The coach hit a bump, causing the yarn to slide off of her hook, drawing her mother’s disapproving gaze to the forest green yarn. “You could at least make something pretty.”
Amelia ignored her and went right back to work. Through. Around. Grab. And under. Over and over again. The repetitive motions slowed her heart. Sometimes they kept her from screaming.
It was the sound of thumping hooves that broke her concentration, followed by a shout from her father’s driver and a noticeable increase in speed. At the sudden shift, Miss Henrietta flew onto Lady Foxbourne’s lap. Amelia would have landed on her father’s if she hadn’t caught hold of the strap.
“What the devil?” Her father was peering out the window. “Highwaymen? In this day and age?”
Her father’s expression would have been comedic, if not for the distinct and chilling sound of a gunshot exploding right outside.
Amelia frowned.
Her mother screamed.
Surrounded by riders, the coach slowed to a stop. When Lord Foxbourne opened the window to the driver’s box, the conversation drifted inside.
“What do you want?” the driver was asking.
“Stand and deliver!” The command was issued by a deep, unfamiliar voice, the sound of which had her spine straightening almost involuntarily.
“But sir…” The driver’s voice sounded with far less confidence.
“Do as I say, and no one gets hurt.” Itwasa highwayman!
Goose pimples broke out on Amelia’s arms, partly out of fear and partly from excitement. The man’s accent wasn’t that of an uneducated thief—he sounded more like a cultured gentleman, but not entirely.
She’d read enough stories about gentlemen highwaymen, holding up coaches to pay off their vowels. They were portrayed as dashing figures, always well-mannered and not dangerous at all. They were considered tragic and romantic.
“We’ve nothing of value,” the driver argued.
Meanwhile, her father had pushed her mother off the bench, crowding them as he lifted the seat to reveal a secret storage compartment. When she saw the flash of a black and silver pistol, Amelia’s heart raced.
Stunned into silence, Miss Henrietta’s already unusually pale face turned the color of chalk. Amelia patted her hand. “We’ll be fine,” she said.
Her father fussed with the trigger, and all three women shifted warily when he waved it about.
“Do you even know how to use that?” Amelia’s mother screeched.
“Hush, woman. Of course I do. Why else would I travel with one?”
Before anyone bothered trying to answer his hypothetical question, the door flew open. The beginnings of rain blew in, along with a rush of cold air.
But Amelia hardly noticed either. No, she was captivated by a set of piercing black eyes.
The highwayman’s presence filled the carriage and then he made a half smile. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
He wore a red mask over the top half of his face, two slits cut out for his eyes—eyes that pinned on her before sliding back to her father. Their intruder’s hair was shiny and black, and his jaw was nearly as chiseled as the rest of him. A few thin jagged scars showed through his tanned skin. Amelia’s gaze was pulled to his neck, where he’d left both his jacket and the top of his shirt unbuttoned.
She inhaled, oddly affected by the sight of his skin. Noticing a smattering of dark hairs on his chest, she swallowed hard.
Who was he?
No gentleman would dress so casually. Furthermore, his shoulders were too broad, his physique that of a laborer.
When the highwayman slid her a second glance, she squeezed her thighs together. And then he winked.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
No gentleman would be so bold. Which meant he was a robber.
