Chapter 16 #2
Owen nudged Saxony in front of Tansy, forcing the spirited mare to a standstill.
He had not been surprised to discover Ivy had befriended the most unlikeable mare in the stable; Ivy’s sunshine could coax gentleness out of even the grouchiest beast. Her honey eyes, clearly visible in the moonlight, widened in question.
“If you have a lover,” he growled, “get rid of him. If you cannot part with him, then we end this charade now.”
Her lower lip dropped, revealing a neat row of teeth. “You think I have a lover?”
“I do not know, but I do know you are lying about visiting your friend.”
She pulled that swollen lip between her teeth and gently bit, making his groin stir.
“I do not have a lover.” She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Will you take one during our ruse?”
“No.” Was that relief on her face, or was he imagining it? “So, Ivy, darling, where are we going?”
“As I said, I am going to the modiste shop.” She looked at the saddle, the horse’s mane, and the sky. She looked everywhere but at him.
“To see your friend, the modiste.”
She did not reply.
“I would like to meet her. I want to set up an account for you and the girls.”
Panic flitted across Ivy’s expression. “You should wait until business hours. Besides, I do not need an account there.”
“You do need an account, but if I cannot open one tonight, then I shall simply introduce myself to her.”
“No! She does not see patrons outside of hours.”
He stared her down. She was not telling the whole truth, and obviously had no intention of doing so. It only stoked his curiosity further. What on earth could she be up to? She had the same air of fidgeting secrecy as his sisters whenever he came upon them when they were not expecting him.
He was about to prod further when a form materialized in the road ahead of them. A black horse and a rider wearing a dark cloak stood horizontally, blocking the dirt road ahead. A flash of moonlight winked on the depthless eye of a pistol pointed directly at them.
Owen tugged on Tansy’s reins, drawing Ivy closer to him.
“What—”
“Highwayman,” he said quietly, his entire body tensing. Saxony sensed his shift and tossed his head. Ivy’s eyes widened with fear when she realized they were sighted by the cold, faceless pistol.
“When he is distracted taking our coins,” Owen continued in a low, hurried voice, “I want you to gallop back to the manor. I will buy you time. Do not stop under any circumstances or for anyone.”
“No.”
“I am not asking you, Ivy.” He did not give a damn about losing the sizable amount of coin in his pocket, but he was terrified for Ivy’s safety.
The highwayman lifted the pistol higher, and in a flat and polished voice that made true fear slide down Owen’s spine he said, “Throw your purses ahead of you. If either of you moves, I will shoot. I am an excellent marksman. You do not want to test me.”
Something about the man’s tone—so void and emotionless it was almost inhuman—chilled Owen to the bone. He knew with some baser instinct that the man blocking the road would not hesitate to put a bullet in their flesh.
This was no rough-and-tumble highwayman out on his luck. The man’s cultured accent and inflection spoke of someone who knew exactly what he was doing—and who his targets were.
Owen contemplated possibilities as he slowly withdrew his wallet and coin purse from his coat. Ivy extracted her own coin purse and, without awaiting further instruction, tossed it ahead of her. It landed in the dirt with a clink of metal. Owen followed suit, his eyes never leaving the highwayman.
“Dismount,” the man instructed.
Owen ground his teeth together, his natural disinclination to obey orders chafing at his skin, and dismounted.
He needed Ivy out of there. Now. He lifted his hand to smack her horse’s flank and send them sprinting in the opposite direction, but the highwayman said sharply, “If that horse moves so much as a foot, I will lame the beast.”
“No!” Ivy cried, quickly slipping off Tansy to stand by Owen’s side.
Although she was shivering with fear, her eyes were bright and angry.
She was small and slight beside him, and something fiercely protective stirred in Owen’s chest. If it meant taking a bullet to the heart, he would not allow any harm to come to her.
“Take the money and begone,” Owen ordered.
The highwayman gave a low, humorless laugh as he dismounted, the pistol never once wavering, and leisurely strolled forward. Something about the way the man moved was familiar, and it gave Owen the uneasy sense that he knew him from somewhere.
The man scooped up the coin purses and wallet. A black band of fabric was tied around his head, with two neatly cut eye holes. It concealed most of his face, but again his mouth had a shape that was vaguely familiar to Owen.
“Now that you are a viscount, I wager everyone scrapes and bows to you, and yet your flesh will be shredded by a bullet the same as any other. How does it feel, your lordship, to be humbled by a highwayman?”
“Do I know you?”
The question seemed to sour the highwayman’s gloating. “No one knows me.” He turned the pistol on Ivy, and Owen’s heart leaped into his throat. “Who is she?”
“A maid.”
“You are lying.” He studied Ivy with such thorough perusal that Owen’s entire body went white hot with rage. “This is the governess the gossip rags are talking about. The one you are courting.”
Whoever this man was, he knew too much about Owen’s life for this to be a random robbery.
He had to have been waiting for Owen specifically.
How many nights had he haunted this road, biding his time, hoping Owen would pass?
Was he someone Owen had denied a horse? Owen was very discerning about who he sold his animals to.
He had turned down men who had wealth pouring out of their pockets for being cruel to their animals.
He was sure there were any number of people still bitter about it.
Whatever the man’s vendetta, it had everything to do with Owen and nothing to do with Ivy.
“No, she is not,” Owen refuted, flexing his hands. He wanted to tear this scoundrel limb from limb.
The man tsked and waved the pistol. He stood too far for Owen to make a lunge, keeping them both at his whim and mercy. “Your lying is beginning to upset me, Viscount.” The highwayman’s eyes crawled over Ivy. “She is pretty, but she is no Heidi.”
Owen felt as if he had been struck through by an axe. “Did Heidi send you?”
The man smirked. “I see Harrow did not make you any smarter than the boys who were not allowed to attend.” His voice was so bitter that Owen knew he had been denied entrance.
“What do you want? We gave you all our money.”
“I want justice.”
“Did I wrong you in some way?”
“I want justice for your mother.”
The heat coursing through Owen’s body cooled to slush at the mention of his mother.
His mentally fragile mother had died of gastric fever when he was twelve.
For a moment, the memory of her lying in her casket flashed in front of his eyes: the high-necked, white-lace gown wrapped around her cold body, her hair spread out as if she were floating underwater.
He swallowed hard. “What injustice was done to my mother?”
The highwayman’s eyes flared with a maniacal rage. “Do not dare play innocent.”
Ivy must have moved in some manner, because the man’s attention shifted to her.
“Did you say you were too stupid to attend Harrow?” Owen taunted, desperate to draw the highwayman’s eyes back to him, but it did not work, because the other man was already entranced by Ivy’s soft mouth.
“Have you kissed the governess yet?”
Ivy gasped. “I am a respectable young woman!”
“So he has not. I shall take the first kiss then, and you, Lord Brackley, will forever know that it was not you who first kissed your wife, but me. Come here, Miss Bennett.”
Ivy planted her feet, and Owen knew it was now or never. He would shove her behind her horse and charge the highwayman. With any luck he would tackle the man to the ground, and Ivy could take off on one of the horses.
Owen had barely shifted to put his plan into action when a shot cracked through the air and smoke billowed from the end of the pistol.
Simultaneously a searing, blinding pain sliced through his left shoulder.
He blinked down at the ragged hole in his coat, watching numbly as a hot wash of blood began spilling down his chest.
Ivy lunged for him as he staggered backward, but the highwayman said sharply, “If you do not come here and kiss me this instant, wench, I shall finish him off.” As if to prove his point, he pointed the gun at Owen again.
Ivy’s eyes searched Owen’s, and she said in a low, soothing voice, “It will be all right, Owen.”
He pressed his palm to the wound on his shoulder and nearly blacked out from the pain before he blinked and regathered his senses. He staggered forward, but he was so weak that she was able to stop him with a simple touch to his arm. “No.”
He tried not to sink to his knees. He was losing too much blood and too fast, but he did not care. He could not allow this man to hurt Ivy. He could not—
While his sluggish thoughts tried to keep up, Ivy hurried toward the highwayman with her arms open wide, as if she planned to throw herself into his embrace.
The man lowered the pistol in surprise, seeming unsure about her intentions.
When she was a foot away, she struck so fast that Owen was certain he was hallucinating.
A swift punch to the highwayman’s nose was accompanied by the sound of cartilage cracking; and then the man screamed as her sharp boot connected with his groin.
Owen dropped slowly to his knees, black spots dancing in his vision as Ivy disarmed the thief and turned the gun on him.
Owen was dreaming. There was no way his former governess had just done what he thought he had seen.
Ivy’s voice sounded far away as she instructed the groaning highwayman to put his wrists together behind his back.
Owen was so cold. He had never felt this cold before, as if he would never be warm again. Had the temperature dropped?
He must have made a noise, because Ivy spun to look at him, and when she did, the highwayman, still retching, crawled atop his horse and took off.
Ivy barely seemed to notice; she was already running toward him, her small, warm hands pressing his chest, and her face close to his as she reassured him that she was going to get help. “You must stay awake, Owen.”
“I cannot,” he murmured, his eyelids closing.
“Then climb atop your horse. That is all I need from you. Then you can rest.”
With Herculean effort, he staggered to his feet, blind now and relying solely on touch.
He was aware that he was going to pass out any moment, but he needed to get on his horse.
He was too heavy for Ivy to lift, and if he was left here while she went for help, he would bleed out. The bullet had clearly hit an artery.
Ivy guided his hands to Saxony’s saddle, and then his blessed horse bent on one knee, lowering himself so that Owen could sling himself over his back. He had barely landed in the saddle when he slumped over and slipped into blackness.