Tensing, Ethan shifted his weight, elbow bending to reach for his revolver.
But nimble fingers pulled it from his waistband first and pressed the barrel of the gun against his spine.
The revolver cocked, causing Ethan to freeze.
What the ever-loving hell?!
His lady moved from behind him, his own gun pointed at his chest. Her gray eyes snapped with fiery hauteur, a calculating smile on her lips.
With a laugh, her maid—miraculously recovered—scampered to join the highwaymen, clearly another player in the plot.
The lead bandit swiveled round at the commotion and cackled in delight. “È sempre un piacere averti con noi, Signora.”
“Grazie, Fabrizio,” Ethan’s beautiful lady replied with a saucy toss of her head, gesturing with his pistol. “I am glad to be here, too.”
Ethan stared, suspecting he resembled an Atlantic salmon after spawning in the River North Esk—red-skinned, open-mouthed, gasping.
Surely he would be reliving this moment with vivid clarity for the rest of his life.
The gut-punch of surprise. The jolt of shock.
His lady had been a plant—a willing ally to the robbery.
The plot twist in his unwritten poem he had not seen coming.
He couldn’t help but chuckle in dumbfounded astonishment.
“Well-played,la mia piccola ladra. . . my wee thief.” He swept her a lavish bow. Ethan was, as ever, a gentleman to his core. “Bravissima.”
“Even with your back against the wall, you still charm,” she replied in her throaty, Italian-accented English. “I fear it is an illness with you.”
“If it means gazing upon your fair self, lass, then heaven forfend I ever feel well.”
She smiled at that . . . but not a true smile. Her gray eyes remained dull—obdurate chips of gray Aberdeen granite against her golden skin.
What catastrophe had forced such a fine lady to ally herself with highwaymen?
“Was there ever a husband?” Ethan had to ask.
Hisladra—his thief—laughed. “No. Never. I prefer my life . . . unencumbered.” She waved his revolver in a circle. “Libera. Free.”
The leader of the highwaymen—Fabrizio, he supposed—snorted, his gaze narrowing as he looked between Ethan and his wee lady-thief.
Fabrizio was not un-handsome, Ethan noted. He supposed that some women might find the man’s dark curls and Grecian nose appealing. The devil-may-care glint in his eye didn’t hurt either. And Fabrizio had spoken to Ethan’sladrawith the familiartuin Italian—the form reserved for close friends . . . or lovers.
Ethan swallowed against the thought.
And why, in heaven’s name, was he more concerned about Fabrizio’s possible romantic involvement with the lovely highwaywoman than the guns currently aimed at his head?
The highwaymen made short work of the rest of the belongings. Ethan’s trunk was searched, though he carried little of value. Then both he and the businessman were trussed with their hands behind their backs. Ethan stood tall throughout the ordeal, his gaze trained on hisladra.
Wee things stood out to him.
She grasped his revolver with ease and was obviously comfortable with firearms. Ironically, he found that thought reassuring. Hisladrawas a fighter, clearly able to defend herself.
And yet, conversely, she held herself upright and unbending. Ethan recognized that self-preserving stance—the sort of rigidity born of shouldering blow after blow from life.
Unfortunately, Fabrizio took note of all of Ethan’s noticing. The man’s eyes narrowed, and the grip on his pistol tightened.
