He caught up to her, stopping her departure with his hand around her wrist.
“Give me back my things!”
She turned to face him.
He swallowed and fought to keep his hold on her. She was…breathtaking, a natural beauty with sable-colored eyes burning like embers on him and deep brown waves falling over her shoulders to the small of her back.
“Get your hand off me, you filthy swine,” she snapped at him, her small, dimpled chin tilting upward. “I have nothing of yours. Why, I doubt you even have one thing to take!”
“You’re right, because you robbed it all. Now, hand it over.” He tugged on the small velvet pouch hanging from her wrist.
Before he could react, she fisted her small, silk-gloved hand and punched him in the jaw.
Chapter Two
Lady Charlotte Whimseyhad been caught pickpocketing once before. She wasn’t about to let it happen again. Her father, a high court judge and the Duke of Croydon, had warned her that if she was brought before him one more time, he would send her to his sister’s house in the damp, lonely village of Otford.
Charlotte would rather be thrown into a vat of oil than live there with her Aunt Louise and her arrogant son, George.
She couldn’t get caught she thought as she lifted her skirts and leaped over a small dog that appeared in her way. She cleared it with a smile and kept running.
Who was the flint-eyed stranger who accused her of emptying his pockets? She hadn’t robbed him. She would have remembered if she had. His pockets weren’t loose but sewn close to his tightly honed body. She’d looked when he’d accused her. He dressed strangely and the inflection in his voice was like nothing she had ever heard before. He clearly wasn’t from London. Why, she doubted he was from England at all.
She wanted to turn around and see where he was. She smiled, sure she’d lost him. She’d been running since she was twelve. She was quick. Even quicker in her breeches and hose, which she never wore in daylight. She could out—
Her smile faded when she saw him step out from behind a carriagein frontof her. She skidded to a halt and glared at him. Would she have to use her knives? She didn’t want to kill anyone.
“Why are you chasing me?” she demanded, out of breath. “I don’t have your belongings.” She emptied the pouch tied to her waist into her hand. Two pocket watches and a large ruby ring fell out.
His eyes opened wider. They were rather pretty eyes, the color of sapphires, surrounded by long, lush, raven lashes. “How did you get a ring off a man’s finger?” he asked, staring at the ring and then at her.
With his full attention on her, his eyes seemed infinitely deeper, less compromising.
Close up and with a clearer head, she thought he was older than she’d first reasoned. Perhaps he was in his thirties. He had the look of a weary soul, hardened to the point of not being moved in the slightest by her beauty.
Charlotte knew she was beautiful. Men told her often enough. They gave her special treatment. With a well-placed smile or a modest dip of her eyes, she could get anything she desired from them.
But she didn’t think it would work on him.
“’Tis an art,” she told him, holding up her shield of pride.
“An art that’s going to get you tossed into jail. First though, tell me. Where are we? What year is it?”
“What?” She laughed at him. Was he mad?
Before she had a chance to respond, he snatched the ring and the watches right from her hand.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“Evidence,” he told her impassively and shoved the trinkets into a tight pocket in the seat of his trousers.
He quite boldly took her by the upper arm and started north. He stopped an instant later. “Where are we? Where’s the nearest precinct?”
She eyed him. “The nearest what?”
“Police station.”
She blinked. “Where are you from, Sir? You do not dress like anyone in England.” She made the mistake again of dipping her gaze to his fine form donned in all black. His coat was made of some kind of hide. It was cut and sewn intricately to accentuate his body’s masterful perfection, pulled tight around his upper arms.
