Page 59 of Rogue’s Holiday

He let out a sigh, searching for the words to get through to her. “I admit I’ve been at loose ends. It took me some time to find my bearings but, now that I have, I know the woman I want for my wife. And that woman is you, Chastity Reynolds.” In a softer tone, he called her by the name he would always prefer. “Darling.”

“Darling? You jest! You are forever finding amusement at my expense. How could I marry such a one as you? A rogue!”

“The description might have fit me at one time but since I met you that evening in London, I have reformed.”

“Again, you would bring up that embarrassing episode.”

“But I must,” he protested. “From that day on, I have not been able to get you out of my mind. You can imagine how delighted I was to discover you were the one the Countess of Claremont had asked me to call upon. She may have conceived the match but I am pleased to follow through. You would not be happy married to a man who always gives you your way.”

“Why should I marry at all? I have no need. At my twenty-first birthday, not long from now, I come into a family legacy, an estate of my own in Northamptonshire. Already there is an estate manager and servants to see to my needs. The manor is not large, but it is quite adequate.”

“Perfect! When we are not in London or on my ship, we can live there. Children do better with a home on land breathing country air.”

“Children? Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?”

“Possibly,” he said. And, with a smile that might have been a smirk, he added, “But I do plan.”

She turned and dashed away into the night.

“Chastity!” he called across the lawn, as she disappeared into the trees. He would give her a moment alone and then go after her. He had taken her by surprise. Once she had time to reflect, she would see reason.

Chastity leaned back against the trunk of an oak, her hand pressed to her racing heart. Sir Robert’s kiss had stirred something deep within her, something she did not want to admit. She had run not just from him but from herself and from dreams she had allowed to die long ago.

For weeks, she had hidden her heart behind her anger, anger at the audacity of the man being so free with her person. She had thought his teasing manner spoke of his lack of respect but perhaps she was wrong. The rogue was slowly winning her heart. She had not resisted his lips upon hers. No, she had shamelessly responded.

He couldn’t be serious about marrying her, could he? And why her? Why not Rose or countless other beautiful women he had known? Doubtless some were more highborn than she.

He had made no avowal of love, no proposal on bended knee. And, if he were serious, could she ever trust such a man to be faithful? Could she live with a man who wasn’t?

Before she could answer her questions, she was suddenly aware she was not alone. Dusky shadows beneath the trees crept toward her.

“There you are!” said a man’s voice she did not know. As he stepped out of the shadows, she recognized the costume of a Russian serf she had observed among those attending the ball. The dark beard and mustache beneath his peasant’s cap were likely not his own but his clothing, the long white shirt belted over loose-fitting trousers tucked into his boots, was convincing.

He stalked closer. There was something sinister about his approach as if the shadows still clung to him.

Fear gripped her and slowly she backed away, drawing Sir Robert’s cloak tightly around her as if to conjure the man himself, knowing somehow he would defend her with his life.

“Grab her!” the man hissed to another.

She screamed and turned, running as hard as she could, desperate to get away.

A hand caught her arm and wrenched her back, making her drop her mask. “Got her, Guvnor.”

She yelped in pain at the vise he had on her arm and turned to kick the man’s shins and beat his head with her fist. “Let me go!” The man smelled of unwashed skin. He wore no costume but the simple clothes of a dockworker. Her slippers were not much of a weapon, but she kicked as hard as she could, relieved when the man shouted an oath and loosened his grip. She hit him again in the face with her fist, breaking his hold on her arm.

Again she ran. “Help!” she yelled. “Sir Robert, help!” Heart pounding, she ran from the trees and had just reached the clearing when she was seized from behind.

A scarf was lashed around her mouth and tied at the back of her head. “No sense in yellin’, Sweetin’. Yer lover cannot hear ye. Seems he’s taken a blow to the head and is…indisposed.”

The men chortled, finding humor in her misery.

Who are they and what could they want with me?

She turned to fight, swinging her fists and kicking out, until the Russian serf grabbed her hands and tied them behind her. “Quickly, get her into the carriage,” he ordered.

There were three of them now. Two were dragging her toward the Steyne. She dug in her heels but they were stronger, lifting her from the ground to carry her. As they were about to leave the Pavilion grounds, she left the only clue she could and let one of her slippers fall from her foot. The men were so intent on getting her away, they failed to notice.

One of them tossed her into the waiting carriage, a plain black affair that, even in the dim light, looked worn. A driver sat on top.