if that makes a difference.”
“It doesn’t.”
“You saved several lives tonight.”
“He only had one gun,” she pointed out. “I saved one life tonight.”
“Well, if you hadn’t, most likely you would be the one lying in the dirt right now.”
His tone was so oddly gentle, so compassionate, it made her forget her guard. She glanced up at him. Too late she realized he hadn’t yet noticed the absent mustache. He did now, however. She saw the moment it registered. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed.
She gathered her courage and returned his stare. “He was aiming at you when I fired, Anthony.”
His voice came out brittle. “And yet you did fire. I wonder why?”
For just a moment he remained there, his eyes locked on to hers. But then he broke away, turning to the others and calling to make sure they were all right.
The carriage driver, though favoring one arm and limping slightly, had a pistol in his good hand now and was keeping it on the one living highwayman. That fellow sat in the dirt, staring at his departed companion and shuddering every now and then. The ladies were recovering and now began to express concern over Julia.
“Is your friend there all right?” the older one asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Rastmoor remarked without interest. “He likes to make as if he’s a sensitive sort, but I daresay it’ll take more than murder to really affect him.”
Julia ground her teeth. He hated her. Indeed, it had been evident in his eyes, and she could hear it in his voice. He hated her, and no doubt this was far from over.
But at least he was going to let her keep up this charade while in public. She had no doubt it was, of course, purely for his own benefit. What plausible excuse could he have to explain his romp in the forest at night with a woman in men’s clothing? To save face in front of these others, he’d let her remain Alexander Clemmons.
And it was just as well. She was in no great hurry to face a furious Lord Rastmoor as herself, that was definite. She hadn’t done it three years ago, and she certainly didn’t wish to do it now.
RASTMOOR SWORE UNDER HIS BREATH AND STALKED back over to the remaining highwayman. He had to question the man, find out who he was working for and who he’d been hired to target. He doubted he’d like any of the answers he got.
Damn it, though, he couldn’t think straight.
She was alive! God, it was too fantastic to believe. Julia was alive . How could this be? She’d died in Fitzgelder’s bed three years ago. He’d seen the announcement in the paper, heard family members discuss it in hushed tones. Lady Fitzgelder had died and was buried, her newborn child with her in the ground. His child.
But she wasn’t! She was here, standing just yards away, pale and shaking and still retching from the trauma of just having watched a man die at her hand. Apparently this was a new experience for her. Perhaps she’d always managed to disappear before having to face the consequences of her heartless actions—just as she had three years ago when she tore his heart out and tromped on it in her haste to become Fitzgelder’s wife.
Damn it, Julia was alive! He’d been grieving her all this time, and she’d never even been dead. If he hated her before, he hated her more now. What game was this? What sport could she possibly find in tormenting him this way?
Or perhaps it was more than sport. Perhaps she was here at Fitzgelder’s command, a part of his plan to remove the cousin who held all the title and fortune a bastard like him could only dream of inheriting. Indeed, that actually made sense.
It was far more likely he had Julia to blame for all this than that he should suspect Lindley. God, but she would have to pay for this. For all of it. Not now, though. First he needed to figure out what other dangers might still be lurking, and he doubted Julia would be eager to inform him.
Rastmoor stalked to the one remaining highwayman and loomed over him.
“It doesn’t.”
“You saved several lives tonight.”
“He only had one gun,” she pointed out. “I saved one life tonight.”
“Well, if you hadn’t, most likely you would be the one lying in the dirt right now.”
His tone was so oddly gentle, so compassionate, it made her forget her guard. She glanced up at him. Too late she realized he hadn’t yet noticed the absent mustache. He did now, however. She saw the moment it registered. His eyes grew wide, then narrowed.
She gathered her courage and returned his stare. “He was aiming at you when I fired, Anthony.”
His voice came out brittle. “And yet you did fire. I wonder why?”
For just a moment he remained there, his eyes locked on to hers. But then he broke away, turning to the others and calling to make sure they were all right.
The carriage driver, though favoring one arm and limping slightly, had a pistol in his good hand now and was keeping it on the one living highwayman. That fellow sat in the dirt, staring at his departed companion and shuddering every now and then. The ladies were recovering and now began to express concern over Julia.
“Is your friend there all right?” the older one asked.
“He’ll be fine,” Rastmoor remarked without interest. “He likes to make as if he’s a sensitive sort, but I daresay it’ll take more than murder to really affect him.”
Julia ground her teeth. He hated her. Indeed, it had been evident in his eyes, and she could hear it in his voice. He hated her, and no doubt this was far from over.
But at least he was going to let her keep up this charade while in public. She had no doubt it was, of course, purely for his own benefit. What plausible excuse could he have to explain his romp in the forest at night with a woman in men’s clothing? To save face in front of these others, he’d let her remain Alexander Clemmons.
And it was just as well. She was in no great hurry to face a furious Lord Rastmoor as herself, that was definite. She hadn’t done it three years ago, and she certainly didn’t wish to do it now.
RASTMOOR SWORE UNDER HIS BREATH AND STALKED back over to the remaining highwayman. He had to question the man, find out who he was working for and who he’d been hired to target. He doubted he’d like any of the answers he got.
Damn it, though, he couldn’t think straight.
She was alive! God, it was too fantastic to believe. Julia was alive . How could this be? She’d died in Fitzgelder’s bed three years ago. He’d seen the announcement in the paper, heard family members discuss it in hushed tones. Lady Fitzgelder had died and was buried, her newborn child with her in the ground. His child.
But she wasn’t! She was here, standing just yards away, pale and shaking and still retching from the trauma of just having watched a man die at her hand. Apparently this was a new experience for her. Perhaps she’d always managed to disappear before having to face the consequences of her heartless actions—just as she had three years ago when she tore his heart out and tromped on it in her haste to become Fitzgelder’s wife.
Damn it, Julia was alive! He’d been grieving her all this time, and she’d never even been dead. If he hated her before, he hated her more now. What game was this? What sport could she possibly find in tormenting him this way?
Or perhaps it was more than sport. Perhaps she was here at Fitzgelder’s command, a part of his plan to remove the cousin who held all the title and fortune a bastard like him could only dream of inheriting. Indeed, that actually made sense.
It was far more likely he had Julia to blame for all this than that he should suspect Lindley. God, but she would have to pay for this. For all of it. Not now, though. First he needed to figure out what other dangers might still be lurking, and he doubted Julia would be eager to inform him.
Rastmoor stalked to the one remaining highwayman and loomed over him.
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