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“Out here, with your carriage in tatters, you don’t need finding, either,” Adelaide said with another tug. He allowed her to pull him down next to her, ignoring the pain from the crash in his side as he slipped his hand into his pocket, extracting a blade, which gleamed sharp and wicked in the light.
“Impressive,” she said quietly.
“I should be insulted. Did you think yourself the only one who carries a blade?”
She was staring through the wreckage, close enough to touch. If she turned to look at him, she’d be close enough to do more than touch. When she replied, it was barely a sound. “Pretty enough, Duke... but can you use it?”
He clenched his jaw but did not reply as the rider came into view, slowing to take in the wrecked carriage.
Tobias and Rufus came around to the front, placing themselves between the vehicle and Lucia, massive guards. Clayborn stiffened, hating that he was hiding like a child. He might be an aristocrat, but he did not require protection. He protected, dammit.
He made to stand, to head round and face the rider. But, as he came into view—a tall white man in his late twenties, cloak heavy on his shoulders, cap low on his brow—everything changed. Adelaide turned to stone beside Clayborn, her soft gasp summoning all his notice.
She recognized the man. And she didn’t like him.
Which made Clayborn absolutely despise him.
He stared at the man, memorizing his weaselly face as he touched his cap on his high mount. “Bad luck.”
None of the trio moved as Lucia’s reply rang out. “Or good, if you’re us.”
The rider laughed, too loud, and inspected the carriage, his gaze narrowed directly at the place where they hid. He couldn’t see them, Clayborn knew, but Adelaide’s hand tightened into a fist on her thigh.
He didn’t like that, either. Without thinking, he reached for her, settling his hand over hers. Feeling the tremor there. Nerves.
Hereallydidn’t like that.
Lacing his fingers through hers, he held her tightly, wishing they were not wearing gloves, watching her. Waiting for her to look at him. She didn’t, but her grip tightened, and he was grateful for that tiny movement—for the infinitesimal proof that she trusted him . . . at least more than she trusted the newcomer.
“None of you look like a duke,” the man pointed out.
Clayborn gritted his teeth. He’d recognized the crest.
“Nonetheless, they that find, keep,” Lucia said, bold and bright. “This loot is ours; carry on.”
A pause, while the rider considered his next move—madness, considering Rufus and Tobias were big as houses. Still, it seemed the whole of the assembly held their breath.
Finally, he rode off, and Clayborn waited for Adelaide to release her breath before he did the same. When she stood, he followed, the urge to keep her safe screaming through him.
“Adelaide.”
She shook her head, hearing the question he wanted to ask before it could form. Her reply was soft steel. “No.”
Lucia came around the edge of the carriage before he could ask for the man’s name. Insist on it. “Let Rufus take you to the Hen,” the highwaywoman said.
Adelaide adjusted her spectacles. “That’s not necessary. My carriage isn’t five minutes from here.”
Lucia looked as though she had something to say, her gaze tracking to Clayborn and down to their hands, where their fingers remained intertwined.
Until Adelaide dropped his like it burned, and he wanted to curse. The whole night was getting away from him.
Lucia looked to him again. “And Lord Six-Years-at-School-Boxing is your body man?”
“When was the last time I needed a body man?”
The other woman gave a little laugh. “You don’t have your girls with you tonight, Adelaide Frampton.” She lifted a chin at Clayborn. “He might be your best bet.”
He resisted the urge to enumerate The Bully Boys he’d dropped three days earlier. “How much to disappear this carriage?”
