How to Capture a Duke(5)

Guns were not supposed to be pointed at her. Not now, not ever. Her life  was quiet. Weapons were things that were directed at other people, who  did reprehensible things. "You've made a mistake."

"I think not." The man's hands were steady.

Every aspect of the driver's appearance seemed ordinary, and the coach  itself was a mere mail coach, lacking any embellishment. And yet the  driver's bushy eyebrows crinkled together, as if she, not he, were  acting inappropriately.

She raised her chin and strove to keep her voice steady. "Please put the weapon down."

He laughed, a deep rumble that grated against her. The frigid  temperature verged on unbearable, the icy wind stung her face, and she  had no patience to converse with some argumentative driver whose life  she was attempting to save.

"There is a tree in the road. If you go much farther, your coach will be crushed."

The driver narrowed his eyes further.

"No doubt you will consider that it is winter and you are over a mile from the nearest estate."

"What is it, Graeme?" A deep voice startled her from her musings. The  voice was authoritative and the accent cultured, sweeping her away from  the Northern accents, devoid of polish, to which she was accustomed.

Her heart hammered, and she reminded herself that just because a person  was in possession of a pleasant voice, did not indicate a person's  propensity for regular features, wide shoulders, and all the other  traits of handsomeness.

The man peeked out from behind the curtain.

He was only lifting his head from a carriage window, but it may as well have been from the clouds that soared above.

Chestnut curls peeked from the satiny edge of a beaver top hat, one more  fashionable than any the local vicar was accustomed to adorning himself  with, and the features of his face were composed in a stern expression  that resembled the driver's. His nose lay in a straight, unwavering  line, and high cheekbones dominated his face, bestowing him a regal  look.

Every feature belonged to a paragon of masculinity.

Fiona firmed her stance and dug her boots further into the muddy ground.  Dried leaves crunched beneath her feet, and she flickered her gaze to  the gray sky.

Dear Lord! No chaperone, no friend, and here she was in the presence of a practical God.

"We've got a problem, sir. This ‘ere lady." The driver continued to fix  his musket on her, and his voice was mournful. "I am afraid, sir, that  we are being besieged by a highwaywoman."

"Excuse me?" Fiona stuttered and her heart sped, though this time, the handsome man lay not entirely responsible for the blame.

The attractive man frowned. "Do something, Graeme."

"I cannot shoot a woman."

The man rolled his eyes. "I would not have you shoot her."

The wind that swept over her seemed to have transformed to ice, and she  shivered. No way did she resemble a highwaywoman. They must be mad to  even consider it.

"We've got ourselves a female highwayman," the driver said. "Didn't know there was such a thing."                       
       
           



       

"Women are perfectly capable of many things." She moved her hands to her  hips, remembering only now that she still clutched the knife. Oh.

"The woman claims there's a tree knocked over in the road!" the driver  continued, still gazing at her, as if his mere stare might prevent her  from moving.

"I am not lying!" she said. "And your lives are in peril if you continue any farther. So you should-"

"Disembark and wait on the side of the road?" The driver sneered.

"Why, that might be appropriate."

"Or perhaps you would suggest that I separate and leave my charge behind with you?" The driver raised his eyebrows.

"I am doing nothing wrong-"

"Naturally not!" The driver scowled. "You're simply conducting illegal activity."

"Sir-"

"Put that knife away." The handsome man frowned, his voice solemn.

"I wouldn't irritate her," the driver declared. "Women are emotional  creatures, sir. Wouldn't want to think about what they can get up to  under stress. Not like us logical males, sir."

"That's enlightening to hear upon returning from a useless war created by men," the handsome man said dryly.

"Well, well." A tinge darkened the driver's cheeks. "We should all be thankful Napoleon wasn't a woman."

"Who knows what would have happened then!" The handsome man shook his  head, his expression filled with such dismay, that Fiona almost believed  he was teasing.

"Dreadful things, sir!" The driver's voice sobered. "Dreadful things for sure."

The two men stared at her, and Fiona shivered under their scrutiny. Her  heartbeat galloped. They thought she was a highwaywoman. She'd tried to  explain, but they hadn't believed her. And they were pointing a gun at  her. One that might go off at any moment.

She needed to seize control.

The driver grinned. "I'm sorry, darling, but you won't be getting any money from us."

"Not that we have any," the handsome man added hastily.

A gun roared.

Fiona didn't flinch-the peasants were still hunting. But the firm expression of the driver wobbled.

"You're not alone!" The driver's voice trembled.

Fiona was most certainly alone, but she could not permit the driver to  keep on pointing gun at her. That was how accidents occurred.

This was her chance.

And she seized it.

Fiona forced her voice to remain steady. "Lay your gun down."

The driver hesitated, and then, another gun shot fired.

Fiona narrowed her eyes. "You are surrounded. This is your final warning."

The driver's hands shook, and he set the gun down. Relief flooded  through Fiona, and she grabbed the weapon, directing it at the driver.

The driver sank to the earth, holding his hands above him. "What do you want? Please, show us mercy! We'll give you anything!"

"I-" An insane idea sprang into Fiona's mind, and she took another glimpse at the passenger.

The fabric of his clothes was impeccable, and his hair color was perfect.

Chestnut colored like spun gold. Nothing like the red hair that crowned  her figure like a flame. This man's skin resembled buttermilk, with no  freckle in sight, and his eyes were a deep blue color, as if she were  staring into the heavens of an Italian painting.

He was an Adonis suited for the finest debutante, for a woman with a  Grecian name and skin as flawless as his. No doubt such a woman would be  able to sing like an angel, in between giving birth to tiny cherubic  likenesses of himself, and then would paint the offsprings' likenesses  in beautiful, delicate watercolor renderings. Such a woman would never,  ever have told her family that she had a fiancé when she had none. Such a  woman wouldn't have needed to do so.

He was just the man she required.

"Who are you?" the driver gasped.

This was the time to explain herself. This was the time to explain who  she was and apologize for frightening them, even though the notion that  she should scare large men like that was absurd.

But if she could only get the handsome man to introduce himself to  Grandmother-she wouldn't need to take him to the ball-it would be enough  for Grandmother to be assured that she need not worry anymore. Perhaps  the handsome man and the driver could help her move the tree.  Cloudbridge Castle was a quick jaunt away, and they were going in that  direction anyway. If they thought her a highwaywoman anyway, they would  listen to her demands. Maybe no one would want to play a fiancé for a  bluestocking, but they would listen to a highwaywoman.                       
       
           



       

Once they were at the castle, well then they would be so grateful she  intended them no harm that they would help her. Neither the driver nor  the gentleman appeared to be from Yorkshire. She could get away with  this.

Something like hope fluttered in her chest. Perhaps, just perhaps, this would be worthwhile.

Fiona thought of mosaic fragments and ancient civilizations and her dear  grandmother. She held the gun steady and flung her curls. She channeled  every single story from Loretta Van Lochen and raised her voice. "They  call me the Scarlet Demon."

Both men's eyes widened, and she attempted her very best snarl.





Chapter Four




So much for a quick dash to his new estate and back to grab the jewels.  He should have trusted a servant to bring them after all. He hadn't  liked the thought of appearing weak before the dowager, but finding  himself in this position rather seemed to epitomize weakness.

Blast.

So much for not protesting when the mail coach guard fell ill, in some  mad attempt to not draw attention to the value of what he was  transporting and to arrive in London on time. His nostrils flared. How  on earth had the woman found him?