The Highwayman’s Prize

The first thing I notice is the pistol.

The second is the man holding it.

“Your driver will kindly bring this carriage to a halt,” comes an alluring voice from the darkness, “unless he wishes to discover how poor a shot I am.”

The horses snort, the carriage lurches, and I grip the edge of my seat. Outside, the driver swears under his breath before obeying.

I close my eyes briefly.

Of all the dreadful inconveniences that might befall a woman travelling alone through the southern English countryside, being robbed by a highwayman has not featured on my list.

I have, however, always possessed a certain curiosity about men who wear black masks.

“Stay inside, Lady Shy,” the driver calls nervously.

I lift the curtain.

And there he stands.

Dressed in a dark riding coat that fits him rather indecently well, he sits astride a magnificent black stallion. A black scarf conceals the lower half of his face, but does nothing to disguise the striking eyes above it.

They are black - or no, brown. A deep, dark brown, so dark they remind me of the hollow of a tree.

He turns towards my window.

“Your jewels, if you please.”

The cheek!

“You have remarkably good manners for a highwayman,” I retort.

His eyes narrow with amusement.

“And you have remarkably expensive jewels for a woman travelling without an escort.”

“I find most gentlemen tedious company.”

“Then perhaps I ought to be flattered that you find me interesting enough to parry with.”

I stare at him with a theatrical pout.

He laughs.

It is a low, warm sound that has no place whatsoever in the business of highway robbery.

“Your purse, my lady.”

I reach into my reticule, withdraw a small velvet purse, and hold it out through the window.

He leans down to take it.

Our fingers brush.

It is nothing. Barely a touch.

And yet I feel an absurd little flutter beneath my ribs.

The highwayman notices.

Of course he notices.

His gaze lingers on my face, then drops briefly to the diamond necklace resting against the neckline of my travelling gown.

“An expensive ornament,” he murmurs.

“My great-grandmother’s.”

“Sentimental value, then?”

“Enormous.”

“How unfortunate.”

He slips the purse inside his coat.

I fold my arms. “Are you going to take the necklace as well?”

“I was considering it.”

“Then I advise you against it.”

“Do you?”

“My great-grandmother was a formidable woman. I should hate to think what she might do to you from beyond the grave.”

For a moment, he simply stares at me.

Then he throws back his head and laughs outright.

“Good God, woman. Are you always like this?”

“Only when interrupted.”

He leans towards the window, bringing his horse close enough that I can smell rain, and the faint scent of leather beneath the night air.

“Tell me, my lady. What would you do if I were to ask you to step out of that carriage?”

“I should refuse.”

“And if I insisted?”

“I should scream.”

“And if I were to kiss you to silence you?”

My breath catches.

It is the first truly improper thing he has said, and he watches me as though my reaction is far more valuable than every jewel in my possession.

I lift my chin defiantly.

“You would find me a most disappointing captive.”

“Would I?”

“Terribly.”

His gaze moves slowly over my face, studying the defiant tilt of my chin, the greying red wisps of hair escaping beneath my bonnet, and the bright, unmistakable challenge in my eyes.

My heart stumbles.

“I rather doubt that.”

I should ring for the driver. I should shut the curtain and order the man to ride on.

Instead, I hear myself asking, “And what makes you so certain?”

The highwayman goes very still.

Then he dismounts.

His boots strike the road with a soft crunch of gravel. He approaches the carriage with a determined gait.

He is more handsome than I imagine. Handsome in a way that would make my mother’s carefully arranged dinner parties considerably more interesting.

He stops beside the door.

“Because,” he says softly, “you have had three opportunities to call for help, my lady. And not once have you taken them.”

I can feel my cheeks warming.

“Perhaps I am curious.”

“Curiosity is a dangerous habit.”

“So I have been told.”

He opens the carriage door.

“Then let us see how curious you truly are.”

He offers his hand.

I find myself staring at it.

I know nothing about him. He might be a criminal, a murderer, or merely an extraordinarily theatrical thief with an unfortunate taste for expensive horses.

I also know that, for the first time in months, I am not bored.

I place my gloved hand in his.

He helps me down with surprising gentleness, his other hand hovering at my waist without quite settling there.

When my feet touch the ground, I find myself standing closer to him than I intend.

The night is cool. The road is deserted. Somewhere in the trees, an owl calls.

“What happens now?” I whisper.

His eyes search mine.

“That depends entirely upon you.”

For the first time that evening, the amusement leaves his expression.

He is waiting for my answer.

Trembling, I slowly remove my glove.

“Then perhaps,” I say, placing my bare hand against his cheek, “you ought to tell me your name before I decide whether you deserve another moment of my time.”

His eyes widen slightly.

Then he smiles.

“Theo Chaos, at your service.”

“Not a very convincing name for a highwayman.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

“Infuriating man.”

“Impatient woman.”

I find myself laughing, the sound breaking through the tension.

Theo Chaos lifts his hand to my cheek, giving me ample opportunity to step away.

But I don’t.

“May I kiss you, my lady?”

My heart beats so hard, I am certain he can feel it beneath my fingertips.

“You may try.”

His smile is wicked.

“Ah. A challenge.”

“Consider it a warning.”

He bends towards me, slowly enough that I can change my mind.

I lean into him.

Our lips meet.

It’s a tentative kiss at first, almost a question. I want him. I catch the lapel of his coat and draw him closer, answering the question with considerably more enthusiasm than either of us likely anticipates.

His hand settles on my waist. I slide my hands into his coat.

When we finally part, the composure I have spent years perfecting has deserted me entirely.

Theo rests his forehead against mine.

“Lady Shy,” he murmurs, “I fear I have made a terrible mistake.”

I swallow, still holding his coat.

“And what mistake would that be?”

“I stopped your carriage for your money.”

His thumb brushes my cheek.

“But now I find myself wondering what on earth I shall do if you insist upon leaving.”

I smile up at him.

“Then perhaps, Theo Chaos, you ought to give me a very compelling reason to stay.”

His eyes darken with unmistakable interest.

“Gladly.”

Somewhere behind us, the driver coughs loudly.

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” he calls into the night, “but shall I continue to London, or are we to be robbed until breakfast?”

I burst out laughing.

Theo Chaos closes his eyes with the weary expression of a man whose most carefully laid plans have just been ruined by a coachman.

“I shall murder that fellow,” he mutters.

“No, you shall not.”

“Then I shall rob him.”

“Sir!”

He grins, takes my hand, and lifts my knuckles to his parted lips.

“Until we meet again, my lady.”

He mounts his stallion, gathers the reins, and looks down at me one last time.

“Next time,” he promises, “I shall come without the pistol.”

I watch him disappear into the darkness, my pulse still racing.

Only when the sound of his horse fades do I climb back into the carriage.

My purse is gone. My jewels remain.

And for the first time in my life, I find myself looking forward to being robbed again..