2. Stand and Deliver

STAND AND DELIVER

" A re you not excited for the Season?" Amelia's mother asked as their carriage swayed along the road leading away from Cherrywood Park, their country home in Devonshire.

Amelia glanced up from her crocheting and stared out the window, already missing the familiar green fields dappled with plump sheep that would give way to village after village and eventually the smog and bustle of London.

At two and twenty, this was to be her third Season.

Her heart sank at the prospect.

Last year, she'd turned down more proposals than she could remember, and having failed to secure a betrothal with the Marquess of Winterhope last autumn, her parents had made themselves perfectly clear: this year, she would accept the gentleman of their choosing.

With each bump of the carriage, she felt her freedom slipping away.

"Of course, Mother," she lied.

Miss Henrietta, her pinch-lipped lady's maid who was seated beside Amelia on the backwards-facing bench, hummed a sound of disbelief. Amelia's mother ignored it.

As was her habit. Her mother ignored truths she didn't wish to acknowledge.

"Lord Northwoods is willing to meet with you again, despite that nasty business with Lord Winterhope. He wrote your father just last week." Amelia's mother elbowed Amelia's father, jerking him out of his restful state. "What else did he say, Husband?"

Lord Foxbourne blinked and then smoothed the lapels of his jacket. Travel or no, Amelia's father always looked the same, his silver hair combed neatly, his cravat tied in an elegant knot, and his boots shined to perfection. And even though he often napped while riding in the carriage, he never appeared wrinkled.

Appearances were important to her father.

He shot her mother a frown and then smoothed out his features to answer the question. "What did he say? Erm…Let me think." He frowned thoughtfully. "Oh, that's right. His Lordship requested that I send word round once we're settled in Mayfair. He intends to renew his courtship of the most beautiful lady in all of England. I imagine he'll claim a set at the first ball."

Amelia winced, recalling her former suitor, a gentleman who looked close to forty but was not yet thirty, of average height and build with brownish hair that was… average as well. She'd initially found the earl vaguely attractive. But then she'd let him kiss her—a rather clumsy and awkward experience she wished she could forget. And yet, it wasn't only that.

There was something… disingenuous about Lord Northwoods.

Like all the other gentlemen who'd attempted to court her, he had lacked… some quality she couldn't put her finger on.

She was beginning to think she couldn't put her finger on it because it didn't exist. Perhaps the sort of man she wanted only existed in her mind.

He certainly didn't exist in Mayfair.

Amelia breathed out a heavy sigh.

Because none of that mattered. The decision of who to marry, or even whether she would marry at all, wasn't hers to make.

Society referred to the Season as the marriage mart. At one time, she'd fooled herself into believing she was an active participant, but that wasn't the case at all.

She was the product. Debutantes were the goods.

Dropping her gaze, Amelia sat taller so she could breathe better, and returned her focus to the toy toad she was making with a simple hook and thread. Later, she would stuff it with tiny feathers, and then donate it to one of the foundling hospitals.

If there was one activity she took solace in, it was crocheting. While other young women of her status embroidered, painted, and played various instruments, Amelia had fallen in love with the art of crochet—disappointing her parents once again. "It's something commoners do," her father had said when she'd shown him her first completed project.

If not for their feisty Irish housekeeper, she never would have learned.

The coach hit a bump, causing the yarn to slide off of her hook, drawing her mother's disapproving gaze to the forest green yarn. "You could at least make something pretty."

Amelia ignored her and went right back to work. Through. Around. Grab. And under. Over and over again. The repetitive motions slowed her heart. Sometimes they kept her from screaming.

It was the sound of thumping hooves that broke her concentration, followed by a shout from her father's driver and a noticeable increase in speed. At the sudden shift, Miss Henrietta flew onto Lady Foxbourne's lap. Amelia would have landed on her father's if she hadn't caught hold of the strap.

"What the devil?" Her father was peering out the window. "Highwaymen? In this day and age?"

Her father's expression would have been comedic, if not for the distinct and chilling sound of a gunshot exploding right outside.

Amelia frowned.

Her mother screamed.

Surrounded by riders, the coach slowed to a stop. When Lord Foxbourne opened the window to the driver's box, the conversation drifted inside.

"What do you want?" the driver was asking.

"Stand and deliver!" The command was issued by a deep, unfamiliar voice, the sound of which had her spine straightening almost involuntarily.

"But sir…" The driver's voice sounded with far less confidence.

"Do as I say, and no one gets hurt." It was a highwayman!

Goose pimples broke out on Amelia's arms, partly out of fear and partly from excitement. The man's accent wasn't that of an uneducated thief—he sounded more like a cultured gentleman, but not entirely.

She'd read enough stories about gentlemen highwaymen, holding up coaches to pay off their vowels. They were portrayed as dashing figures, always well-mannered and not dangerous at all. They were considered tragic and romantic.

"We've nothing of value," the driver argued.

Meanwhile, her father had pushed her mother off the bench, crowding them as he lifted the seat to reveal a secret storage compartment. When she saw the flash of a black and silver pistol, Amelia's heart raced.

Stunned into silence, Miss Henrietta's already unusually pale face turned the color of chalk. Amelia patted her hand. "We'll be fine," she said.

Her father fussed with the trigger, and all three women shifted warily when he waved it about.

"Do you even know how to use that?" Amelia's mother screeched.

"Hush, woman. Of course I do. Why else would I travel with one?"

Before anyone bothered trying to answer his hypothetical question, the door flew open. The beginnings of rain blew in, along with a rush of cold air.

But Amelia hardly noticed either. No, she was captivated by a set of piercing black eyes.

The highwayman's presence filled the carriage and then he made a half smile. "Good afternoon, ladies."

He wore a red mask over the top half of his face, two slits cut out for his eyes—eyes that pinned on her before sliding back to her father. Their intruder's hair was shiny and black, and his jaw was nearly as chiseled as the rest of him. A few thin jagged scars showed through his tanned skin. Amelia's gaze was pulled to his neck, where he'd left both his jacket and the top of his shirt unbuttoned.

She inhaled, oddly affected by the sight of his skin. Noticing a smattering of dark hairs on his chest, she swallowed hard.

Who was he?

No gentleman would dress so casually. Furthermore, his shoulders were too broad, his physique that of a laborer.

When the highwayman slid her a second glance, she squeezed her thighs together. And then he winked.

Heat flooded her cheeks.

No gentleman would be so bold. Which meant he was a robber.

Which meant he might be dangerous.

Kneeling on the floor, her father was clutching the pistol, his knuckles white.

"Drop your weapon, good sir." The highwayman flicked a glance to her father and then flashed his teeth in a smile that might have been charming. "Unless you want someone to get killed." He lifted one gloved hand, revealing a gleaming knife.

Amelia's nerves flipped from excitement to fear.

He was not charming.

He meant to rob them—or worse!

"Now, now, that won't be necessary."

"Put the pistol on the floor," the man ordered.

"Of course, of course." But even as the words left his mouth, her father was whipping around, pointing the pistol at the stranger.

Rather than cower, the highwayman, fast as lightning, wrapped his free hand around the barrel of the gun and forced it up to point at the ceiling. Amelia watched in fascination as her father pulled the trigger.

Everyone except the robber flinched, but the gun only clicked quietly. Uselessly.

"That was foolish, now, wasn't it?" The stranger looked to be enjoying himself.

Lord Foxbourne snatched his hands away from the pistol as though it had bitten him.

"Erm. Ahhh. I didn't mean any harm." Amelia's father's voice trembled as he backed onto the bench.

The highwayman chuckled. It wasn't a kind sound. "Sure you didn't. Now?—"

But her father interrupted him. "If you're looking to fill your pockets, you've stopped the wrong coach. I don't travel with my valuables."

Miss Henrietta's brows shot up and Amelia winced.

They had all seen the bag of coins in the secret compartment—along with the velvet reticule her mother used to transport her favorite pieces of jewelry.

"Nothing valuable, eh?" the highwayman taunted as he tucked the pistol into the front of his trousers.

"Nothing at all," her mother answered. "Except for this brooch. I'm happy to give it up if you'll let us continue on our way." Hands shaking, she unpinned a dull-looking clasp from her shawl. It was obviously made of tin and paste.

Once she'd removed it, her mother turned to Amelia. "You have the pendant your grandmother gave you. Give it over, darling."

Amelia's hands immediately flew to her neck. She'd worn it on a gold chain for as long as she could remember. It wasn't the only gift she'd received from her father's mother, but it was the last one.

"I'll not bother with those," the highwayman sneered. "If you've nothing of real value, I'll take the girl instead."

"The girl?" all four of them asked at once. Surely, he didn't mean?—

"The girl." His gaze landed on Amelia again. He couldn't be serious! What was happening?

Shaking her head in disbelief, Amelia waited for her father to move off the bench and offer the contents of the secret compartment. If the choice was between his only daughter and their family's valuables, Amelia knew he would keep her safe.

But her father remained sitting. "You must be joking," he said instead, lifting his chin. Amelia's heart sank; she knew that expression. Surely, he wouldn't be stubborn about this!

"I assure you, I am not." The villain's smile had disappeared, and he lifted the knife just enough to appear threatening. He then held out his other hand, beckoning Amelia toward the door with his fingers. "My lady, you'll be coming with me."

But she didn't move.

"Father?" She beseeched the man who'd sired her, the man she'd always relied upon for protection. At the same time, she felt Miss Henrietta push something into her hand.

Her crochet hook.

Feeling a little dizzy, Amelia clasped her hand around the familiar needle.

"I cannot hand over my daughter." Her father sighed, frowning. "But I can give you a bank note."

The highwayman scoffed. "Do I look like a fool to you?" He beckoned with his fingers again and Amelia found herself staring at those hands. Big, capable hands, somehow elegant despite being covered with white scars, crisscrossed and random.

Imagining how he got them turned her blood cold. Now was not the time to admire any aspect of her would-be captor.

"I can't go with you," she said. "I… I…"

"You aren't going anywhere, Daughter." Her father hesitated, looking defeated. "I have some coin."

But when he moved to open the bench, he was pushed backwards and, in a flash, the highwayman had the knife pressed against her father's neck. He didn't draw blood, but the knife sliced right through the fabric of her father's cravat.

The highwayman was making a point. He was willing to resort to violence if necessary.

In all her life, she'd never seen such terror in her father's eyes.

"Wait! Don't hurt him!" Amelia scrambled forward at the same time she tucked her crochet hook into the cuff of her sleeve. "I'll go with you!"

"No! Amelia, get away from him. My good man, we'll give you everything, but you cannot take—" Her father's voice cracked when the robber's hand gripped Amelia's wrist. She tried jerking it away, but his grasp only tightened, and a fuzzy silence roared in her ears. It was as though she was watching a play. The carriage was scenery and the words from a script.

The man released her father, pushing him back down onto the bench, so that he could draw her closer.

The highwayman's next words, however, left everyone involved looking confused.

"I won't hurt her." How could he sound so reassuring? He was stealing her away from her parents! "Just keep her for a spell."

"But she'll be ruined!" Her mother was the first to gather her wits.

The highwayman's eyes, if possible, turned even blacker. "I'll keep her safe."

"Why should I believe anything you would say? Who the devil are you?" her father asked, looking completely helpless even after the robber released him. "Does this have something to do with Crossings?"

The hand grasping Amelia's wrist momentarily loosened and then tightened again. And, still wrapped in that detached feeling, Amelia watched the hulk of a man's throat move before he finally answered.

"Crossings?" The attempt at ignorance was hardly convincing.

"The duke's behind this, isn't he?"

Without answering, the highwayman tugged on Amelia's wrist. For a second, she considered fighting him. But only for a second. At least four other horses were dancing around outside. He'd not overtaken them alone.

Even if he had been alone, she was fairly certain he could win out against her father and their driver.

Fighting wasn't the answer. And yet her body resisted that tug. When those dark-as-night eyes held her gaze, she did not look away.

"Do I have your word? You won't hurt me?" None of this made sense. The Duke of Crossings was her father's friend. Why would he send a highwayman after them?

"No, Amelia," her father protested. "You can't." But his voice sounded defeated.

Unwavering, she waited for the stranger's answer. "Your word, sir?"

Those dark eyes seemed to soften. "I won't hurt you."

"On your honor?"

And just like that, any softness was gone, like a candle snuffed. "I said I won't hurt you," he snapped.

She must have been mistaken. There was no warmth to this man. For all she knew, he was a cold-hearted killer. Her blood chilled, but she wasn't shaking in terror.

She wasn't as frightened as she ought to be.

"Very well," she agreed. What else was there to say?

"Right, then." Having apparently run out of patience, he dragged her out of the carriage and, before she could step down, she found herself draped over the man's shoulder, upside down as he strode away. Her arms dangled around her ears, and the pillows of her belled sleeves squished into her face.

Feeling like a rag doll, Amelia could only see her bare hands hanging limply before her and the ground as it passed beneath.

She always removed her gloves while crocheting, and without them, they looked delicate and weak. Exposed.

She imagined pummeling her fists on his back, but what good would that do? Instead, fighting to breathe with the way his shoulder dug into her corset, she struggled to push herself at least somewhat upright. It was nearly impossible with the way the muscles in his back moved as he walked.

"This is completely unnecessary," she grunted. "I'm not a sack of potatoes!" She lifted her head just enough to catch sight of her parents peering out of the carriage. Her legs were trapped by her skirts and, with every step her abductor took, panic rose in her throat.

This wasn't a play. This was real. She shook her head.

"Wait, just wait a moment. I—I've changed my mind. I don't want to go!" She shouted over the wind, twisting and writhing. "Papa! Don't let him take me! I don't want to go!"

"Do something!" Her mother's voice rang out as she swatted at Amelia's father. "Or she'll be ruined!"

"He said he won't hurt her…"

"But we have fittings scheduled!" The sound of her mother's complaints were growing distant. "I told you we needed outriders!"

"Please! Father!" Tears stung Amelia's eyes. "Don't leave me with him!"

But her father was waving. "We'll meet with the duke as soon as we're settled in London. This is all just a mistake. Don't worry, Daughter!" And to her not-so-gentlemanly captor: "Harm a hair on her head, and you'll pay with your life!" her father bellowed, shaking his fist.

Theatrics. Like everything else, its only for show.

He didn't look at her again.

And watching her father's driver climb back onto the box, Amelia felt betrayed. Would they really leave her with this man? The Duke of Crossings was her father's friend! None of this made sense!

When the highwayman said he'd take her instead, her father had admitted to carrying valuables… begrudgingly. He could have argued more. He could have bargained with her captor.

But with a knife pressed against his neck...?

He'd done what any reasonable person would have done. Hadn't he? Amelia cast her gaze about the road, counting four other burly outlaws—that she could see. And she had heard a gunshot earlier, so at least one of them carried a pistol.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Amelia was suddenly aware that this man's arms were wrapped around her thighs. Had he lied when he said he wouldn't hurt her?

Would he… ravage her?

Dozens of horrific scenarios crowded into her thoughts. She could not allow this to happen. She could not go with this man.

Earlier, her fear had seemingly paralyzed her; in a flash, however, it imbued her body with a frantic surge of energy. Her legs kicked and flailed, and she squirmed against his hold, though her efforts didn't appear to affect the highwayman in the slightest.

"Calm down, wench." A hint of laughter vibrated through him as he tightened his hold.

She tried kicking harder.

"Put me down, now!" she demanded. "Please?"

"When I'm good and ready."

Amelia was taller than average, and yet this beast carried her as though she weighed no more than a feather. Again, overwhelmed by her helplessness, Amelia went limp.

Which left her staring at this man's sinewy backside—her nose practically nestled between?—

Mortified, she squeezed her eyes shut and crossed her arms over her chest. It was a token gesture in an attempt to reclaim even a hint of her dignity, but it was all she had.

Only…

It wasn't. She still had the crochet hook tucked up her sleeve.

She'd heard her parents' carriage driving away, and if she stood any chance of escaping she needed to do so now. It might be her only chance!

Emboldened, Amelia shimmied her wrist so the hook would slide into her hand, drew her arm back and, aiming carefully, plunged the sharp end into that impertinent backside.

Or tried to, anyway. She might as well have slammed it into granite. Now all she had was a broken crochet hook.

"Watch yourself," the man carrying her grumbled, but then he laughed. Only a scoundrel would mock a lady while kidnapping her.

And then a flash of pain landed on her bottom!

Amelia's spine stiffened in shock. "You did not just strike me!?" If possible, her face grew even hotter. "How dare you?"

"How dare I?" he taunted, and then landed a second swat. "Like that, that's how."

"You said you wouldn't hurt me!" This felt like a horrible nightmare. She wished it was. "You promised!" she added in a feeble voice.

But the storm had caught up with them, and all she could do was stare at each raindrop as it landed on the dirt below her.

"Then don't poke me with your little knitting needle."

"It isn't a knitting needle," she corrected hotly, affronted. Everyone always called it by the wrong name. "It's a crochet hook. And you have no right!"

She was the daughter of a marquess. Last year, she'd been considered a diamond!

He paused, and for a second she thought he was going to set her down, but he merely shifted his shoulders and carried on.

"Oh, but I do." He was laughing again. "Now calm down. I said I'm not going to hurt you. Don't make me change my mind."

"You already have—hurt me." But she went limp again, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch the ground pass as he walked farther and farther off the road. "You threatened my father. You've stolen me from my family." And he'd hit her! No one, not even her own father, had ever laid a hand on her.

She made a choking sound in an attempt to swallow her tears.

"Don't do that," he said.

"Do what?"

"Cry."

"Why? Would that bother your sensibilities? Nothing else seems to. Why would a few tears?" Amelia sucked in a breath and wiggled. "I don't like this."

"Then be good."

Before she could complain again, he bent forward, lowering her feet to the ground so she could stand upright again. With her blood returning to her extremities, black crept into the edges of her vision. Was she going to faint?

A genteel lady would have fainted when she heard the gunshot. Perhaps Amelia wasn't as soft and proper as her parents imagined her to be.

She blinked away the dizziness and took a moment to study the man who'd turned her life upside down.

Literally.

From behind the mask, his eyes were indeed black and cold and hard, but she found herself envious of his lashes. They were thick, long, and luxurious. His ebony hair, which wasn't as short as she'd originally thought, was tied at the back of his head.

And those shoulders! She licked her lips, fighting the urge to continue ogling him.

But there was something familiar…

"Was my father right? Does this have something to do with the Duke of Crossings?" From what she knew, her father and Crossings were both heavily invested in importing silks and spices from the east. And her brother…

"The only person allowed to ask questions is me." His arrogance knew no bounds.

The highwayman turned away and, again, she couldn't help but admire the sharp lines of his chin and jaw in profile. A gust of wind stirred his hair, and for an instant, he seemed almost carefree.

"Why take me instead of my father's money?"

His gaze locked with hers and he licked his lips, drawing Amelia's attention to his mouth. Full and red, not as red as his mask, but shining.

And inviting?

Of course not!