Princess (50 page)

She felt hot blood streaming down her right arm as her panicked horse crashed up over the wooded embankment. Heart pounding, she brought the animal under control, reeling him around in small circles.

When at last the horse stood heaving for breath, she suppressed the angry urge to punch the animal for his skittishness, and peered down anxiously at her wounded right arm. It was bleeding and it hurt like hell. She felt light-headed at the horrible sight of her own torn flesh, but when she carefully probed her bleeding arm with her fingers, she concluded in relief that it was only a flesh wound.

“That blackguard shot me,” she panted in lingering amazement. Then her gaze zipped back to the road and she saw that the Gabbiano brothers—her men, such as they were—had brought the coach to a standstill and extinguished the carriage lantern, working by moonlight.

The driver was sprawled on his arse on the ground, Alvi holding him at swordpoint.

She scowled indignantly at the coachman’s pitiful display, babbling for mercy. Did the man think them common cut-throats? Everyone knew the Masked Rider and company never killed anybody. Oh, occasionally they left some popinjay in an embarrassing predicament, naked and tied to a tree, perhaps, but they rarely drew blood.

Better get down there before we have a sudden change of
policy,
she thought as she saw Mateo and Rocco closing in on the big, lean passenger who had shot her. True, even from a distance, he looked more than able to fend for himself. Still, Mateo was a fire-eater, while the giant Rocco didn’t know his own strength, and both were extremely protective of her. She didn’t want anyone getting seriously hurt.

Dani passed her forearm over her brow, then adjusted the black satin mask over her face and hair to make sure her identity was still neatly concealed after her horse’s mad dash. Satisfied, she urged her horse about face and back down onto the road, highly curious to see which of the idle, citified peacocks she had snared this time and what it would profit her.

Hopefully, enough to pay the crippling new taxes on her estate and to feed her people, in spite of the drought.

She drew her light, quick rapier as she guided her horse toward the tense trio of men.

Mateo and Rocco stepped aside to admit her, and for a moment, Dani faltered. She was startled by her own hesitation. Her captive was gigantic, with the eyes of a hungry lion and the body of a god, yet he continued standing there tamely, a smirk on his hard, angry lips.

“You all right?” Mateo, her oldest childhood friend, muttered to her.

Distracted by his question, she shook off her momentary awe for the man and quickly found her bravado again, forcing herself forward in a show of fearlessness.

“I’m just . . . dandy,” she said slowly, urging her horse closer. She stopped when the tip of her rapier floated gracefully under her captive’s squared jaw. “Well, what have we here?” she drawled, using the tip of her sword to force him to lift his chin.

It was too dark to see much, but the moonlight picked out silvery-gold threads in his hair, which appeared to be of a tawny shade, quite long, but pulled back in a queue off his broad, straight forehead. Head high, his narrowed eyes glittered, fixed on her, but it was too dark to make out their color.

Even by darkness, there was something instantly familiar about him.

Perhaps she had known him in her other life, before Papa’s death, she thought briefly, when she had been that other person— that rich, shy, awkward heiress, always trying to fit in, always trying to conceal her wild, tomboyish ways.

“You shot me,” she said in reproach, leaning toward him from the saddle. She knew she mustn’t let him see her fear. “Lucky for you, you merely grazed my arm.”

“If I had wanted you dead, then dead you would be,” he purred in a soft, murderous tone that fell like silk on her skin.

“Ha! Some excuse! You are a poor marksman,” she taunted him. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“And you, boy, are a poor liar.” His voice was deep and rang with an air of command.

Dani sat up straight again in the saddle, considering him. As her gaze traveled over the length of his tall, warriorlike physique, her simple, feminine admiration mingled with a growing sense of inner warning. Her captive appeared built of pure muscle, so why wasn’t he putting up more of a fight? True, his pistol now lay in the dust, but there was a gleam of treachery in his eyes that made her wonder what he had up his sleeve. Her better sense whispered to her to clear out immediately, but she needed the money and frankly was too intrigued to abort the robbery, which was moving along efficiently.

Mateo had relieved his brother of the task of holding the coachman at swordpoint. The prisoner’s gaze, hard and brilliant as a diamond, followed Alvi as the quick, wiry youth hopped into the coach with an empty sack.

While her captive coldly watched Alvi, Dani studied her handsome prisoner freely. He had the velvety-smooth looking skin and the lusty, strapping size of a corn-fed stallion. A very expensive and pure-blooded one, at that. She despised his type, haughty and carelessly elegant down to his gleaming black boots. His clothes alone probably cost as much as the past six months’ taxes, she thought in derision. She glanced at his no-doubt excellently manicured hands.

“Your ring,” she ordered. “Hand it over.”

Amused, she watched his fist clench.

“No,” he growled.

“Why not? Is it your wedding ring?” she asked sarcastically.

The way his eyes narrowed on her in the dark, she thought he would have happily torn her beating heart out of her body if he got the chance.

“You will regret your audacity, boy,” he said, his voice soft and deep and dangerous. “You have no idea with whom you are dealing.”

Oh, he was not taking this humbling well. Smiling behind her mask at his ire, Dani laid her rapier gently on his cheek. “Shut up, peacock.”

“Your youth will not save you from the hangman.”

“They’ll have to catch me first.”

“Fine boasts. Your father ought to thrash your hide.”

“My father is dead.”

“Then one day I will thrash you for him. That’s a promise.”

In reply, she traced her rapier ever so tenderly under his chin, forcing him to tilt his proud head higher or feel the prick of her swordpoint. His Lordship clenched his handsome jaw. “You don’t seem to understand your position.”

Holding her angry gaze, he actually smiled. The sight chilled her. “I will have you drawn and quartered,” he said pleasantly.

Under her mask, Dani blanched in spite of herself. He was trying to shake her up! “I want your shiny ring, m’lord. Hand it over!”

“You will have to kill me for it, boy.” The white gleam of his smile was defiant.

Standing there in blue moonlight and black shadow, he was huge, powerful, and not lifting a finger to stop them.

Maybe he didn’t know how to fight. These rich fellows never dirtied their hands, she thought uncertainly. But one summary glance over the lean, fierce length of him made her scoff at her own suggestion.

No, something was wrong.

“Not losing your courage, are you, boy?” he asked softly, tauntingly.

“Be quiet!” she ordered, faltering and feeling herself inexplicably losing control of the situation to her vexing prisoner. Rocco, her tame giant, looked over at her in worry.

“Get the ponies loaded,” she ordered him, suddenly in a testy mood, scowling under her mask. Obviously, her prisoner had somehow called her bluff and sensed she wasn’t going to kill him, though God knew he vastly deserved it. Her arm hurt like the blazes. She ducked her head to peer into the coach, wishing Alvi would hurry up. “How’s it going in there?”

“He’s rich!” Alvi hollered, tossing out one full sack. “Filthy rich! Give me another sack!”

As Mateo hurried to fetch another sack from his horse’s saddlebag, Dani saw the prisoner cast an almost imperceptible glance down the road.

“Expecting someone?” she demanded.

Slowly, he shook his head, and she found herself gazing at his pretty mouth, where a slight, innocent smile tugged, one full of wicked charm. He was so familiar . . .

It was almost worth relighting the carriage lantern so she could have a better look at his face and satisfy the nagging sense that she knew him, but it was unsafe to do so.

Suddenly, a high-pitched voice pealed through the night, some distance down the road.

The youngest of the Gabbiano brothers, Gianni, age ten, was running toward them, arms churning. “Soldiers! Soldiers are coming! Run!”

Dani gasped, then stared at her prisoner, aghast.

He was smirking coolly at her, ever so pleased with himself.

“You bastard,” she hissed. “You were stalling us here!”

“Move out, move out!” Mateo was yelling at the others.

Gianni kept on shouting. “Run! Soldiers! They’ll be here any second!”

Dani’s gaze snapped down the road again. She knew her horse was the fastest. Every womanly instinct in her blood screamed for her to go scoop the little boy up into the saddle with her before the soldiers were upon them. The child had no place here—it was her fault. A dozen times they had forbidden Gianni to follow them, but he never listened, until finally, she had given in and assigned him the relatively safe job of signaller.

“The hell with you, peacock,” she muttered, abandoning her prisoner. She tugged on her gelding’s reins, reeling the horse away, while Rocco lumbered up onto his slow draft horse and Alvi and Mateo each took one of the coin-laden bags and swung up onto their ponies’ backs.

The little boy was running desperately toward them. But as she turned, out of the corner of her eye she saw the haughty prisoner dive in the dust for his pistol and roll onto his shoulder, taking aim at Mateo.

“Mateo!”
She reeled her horse around, lurching him straight at the prisoner. The gun went off, shooting skyward.

The prisoner leaped deftly onto his feet and seized her, trying to pull her bodily off her horse. She punched and kicked at him. Mateo drove his pony toward them to help her.

She shot him a fiery glare. “I’ll handle him! Just get your brother!”

Mateo hesitated.

The thunder of the soldiers’ horses was growing louder.

“Go!” she roared at him as she kicked the prisoner in his broad chest. The big man fell back a step, holding his ribs protectively with a curse.

Mateo saw that she had fought the man off and nodded, whirling his pony to go fetch the little boy. But His Lordship charged her again the moment Mateo galloped away.

As she and the prisoner grappled in the road, her horse reared with a frightened whinny. She clung to the reins, fighting to keep her balance, but overpowering her with sheer physical strength, the prisoner pulled her down out of the saddle. Freed of its rider, her thankless gelding bolted at once.

She let out a wordless cry of fury and found herself standing in the road, clutched in her erstwhile prisoner’s grasp. He towered over her. His eyes were like lanterns and he was grasping her hard by her arms. Strands of his hair had fallen from the queue; he looked ferocious and huge, barbaric in his elegant clothes.

“You little shit,” he snarled in her face.

“Let me go!” She fought him. He gripped her harder, and she shouted in pain when he jerked her hurt arm. “Ow! Damn it!”

He gave her a shake. “You’re caught! You understand?”

She hauled back and punched him across the face with all her strength, tore out of his arms, and fled up the embankment. He was but two steps behind her. Her heart beating wildly, she scrambled up through the dust and slippery dried leaves. With a frantic glance down the road, she saw Mateo lift Gianni into the saddle with him and ride up over the far embankment, riding hard towards home.

Her relief was short-lived, however, for then the prisoner tackled her at the top of the embankment, hooking rock-hard arms around her hips.

He smashed her under him onto the ground and fell on her back, snaking his forearm around her throat.

I hate men, she thought, closing her eyes in distress.

“Hold still,” he growled, panting hard.

Dani rested for half a second, then did the opposite, kicking and squirming in the dust, thrashing and punching and scrabbling with her leather-gauntleted fingers. “Let me go!”

“Stop squirming! You’re caught, damn it! Give in!” Dodging the boy’s blows, Rafe held the slim body pinned beneath his own, but the boy bucked and thrashed, fighting him furiously. “Yield,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Go to hell!” The pitch of the boy’s voice climbed higher, shrill with fright.

Panting with exertion, Rafe drove his full, muscular weight more firmly down to still the little hellion’s writhing. “Hold still!” He jerked a look over his shoulder toward the road and his approaching men. “Over here!”

At his movement, the bloodthirsty little outlaw somehow flopped over onto his back, still trapped by Rafe’s arms.

“I told you you would hang,” he growled.

“No, you said I would be drawn and quartered—”

Rafe caught a flying fist in his hand. “Be still, for God’s sake!”