His hand wavered in the air, and she was conscious of the size and breadth of each finger. The man's skin was bronzed, and dark curls encircled his wrists. She wondered whether the dark curls trailed up the rest of his arm, and whether his chest was bare or not.
She swiveled her head toward him, and his hand brushed against hers again. Her heartbeat quickened, as if her whole body yearned for more of him, even though she didn't know anything about him, even though she was pretty sure he wasn't even very nice.
Before she had a chance to berate him for affecting her with his presence to an extent she would be mortified to admit, he was gone. He relaxed against his seat, and a smile played upon his lips. "Please be comfortable."
"Right." She cleared her throat and tried to channel one of Loretta Van Lochen's bravest heroines. "You're a gentleman."
He smirked. "It must be an unusual pleasure for you to be in such splendid company. But I'm afraid I don't have time for much chit-chat. What do you want?"
"You." The word escaped her lips before she had a chance to hold it back.
His eyebrows rose, but the cocky grin she expected never appeared. Instead his shoulders sank a fraction, and his jaw firmed.
"I mean … " Fiona forced a laugh, "Not really you. Of course not."
"That would be insane," the man offered.
"Yes," Fiona hastened to reply.
"What on earth would you do with me?"
For one moment she was tempted to tell him everything. For one moment she wanted to share with someone just what a mess she had managed to get into. For one moment she desired to laugh and maybe cry and hopefully be told she wasn't entirely mad.
But instead she lifted her chin up. "Never mind."
She could tell him who she was later. Right now she needed him to be intimidated of her. Maybe no one would do a favor for Fiona Amberly, the woman too frightened to finish her season, the woman no man had wanted to dance with. But displaying the most fearful highwaywoman from Loretta Van Lochen might be more convincing.
She leaned forward. "I won't hurt you."
"You don't seem the type to maintain noble standards of decency."
The man was perfect, and that seemed reason enough to despise him. His complexly tied cravat, perfectly styled hair, and immaculate cane represented everything she abhorred. Except … Her gaze drifted back to the man's cane. It looked almost like it was actually meant to be used. A silver dome rested on it, but the black rod was imperfectly polished, the length longer than average, and grass clung to the end of the cane, as if-
"What in the Lord's name are you looking at?" the man practically growled.
"I-"
"Leave, highwaywoman." The man's brusque voice interrupted her thoughts. "If you were aiming at seduction, you should have been prettier."
Any spell, any attraction she may have felt vanished at this moment. She bit her lips and strode from the coach.
She couldn't do this. She needed to be back at home, where she belonged, and not in a coach with a strange man.
It didn't matter. He never would have agreed to her plan anyway. She'd just get Ned and ride away. She stepped into the cold air, bracing for the harsh words from the coach driver.
But only silence greeted her.
Chapter Five
The door swung back open, and the woman glared at him. She raised her hand, and that blasted blade glinted again in her hand. "Your man is missing. Where is he?"
His heartbeat quickened, and he resisted the temptation to pat his great coat in which the jewels were hidden.
"Put that down." It was easy to make his voice sound commanding; he'd never had to struggle to make his soldiers obey him.
The woman wavered, then raised her chin.
"He's gone." She tramped toward him, and he stiffened as her skirt swept against the woolen blanket he'd taken to carrying with him. The woman's voice held the same unflinching resolve of the severest army commander. "Rise."
"I-"
"Now." Her emerald eyes hardened.
"I will not be threatened by a woman."
"You only allow yourself to be threatened by men?" She raised her eyebrows and moved the blade toward him. "Out."
"Careful with that." Percival attempted a laugh.
"Out," she repeated.
The knife was large and all too menacing. But moving would mean revealing his secret to her, and that would be-
The blade inched nearer his neck. If this were the past. By Zeus, then he would have just stood up and defended himself, blade or no blade.
His life was no longer the same now, and he was at the mercy of this red-headed woman who brandished a knife with the same enthusiasm that other women took to sewing work.
The wind rattled the carriage, sneaking in through the coach's fissures and cracks, and fluttering the edges of the blanket.
If only his cousin hadn't been killed. If only Percival had veered more to the left on that one day, all those months previous, he wouldn't be in the mess he was now. He hadn't survived the Napoleonic Wars to become a victim to some woman on some God-forsaken road. So he rose.
The process was inelegant. Perhaps one day he might be able to rise in a smooth, sweeping gesture befitting a man of his station. But now he still stumbled, because blast it, he still felt his leg, and still expected it to be there when he needed it.
He gritted his teeth together and braced his hand against the cold wall of the coach. The wooden stump provided balance, and he turned to the highwaywoman.
Her stony gaze softened, and his heart sank. "Not you, too."
"But your leg-"
"Is of no concern of yours."
"I didn't notice-"
"I thought you did."
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
He sighed. "Everyone expects everyone to have two legs."
"I'm so sorry."
"How sympathetic of you. I wouldn't have thought a robber would care much about the leg count of the people she attacks."
"Very amusing." She sighed and lowered her weapon. She leaned forward, and a surge of vanilla wafted toward him. "Where did your driver go? Is he getting the magistrate? Lord, he's getting help!"
Percival's breath quickened, and he forced himself to remain calm. This was just like being at war. He'd battled enemies with success dozens of times. He hadn't risen through the ranks solely on his father's commission. He'd been publicly commended for his efforts, charged with leading other soldiers.
But back then he'd been armed with weapons. Back then all his limbs had been intact.
Percival sighed. "He must be here. Royal mail and all."
Her eyes narrowed, and it occurred to Percival that Graeme just might have concocted a heroic plan all by himself. Perhaps the driver had gone to fetch help. Hope jostled through him, and he managed to shrug, maintaining an expression of neutrality well-honed from hours of card playing in officers' tents.
"Maybe he's relieving himself." Lord knows the man had drank sufficient ale before the journey, and likely during the drive as well, if his constant singing had been any indication.
"He took Ned," the woman declared. "I went to fetch him, and he was gone."
"Graeme's captured one of the ruffians? I wouldn't have thought him capable."
"My horse!"
"Oh." He rubbed his hand through his hair and stumbled from the coach, his wooden stump clicking against the floor. The wind howled through the open door, and he grimaced as he stepped outside. He glanced down at the tiny metal steps. Blast.
The sounds of horses stomping their feet and snorting greeted him. It was bad enough to descend these steps when a driver was there to calm and steady the animals.
He gritted his teeth, and by some happiness of fate that had not graced him at Waterloo, managed to reach the frozen ground without toppling downward in an inelegant situation the highwaywoman might take advantage of.
"Graeme!" His voice barreled through the wilderness, but there was no rustle through the trees, and certainly no answer. He studied the road, but there was no sight of his driver. "Lucky man."
"Oh, this is dreadful." Mournfulness shook the woman's voice. "My poor Ned."
"I wouldn't have taken a woman of your sort to care about a horse."
She jutted her chin out. "It would be a mistake to underestimate me."
"Graeme's already succeeded in getting the better of you."
Something flickered in her eyes. Something that he might have termed fear if he weren't dealing with a woman who stole money from travelers for a living.
He shrugged and found himself reassuring her. "Graeme's a driver. He knows how to take care of a horse. Better than the life you could provide for it."
She stiffened.
He glanced at her. "You should have chosen an honorable profession."