A Noble Masquerade (12 page)

Ryland choked on a groan. His head hurt. Every pump of blood sent new shards of pain from the back of his head, down his neck, and across his shoulders.

A flash of blue caught the moonlight to his left, but by the time he eased his head around, whatever had been there was gone. Was he seeing things now? How hard had they hit him?

The slumped-over position was uncomfortable, but he hoped to appear unconscious if they bothered to look. Based on the argument they'd had over who had to be on watch, he didn't think either of them was particularly excited to keep an eye on him.

He tested his bindings again, sending another sharp pain knifing up his arm. It wasn't the first time he'd found himself in a shackled predicament. They'd discarded his vest, so the knife he'd hidden in there was gone. He could still feel the one in his trousers pressing against his calf, but there was no way he could get his leg around to his hands to retrieve the blade.

There was no removing himself from the wheel, but maybe he could remove the wheel from the wagon. Escaping from his captives with a large wheel strapped to his bound arms wouldn't
be easy, but perhaps he could smash it against a tree. It didn't feel very strong.

Running his fingers over everything he could reach revealed the wheel was attached to the axle with a simple pin. He thanked God it wasn't one of those newer contraptions that practically made the wheel one piece with the axle.

Removing the pin would be hard enough, if not impossible.

He heard a grunt and froze, darting his eyes around as much as he could without moving his head. Nothing. Not even an animal roamed the dark forest. The rain had slackened and moonlight teased through the branches, but he saw nothing out there.

Abandoning a bit of his ruse, he lifted his head to do a more thorough search of the area.

A rustling came from behind him, beneath the wagon. An animal seeking shelter from the rain?

Then something touched his hands.

Though his fingers were numb to the point of tingling, he hadn't lost all sensation in his hands yet. There was enough feeling left to know that it was not an animal nosing at his bound hands.

It was another pair of hands.

His shoulder screamed at him to stop, but he twisted anyway, throwing his legs to the side in order to angle his body around.

A blue skirt spread along the ground under the wagon. He followed the line of the skirt up to a riding jacket. He couldn't twist enough to see the head, but he knew that riding habit and the body that was in it.

How on God's green earth had Miranda managed to find him?

“Miranda.” He kept his voice low, little more than a breath.

The fingers running over his ropes disappeared. More rustling, and then Miranda's dirt-streaked face appeared by the
wheel. Ryland was torn between the desire to kiss her or throttle her. Of course, if he had the mobility to do either of those things, he wouldn't be helplessly tied up, awaiting her rescue.

“If we get you out of here, can you walk?”

Ryland nodded, even as he listened for his captors to move. Miranda wasn't experienced at keeping her voice down.

“It's going to take me a bit to untie you. I can't see anything down here.”

“Shh.” Ryland had to get her to stop talking. Her clearly enunciated
t'
s could be the death of them. “A knife. On my leg.”

He'd lined the narrow blade up with the seam in his trousers. Unless someone was doing a very thorough search, they'd pass right over it.

Her head disappeared and more rustling noises drifted through the night. He closed his eyes, praying it wasn't enough to wake Smith or Donkey, as he'd decided to call the guy he'd seen around the town's inn but didn't know by name.

Small hands shot out from under the wagon, hesitating above his feet. Ryland twisted his right leg until the inside seam was facing her, but her hands still didn't move.

“Along the inner seam,” Ryland whispered.

Her hands balled into fists for a moment before the fingers stretched for his ankle, pulling the fabric as far away from his leg as she could. Even then, he felt the coolness of her skin as she reached for the knife. He told himself to think of her as he would any other agent, doing what needed to be done to stay alive.

It didn't work. Miranda moved slowly, as if she had to thoroughly think through every move she made. Each time her hand brushed his leg, his breath hitched. Finally she slid the knife out.

The sight of her fingers wrapped around the weapon stole his breath entirely. It was wrong, seeing a knife in her hands. They were hands created to sip tea and embroider cushions. She
was being sullied by the entire encounter. He hated it. Knowing that this kind of darkness existed and seeing it with your own eyes were two different things. The price of Ryland's freedom was going to be a piece of Miranda's innocence.

He heard her scramble back to the wagon wheel. “Cut at the knot.”

This time he knew why she hesitated. The knot was pressed against his wrist. There was no way to cut the rope without pressing the knife to his skin. “Do it, Miranda.”

He kept the knife sharp, so the nick he felt as she slid the knife under the rope didn't surprise him.

Her fingers smoothing over the slight wound did.

It took a long time to cut through the rope. Ryland kept it as taut as he could, but there was nothing he could do to hurry her along. It was impossible to see what she was doing to know how to instruct her to speed things up.

The tension suddenly released on his arms, and a subdued cheer of victory emerged from the shadows, making Ryland smile.

“Ah, you're awake.”

Ryland's eyes snapped forward. Smith was standing on the other side of the low wall, arms crossed over his chest, gun dangling from one hand. Ryland wrapped his hands around the spokes of the wagon wheel so he wouldn't give away the fact that his bindings were gone.

Something pressed against his fingers and he turned his hand to grip his knife. His admiration for Miranda grew even as he called her a fool. She had no way of knowing how skilled he was with a knife, but she had still given him her only means of protection.

Smith snarled. “Well, well, Mr. Marlow. Seems His Grace is going to have to look for another valet. Perhaps Lambert will apply for the job.”

Until that moment, Ryland had hoped they thought him a simple valet who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But if Smith knew that Ryland knew about Lambert, then he knew that Ryland was at Riverton for a reason.

Which did beg the question of why Ryland was still alive.

“Who sent you?”

Question answered. They knew what he was doing, but they didn't know why. Ryland smirked.

Smith extended the gun.

Ryland threw the knife.

His arm protested the sudden movement, but his aim remained true as ever, sending the knife spearing through Smith's gun hand. The man screamed and jerked in pain, squeezing the trigger and sending the bullet into the wood of the wagon.

Behind him, Miranda whimpered.

Bile rose in Ryland's throat. A few inches lower and that bullet could have hit Miranda.

“What's going on over here?” Donkey came stumbling across the old cottage floor, obviously unhappy about being awoken by the commotion.

Hoping his legs wouldn't give out on him, Ryland pushed off the wagon and jumped to his feet. Two long steps and he was shoving Smith over the short wall, the man still clutching his hand and howling.

Donkey jumped into the fray, and all three men hit the dirt.

Ryland took a punch in the ribs but delivered an elbow to a nose and a kick to someone's knee. Fists were flying everywhere, and he was pretty sure Smith hit Donkey at one point. Rain had turned the ground into a giant mud puddle, making it nearly impossible to gain any footing.

He dug his toe into the mud, preparing to use it as leverage over his attackers.

Then he got a faceful of tree branch.

Over and over the tree branch fell on the group of men. It wasn't thick enough to do any damage but the many small twigs and branches protruding from the limb threatened to stab into his eyes if he wasn't careful.

He threw his right fist toward Donkey's face and plowed into a mess of wet, clingy leaves instead. “What are you doing?” he yelled.

“Helping!” Miranda lifted and lowered the limb again, smacking a startled Smith in the mouth.

“Me or them?” Ryland groaned at the looks on his abductors' faces. The odds had just jumped considerably in their favor.

“What?”

Ryland didn't have time to see if her face matched the adorably confused tone in her voice. He had to act fast and get himself and Miranda away from these men. If he were on his own he'd press them for what they knew and who they worked for, but Miranda's survival was more important than that information.

Donkey grabbed the limb and shoved a foot into Ryland's stomach. “Well, well, what have we here?”

Struggling to regain his breath, Ryland knelt on Smith's chest and threw his fist in Donkey's direction. What the punch lacked in finesse it made up for in power. The man's head snapped sideways, and his eyes rolled back before he fell into the mud.

“How can I help?” Miranda's yell pulled his attention. He looked over his shoulder and had to smother a laugh even as he struggled to restrain Smith. Miranda was dancing around on the low stone wall, wanting to help but afraid to get near the man's flailing legs.

Ryland stood and hauled Smith to his feet. With air back in his lungs and firmer control of the situation, his voice was calm. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you really think this is the best time to discuss that?”

She had a point. He punched Smith in the nose, sending him toppling over Donkey on his way to the ground. “Get me that rope.”

She nodded and jumped to the ground to retrieve the rope. The gun was nowhere to be found, likely buried in the mud in their scuffle. Ryland looked down at his assailants, now harmless in their unconsciousness.

He'd have some explaining to do.

Then again, so would she.

Miranda was thankful Marlow's calm command gave her something to do that didn't frighten the wits out of her. She scooped up the rope and ran back to Marlow, hiking her skirt up to jump the wall. He was pulling his knife from Smith's hand as she approached. He wiped the blade on Smith's pant leg.

What kind of valet kept a knife in the seam of his trousers?

She tossed the rope at him. He caught it and began looping it around both men's wrists, effectively tying them back-to-back. His coat and vest had been disposed of at some point in his adventure and his white shirt was plastered to his body. She tried not to notice how the muscles bunched and moved as he pulled the rope taut, but she was too fascinated to look away.

Marlow was incredibly strong. Stronger than she'd realized when she'd seen him in his tailored coats. She'd never known a body could look like that, so alive and capable. What would those bunching muscles feel like?

She groaned as she lowered into a sitting position on the wall. The attraction was inappropriate in so many ways that she couldn't even begin to list them all.

“Let's go.” Marlow stepped over the wall, hauling her to her feet as he passed.

He stopped by the donkey. Three quick yanks of the knife and the animal was free. A swat to his backside sent him bleating his way back toward the road.

Miranda started to follow the donkey. They could use her fabric markers to retrace their steps and get home. It would take them all night but they'd make it.

Marlow wrapped a hand around her arm and redirected her. Air hissed through her teeth in reaction. His grip loosened instantly, and he shifted his hand to her lower back, pushing her away from the lane and deeper into the woods.

Miranda glanced around, confusion warring with the unexplainable instinct to trust his direction. “Where—”

“We can't go that way. It's not safe.”

Her confusion shifted away from wondering where they were going to wondering who she was in the woods with. He had fought very well for a valet. Trent often boxed and was very good at fisticuffs, but even he would have been unable to handily defeat two abductors. And Marlow's skills with the knife . . . ? Aside from the fact that he'd thrown the knife through a man's hand, Marlow had cut through two leather straps and a rope in seconds whereas she'd spent several awkward minutes hacking through his bindings. Who was this man?

“Wait! Wait!” Miranda jerked to a stop, her body screaming in protest about all it had been through in the past twelve hours. Before she got too far from the lane, she had to be sure she trusted him.

“We have to go.” His voice was firm and calm.

“But the road is that way!” Her voice managed to rise an octave over the course of a single sentence. She was panicking. She didn't want to panic. She wanted to be calm, collected, controlled. Midnight escapes hadn't been covered in ladyship lessons, though valet training appeared to offer extensive instruction in that area.