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“Do as you are told, and you will be free to go.”
His drawl was confident and deep, like smoke and velvet. There was a lilt to his words that sounded playful, and it only frightened her more. She couldn’t see his face behind the tall, black collar of his coat, and his eyes were shadowed by a tricorn hat. He was English, of that much she was sure, but he didn’t sound anything like the lords of her acquaintance.
From the corner of her eye, she looked for the postilion. As she feared, he was lying on the ground, subdued by the man she assumed was her assailant’s partner.
Charlotte nodded. It was the only thing she could do since her life was on the line. She was biting her lip so hard she had drawn blood. In her daze, she lapped at it, and could've swornshe saw a smile form in the man's eyes. He sighed and swung the gun at the box. Charlotte flinched back.
Wordlessly, he climbed in after her. There they sat, the daughter of a duke and a highwayman, like two lovers riding through Hyde Park in a phaeton. The other man stepped around the carriage to the back. It sounded like he pushed something off the vehicle as it bounced and swayed:the body of the post-boy,Charlotte thought, who she realized now had been shot.
“Don’t worry yourself overlong. You’ll be back on your way to your tryst in a minute, and can pretend none of this ever happened.”
The man with the gun spoke to her again, but his words sounded distorted and distant. He reached forward and swiped her reticule, and she watched as his calloused, long fingers struggled with its clasp. Charlotte's surprise turned to indignation as she took in the full measureof his words.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, sounding as disbelieving as she felt.
The man stopped and looked up at her from beneath his hat. The lower half of his face was shrouded in dark fabric, but she knew he was smirking. “What did you say?”
Charlotte swallowed. She didn’t know what she was doing, only that it felt better than sitting in silence and watching him rifle through her belongings. “I asked for your pardon, not that I am eager to receive it,” she scoffed, “Thieving is one thing, but assuming a lady’s promiscuity is quite another. I can assure you, I am no adventuress.”
The man drew back, and the conveyance suddenly filled with low, dark laughter. Charlotte stared in incredulity as he set his flintlock aside and rubbed his gloved palms against the linen of his breeches. “I dare say I have touched a sore spot.”
“I dare say you are quite mistaken. Rob me of my—” she gestured to her reticule “—lemon bonbons, handkerchief, and coin purse all you like, but you shan’t find any dignity there. Nor any manners.”
With a little gasp, she sank into the corner of the box as if it might shield her from his ire. Her father had always said her sharp tongue would be her downfall, and she feared he was right. But the man didn’t look angry. He didn’t hold himself any differently for her caustic comments. He watched her as one might watch the opera—with marvel and a slight lethargy.
The second man began rifling the coach for loot, but neither stirred within. He could steal her shifts and slippers to his heart’s content. Everything that mattered had been packed in her personal valise, and she nudged it closer to herself with her foot.
The soft scraping sound caught her assailant’s attention. His eyes darted down and then back at her. “What had you hoped to find at your journey’s end, if not a lover?” he asked wistfully, the softness of his low voice sending a ripple of nervous energy down her spine.
“A new beginning,” she admitted as a trembling hand reached for the door handle behind her.
But it was no use. The man was quicker than she was and stronger, too. He sprang for her, and he seized her wrists with his hands.
“Let me go! Don’t touch me! You have no right to me!” she wailed, but the man only chuckled. She pressed her lips together, fighting for traction against the cushions. She clawed at his face, wanting to remove his mask, but he pushed her hands away. He soon had them pinned above her head, her wrists in one of his hands.
“It’s not your body I want,” he growled, and Charlotte swore he sounded offended by the accusation. He grunted and reached down between her ankles for her portmanteau. With a shake of his head, he brought it to his lap.
“You’ve no right to that either! Please,” Charlotte pleaded breathlessly, “Take what you will from the back. Take all the money I have. Leave the rest alone. You’ve no use for it, sir! No use at all!” She wriggled in his hold and kicked at him, trying to knock the case from his legs. “Help!Help! I’m—”
She couldn’t say anything more, for he smacked his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. He held it there, and she tasted salt and leather. He shot a look around him, then leaned in close and whispered fiercely, “The more you yowl, the harder this will be.” He hesitated and listened for the other highwayman. “Do you understand?”
Charlotte began crying and could barely see beyond the veil of her tears. She nodded and breathed back a sob. Her body slackened, and he let her go.
“Good girl,” he murmured and cupped her face with his hand. He made quick work of the bag’s lock, snapping it off like a biscuit. “I shall only take what I can pawn.”
“Look,” Charlotte whispered, giving him pause, “My whole life is in that bag. What will it take for you to turn a blind eye to it? I swear to you, my father is a very powerful man. Give me an address and name, and I shall send you as high a ransom as you desire. You could feed yourself not only for a day—but for a lifetime.”
The man stopped in his tracks and dipped his head low. “You wish to know my name, little girl?” They locked gazes, and it made Charlotte dizzy. She could not make out the color of his eyes in the dark, but their gleam was so rich she felt she needed to turn away. But she did not, not even as he said, “I’m your gentleman’s master.”
His voice carried on the air like smoke. Charlotte knew then that he would not listen, not even if she offered him the world itself. She could only sit back and watch as he opened her case and tore through her effects—she had never felt so violated.
Out flew her white lace shawl and her mother’s heirloom fan. He pocketed a length of pink and white pearls, her golden brooches and hairpins, and her hanging opal earrings. He cast aside her diary and found her vinaigrette and an additional coin purse beneath it. She had little in the way of money, having saved up as much as she could from some of her published writings, and the purse jingled sadly for it.
And then, by luck or fate, he found the clasp that opened the bag’s false bottom. He looked up at her, and his eyes arced with the same infernal smile as before. “What secrets lay beyond your threshold, I wonder?” he mused aloud, and Charlotte was powerless to respond.
All amusement fell from his expression as he lifted away the leather panel. He dropped it aside and buried his hands into the bag. The sound of crinkling paper filled the box, and Charlotte recoiled.
“What on earth…?” he began to question but trailed off. He lifted his hands up in confusion. He was holding her poems—which were most dear to her—on their bunched up, wrinkled and ink-stained sheets of paper. Her newest collection. He set them back down and picked up her leather-bound journals, flicking through the pages like he was in a library.
