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The coach had arrived at the cave mouth just after sunrise, a smarter one than Abigail had expected. The coachman had been silent, apparently either completely uninterested in Abigail or too well-trained to show his interest in any way, and Marcus’ spirited grey mare had allowed herself to be harnessed to the carriage alongside the other horse as if she were used to the procedure.
Abigail had tried not to think about any of those facts. She had also tried to not put those facts together to form a story, even though it was almost impossible not to do so. But as she had been gently placed into the carriage by Marcus, the coachman averting his eyes with a completely blank expression as Marcus had gently kissed her temple, it was tempting in the extreme to conjure up a picture of just who Marcus was when he wasn’t being a highwayman.
‘Now. Turn your face upward.’ The last thing Abigail saw for a good while was Marcus’ careful, gentle expression as he tied a length of cloth around her head. ‘Forgive the discretion, but I assure you it’s necessary.’
‘I know.’ The thought of being taken in by Bow Street Runners and told to take them to Marcus’ hideout filled Abigail with a strangely thrilling fear. ‘Is the risk very great?’
‘No.’ Marcus’ kiss at the corner of her mouth made her tingle. ‘But I’m already being risky enough today.’
The blindfold over Abigail’s eyes scratched against her face in an irritating manner, but that was all right. Everything was all right, everything in the world, because Marcus was going to show her where he lived. Who he was when he wasn’t stealing diamonds.
Would his house be a cottage with roses growing around the door, Marcus’ elderly mother sitting in the garden with knitting in her lap? Would it be a townhouse at the edges of a city slowly growing in prosperity, with new furniture in the parlour and old books sitting on the windowsills, waiting for her to read? And who would Marcus be—a clerk for a judge, a bookseller, the owner of a coffee house? Who would receive the largesse he brought back to his community?
‘You’re thinking too much.’ Marcus murmured in Abigail’s ear, his breath tickling her cheek. ‘I can tell you’re thinking too much, even with a cloth over your eyes.’
‘Perhaps I’m thinking about how scratchy this blindfold is.’
‘I don’t make a habit of bringing blindfolded women to my home, as I’m sure I’ve made abundantly clear by now. I don’t have a silken blindfold made ready.’ Marcus paused. ‘Although, if you feel the need for one in future for other purposes…’
‘Oh, you are silly.’
‘You have no idea.’ Marcus gently kissed her temple. ‘Now stop thinking. We’ll be there soon.’
How was she meant to stop thinking? Marcus had given her a delicious mystery to solve. Abigail opened her mouth, ready to spiritedly defend herself—and stopped with a burst of breathless laughter as Marcus kissed her.
Oh, what was the point of thinking about it? Whatever Marcus’ life and parentage was, it would be very similar to her own. A normal man, leading a largely normal life, who helped those poorer than himself by being dashing and adventurous by night. Yes, he was well-spoken, but anyone could be nowadays with a good tutor and enough attention paid to their letters—he certainly wouldn’t have pretensions to aristocracy, like the dreadful Mr. Haythwaite.
She would fit into his life as easily and sweetly as a pin sliding into a length of silk. She just knew it. Sinking into the kiss with a sigh, sliding her arms around Marcus’ neck, Abigail let all thoughts fly out of the carriage window and be lost in the clear autumn air.
By the time she felt the carriage wheels crunch against gravel, she didn’t care about anything but Marcus’ mouth on hers. ‘Just a little longer.’
‘I see I’ve already treated you far too well.’ Marcus’ hand slid along her thigh, caressing her as he kissed along the line of Abigail’s jaw. ‘If only you were less lovely when you demanded things.’
‘I’m sure the coachman can be told to take a longer way. Can’t he?’
‘Any other time, yes.’ Marcus laughed softly as he took away his hand. Abigail sighed with frustration; every time he stopped touching her it felt like a dreadful imposition. ‘But not today.’
They probably wouldn’t have to be respectable for long. She would meet whatever family Marcus wished her to meet, sit in the parlour and make gentle conversation, then fall upon one another once as soon as they were alone again. She should probably think of stories to explain away her lack of parents—oh, she and Marcus probably should have spent time in the carriage concocting a shared story rather than slipping into pleasure.
Too late now. Too late, and she couldn’t summon up a great deal of concern. Abigail happily took Marcus’ hand as he helped her exit the carriage, gently settling her down on the gravel, and walked a little way until a change of air told her that she was inside.
‘Now. Before you see all this, I must remind you that what I told you about the jewels was and remains true.’ Marcus’ voice was a mixture of excitement and caution. ‘Their wealth goes to the poorest here.’
All this? A tiny note of alarm sounded in Abigail’s head, but it was soon drowned out by sweet anticipation. She sighed with relief, her heart humming with expectation, as Marcus gently removed her blindfold.
She blinked. She blinked again, not believing what she was seeing.
She was in an entrance hall. Not the entrance hall of an ordinary townhouse, let alone a cottage, but of a vast estate. Abigail looked behind her; the open door, a door of a positively medieval size, showed a dizzyingly perfect formal garden complete with a large fountain, a hedge maze in the distance, and a smooth green sweep of lawn.
Marcus looked... happy. Expectant, as if he had given her a beautiful present and was settling in to watch her unwrap it.
But this wasn't a gift. Not in the slightest. As Abigail's gaze took in the enormous marble staircase, the vaulted ceiling more suited to a cathedral than a house where people lived, she felt a terrible uneasiness in the pit of her stomach that simply couldn't be ignored.
There were portraits on the walls. The Tinton line, of course; paintings of gentlemen and ladies in ruffs with strings of pearls as big as eggs, then men and women wearing fashions which Abigail was more intimately acquainted with. Then a large portrait of a hunting dog, its noble eyes turned towards the portrait at the head of the staircase.
A portrait of the man standing in front of her.
'Oh--oh, holy God.' The blasphemous words left Abigail's lips before she could stop them. She took a step backward, almost losing her balance. 'You're--'
