Page 4 of The Countess Caper

Well, that wasn’t precisely true. He did not exit the carriage. He did, however, move with such speed and skill that she did not see him do so—not until he gripped her wrist in his giant hand, pinning it to the window. He squeezed, just hard enough that the pistol dropped, and he caught it deftly with his other hand.

He still had her pinned to the window.

The Beast of Dartmoor. Feared by the ladies and gentlemen of the ton.

“Damn it, Dartmoor.”

He did not release her. He was taking up all of the extra space, of which there was not an abundance. His knee moved between her legs. There were only inches between his mouth and hers.

What an odd thing to notice.

He smelled like cedar and wood smoke.

She should not care that he smelled like trees.

“Dartmoor, let go.”

He didn’t, of course. He had never been obliging, and she hardly expected him to start now. Pistol notwithstanding.

“I don’t think so,” he said quietly. His gaze dropped to her mouth, flickered back to her eyes. She furrowed her brow, trying to look menacing. He was easily twice her size and likely twice her height. She was not tall.

He was very, very tall.

“Why are you out stealing carriages?” he asked. “Which could get you hanged, I might add.”

She sighed. She could continue with their usual sharp banter, poke at him, maybe bite his arm to make him let her go, but meanwhile, Marigold was struggling. Alone. Rain started to patter in the courtyard. “My cousin is currently giving birth in a lilac bush.”

Roarke blinked. “Pardon?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Baby. Storm. Bushes.” He had no right to the details. No one did, despite the gossip. Marigold was the daughter of a vicar, and the gossips had come for her with a vicious glee. They had made of her their bread and butter. Moldy bread and rancid butter.

Roarke thumped on the roof. “Drive on!” he called.

She might not have to shoot him after all.

The coachman urged the horses into a walk.

“North on the road and right at the first crossroads. Hurry. Please.”

Roarke relayed that information, still holding her wrist. His fingers were warm and steady, but unyielding. She wondered if he could feel her pulse hammering under his thumb. It was adrenaline. Worry. A reaction to the moment. Not him. Never him.

Liar.

They stayed locked in that strange, fraught embrace for a long moment. Her blood didn’t seem to mind that he did not care for her. That he always watched her with that inscrutable expression, as if waiting for her to do something absurd.

To be fair, he was not alone in that. People looked at her like that all of the time now.

The carriage rattled them to and fro like peas in a glass, the horses urged into a gallop. He finally released her, as though it took much willpower. He sat back in his plain coat and rough trousers. Didn’t he know earls were meant to go about in formal knee breeches and carry enameled, gilded snuffboxes and pretentious lorgnettes? And smell like thick cologne? Not trees and wind and every delicious winter’s day.

“I’ll have my pistol back, please,” she said, instead of any of those things.

He studied it, then carefully disarmed it before returning it to her.

She snatched it back, frowning. “I’ll have the bullet back as well.”

“As soon as I’m sure you won’t shoot it at me.”

“So never, then?” she couldn’t help but quip.