had made her his wife in all but name last night. He was an honorable man.

He snapped his fingers. “That for my stupid title. I go by Bonaventure with the common people, and I would give up my title entirely if the Home Office would permit it.”

“The Home Office?”

“Ask Sophie,” Philippe said and wheeled his horse.

~ ~ ~

It was dark, and Gloriana was tired, alone, and a little afraid, although she knew she needn’t be. Philippe and Mr. Alexander would return for her once she was far enough from the carriage that no one would realize they had come to rescue her. Nevertheless, she kept to the verge, ready to flee into the woods and fields at the least sign of danger.

Very quickly, her feet became damp and cold—evening slippers being unsuitable attire for trudging down a country road. Nor was an evening gown with only the lightest of shawls about her shoulders. She began to shiver. In spite of herself, a tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away. Before long came the sound of hoof beats—ahead, not behind, two horses, not four, and no coach. The servants had obeyed her and gone the other way.

She waited on the verge, pistol at the ready, just in case. Philippe and Mr. Alexander halted next to her. Both had shed their makeshift masks, which she realized were neckerchiefs tied on backwards.

Philippe leapt down and stripped off his greatcoat. He gave it to Mr. Alexander and mounted again. “Hike up your skirts, Gloriana. You’ll have to ride astride, but you can cover your legs with my coat.” Why did he sound so harsh?

She did as she was told, gathering her skirts like a peasant woman. Mr. Alexander dismounted and hoisted her onto the gelding’s back, waited while she adjusted her gown, and then helped her spread the greatcoat. “Thank you,” she said, her voice quivering despite her best efforts to sound calm and collected.

“Are you all right, Miss Glow?” asked Mr. Alexander.