Chapter Thirty-Six

It was not going to plan, drat it all.

All the lines she'd written for Cardew to deliver at a safe distance were nullified when the two thugs with Ladrón overtook

the carriage and dragged both Mr. Raglan and Cardew to their knees.

The confrontation was supposed to happen a mile up the road where dense woodland flanked either side and where her father and the men he'd insisted upon having with him were waiting.

Which meant that the just in case script was now part of the play.

Honoria slipped the spyglass into the breadbasket, then walked out from behind the copse of trees and onto the road.

A heavily accented voice carried on a limp breeze. "Where is your partner? I believe we have some unfinished business to settle."

"I have more money," Cardew said. "In the leather pouch inside the carriage."

Ladrón ordered one of his men to retrieve it for him. Then, he weighed it in his hand... just before he let it drop to

the ground at his feet. "I did not ask about the money. Nor did I come all this way and risk the gallows by setting foot onto

English soil only to leave with nothing for my collection. So I'll ask once more—where is Flint?"

When she came round the bend, she saw the tip of the rapier at Cardew's throat, his disguise in ruins. "He isn't here. We separated after Paris."

"Try again," Ladrón said, the neckcloth beneath Cardew's chin disintegrating with a flick of the wrist.

Cardew sucked in air through his teeth as a thin line of crimson appeared. "It's t-true. I... I stole the Titian so that

I could earn a living without him. You'll never find him or put him in your collection."

Hearing this, Honoria gasped. She finally understood that Ladrón didn't want to find Oscar to pay a debt... he wanted to

collect Oscar. Cardew had tried to tell her, but she'd been so determined to ensure that Oscar was free to live his life that

she ended up putting him in danger with her foolish plan.

But panic and self-recrimination would have to wait. It was time to put on the best performance of her life.

Tugging on the ribbons of her hat, she continued down the lane, swinging her basket at her side. All the while, she hoped

that Thea would keep the villagers offstage, as it were.

Then, as if the Fates were with her, Ladrón turned to see her approach just as her hat blew off and her flaxen hair tumbled

free, cascading down around one shoulder.

As expected, he called one of his thugs to his side, murmured some directive and sent him after her. She feigned confusion,

standing still on the path with her head tilted to one side.

The thug leered at her, eyes flashing with interest as his gaze openly perused her body in a way that made her ill. She couldn't

wait to knock him in the head with his own sword.

It took effort, but she did her best to appear helpless, putting on a show of struggling to flee. There were times when being underestimated worked in her favor. She dropped her basket. Oh, dear. The thug relaxed his hold when she feigned a graceful faint, falling swaybacked against the iron bar of an arm across her

lower back.

And that was when she made her move.

When he looked over his shoulder to Ladrón's command, she curled her fingers around the hilt of his sword. Then she sprang

free, sliding the rapier from the sheath.

With quick feet, she maneuvered around him, feinting skillfully while he lumbered like a big troll. Catching the sword, he

tried to wrench it from her grasp, but she slid it free, the blade slicing into his hand as he issued a sharp hiss and a bright

line of crimson welled on his palm.

Angry now, he charged at her. But his anger only made him clumsier, and she swished the blade with a flick of her wrist, cutting

an X through his trouser over his knee, drawing a point of blood on his leg. When he bent down to press a hand to it, she

conked him on the head with the hilt of his own sword, and down he fell.

One down. Two more to go.

Applause greeted her actions. With a glance to her left, she saw the heads and shoulders of a dozen villagers peering over

the town wall as if they were watching an outdoor matinee.

They thought it was all part of the play and had no idea how terrifyingly real it was. Not even Honoria wanted to think about

that. She had to stay in character.

Holding on to her composure, she turned back in time to see Ladrón shrugging out of his coat. He discarded it with an absent

toss, then strolled toward her in his shirtsleeves and trim waistcoat.

"You intrigue me, querida ," he said with a grin, his features honed like a blade, hair dark as raven feathers. "Let us see how well you fence against

a man who knows the blade almost as well as he knows how to pleasure his women."

Oh, please , she thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. But taunting him wouldn't suit her purpose. So she stood in first position and slashed her borrowed blade through the air in a salute. It was unfortunate that the weapon was much heavier than her own. Even so, she had faith in her skill.

But it wasn't long before she realized that she was outmatched.

For every thrust, he parried. For every lunge, he redoubled, his feet lightning quick. When she tried to retreat, he slashed.

Not to her skin, but through every button on her spencer until it gaped, revealing the snug fit of her bodice. And when he

grinned, his face devoid of perspiration, she realized he'd only been toying with her and tiring her out.

With her next riposte, he took her off guard, sliding his blade in a looping circle against hers and stripping it from her

hand. It went sailing down the slope beside the lane as he caught her around the waist.

She did not feign her struggles this time but fought him like a tigress, all claws and teeth. He hissed when she drew blood

on his wrist.

Then he jerked her against him, the force of it hard enough to knock her teeth together, his sword arm wrapping around her

throat. He growled low in her ear, "That wasn't very sporting of you, querida . You need to learn some manners." As she struggled to breathe, his free hand slid up her body, parting the fabric of her

spencer to cover her breast. "Mmm... I think I will enjoy teaching you."

Her heart thundered in panic, the force of it shaking the ground beneath her.

She tried to think as she clawed at the arm around her neck, her vision blurring around the edges. Through the haze, she saw

a horse and rider charging at full gallop and realized that some of the quaking wasn't hers.

It gave her little relief, however, to see Oscar riding into the lion's den. And it was all her fault.

While she clung to the last shreds of her consciousness, she took advantage of Ladrón's distraction and stomped her foot down on his instep. On a grunt of surprise, his forearm went slack just enough to give her room to jam her elbow into his midriff. He groaned, relaxing his hold around her neck. She dragged in a breath and tried to slip free... but the bastard was too quick.

He spun her around with dizzying speed, capturing her with the other arm around her throat, leaving his sword arm free as

Oscar leaped down from Hermes.

"Let her go, Ladrón! It's me you want."

"Ah, so this"—he gave her a teeth-rattling shake—"is why you came to England. She is what they call an English rose , is she not? I can well understand the temptation, and I look forward to exploring her in greater depth. Later. For the moment,

you and I have a matter to settle."

"Release her, if you want to keep your head," Oscar said without a break in his stride.

Ladrón snickered. "You have no weapon."

"I don't need a weapon. I have yours."

In the blink of an eye—and Honoria wished she hadn't blinked—Oscar moved swiftly toward them, pointing to the sky as if the

sword were falling from the clouds. Then he turned, making a single revolution and suddenly came away with the sword.

It was like a magician's sleight of hand. She was so dazzled by his maneuver that she was unprepared for when Ladrón flung

her away. Actually flung her down the ravine.

Stumbling, she slid down the grassy embankment, losing a slipper on the way. By the time she'd pushed her hair out of her

eyes and gathered in her breath, she saw the lumbering ox start to wake up.

"Oh, no, you don't," she said and whacked him with a rock.

Beside the carriage, Cardew and Raglan banded together to take out the other thug. Left without a weapon, Cardew had to sacrifice

his masterpiece and whacked him over the head with it, splitting the canvas.

Oscar, apparently preferring fisticuffs to fencing, bloodied Ladrón's nose. Eyes red with vengeance, the Collector sank down and reached inside his boot.

"Looking for this?" Oscar asked, holding a bejeweled dagger.

Ladrón lunged, but Oscar was far too quick, making her wonder how she'd ever bested him. Had her kiss truly weakened his knees?

But now was not the time for such queries.

Especially when her father came charging down the lane, followed by another man who seemed vaguely familiar and... her

brother ? But what was Truman doing here?

Yet, as she met his hard gaze, she had a sense that she was in a world of trouble.