At the Highwayman's Pleasure by Sarah Mallory Read Free Book Online Page B

effort to restrain the animal as it trotted towards the numerous outbuildings.
    Charity found herself in a large cobbled yard; in the far corner someone was chopping wood, but he had his back to her and was unaware of her presence. She guessed from the man’s size and the curling black hair that it was Ross Durden. Despite the icy wind, he wore only his shirt, buckskins and boots, the shirtsleeves rolled up high to display his muscled arms.
    He picked up a large log and placed it on the chopping block, then raised the long-handled axe and brought it down on the log in one smooth, powerful arc. She was struck by the fluid grace of the movement, the slight shift of legs and hips, the flutter of his billowing white shirt as his arms circled, the flash of the blade as it cleaved through the air and the satisfying crack as the wood was split asunder and the pieces fell onto the cobbles. One of the logs had rolled behind him, and as he reached around to pick it up, he spotted the gig. He straightened slowly and turned. Tossing the wood into the basket, he began to walk towards her.
    For a brief moment Charity wanted to flee, but she fought down her panic. Not only would that be very cowardly behaviour, she doubted she could turn the gig and whip the little pony to a canter in time to get away. The man looked so much larger, so much less civilised than he had done at the theatre. Untamed and rakish was her impression of the man, but that was curiously at odds with his appearance in the green room.
    Another memory nagged at her brain, but it was elusive; she could not quite catch it. She forced herself to sit still and watch as this large gentleman with his wild hair and dark, dangerous eyes approached the gig.
    ‘Mrs Weston.’
    The words, uttered deep and slow, sent a quiver running down her spine. There was neither welcome nor enquiry in his tone. It was a mere statement of fact that she was here.
    ‘Mr Durden. I, um...I was exploring and took this lane quite by chance.’ She gave him a bright smile, but nothing in that harsh, dark face changed.
    Foolish girl. You should have stayed away.
    She gathered up the reins. ‘I am very sorry. I did not mean to intrude—’
    He put out his hand and gripped the pony’s head collar.
    ‘It is no intrusion, but you are a long way from Allingford.’
    Again the quiver ran down her spine. He was pointing out to her how vulnerable she was.
    ‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to come in and warm yourself by the fire?’
    No! It was not to be thought of. May as well enter a tiger’s cage.
    He turned and called to someone in the stable, his voice echoing around the yard, then he stepped up beside the gig and held out his hand.
    ‘Jed will take care of the pony until you are ready to leave. He will lead it into one of the empty barns, where it may wait for you out of the cold.’
    Her conscience clamoured with warnings, but they went unheeded. With his eyes upon her and his hand held out so imperiously, she felt obliged to let him help her down and escort her into the house. The old wooden door opened onto a short corridor and from there into a large kitchen, at one end of which a fire slumbered in the range. A large shaggy dog jumped up and came to greet them, wagging its tail and sniffing at Charity’s skirts.
    ‘Easy, Samson, don’t frighten our guest.’
    Charity leaned down to scratch the animal behind its ears.
    ‘I am not frightened. Is he a gun dog?’
    ‘Gun dog, sheepdog, companion. Whatever is needed.’
    He snapped his fingers and sent the dog back to its box in the corner.
    ‘How useful,’ murmured Charity, stripping off her gloves. After the chilly air outside, the kitchen was blessedly warm. He waved towards an armchair beside the fire.
    ‘Sit there while I make you tea.’ He stirred up the coals and swung the trivet holding a large kettle over the fire. ‘I presume you would prefer tea to ale? I’m afraid there is nothing else here suitable for