The Bride Thief

'And you, Mrs. Briggeham, for your kind hospitality.'

'Oh, you're most welcome, my lord,' Mama said. 'In fact-'

'This way, Lord Wesley,' Sammie broke in, forestalling Mama. She swiftly exited the Chamber, resisting the urge to tug on Lord Wesley's arm.

He fell into step beside her, and she strode briskly across the green lawn toward the stables. After several seconds, she heard him chuckle.

'Are we engaged in a race, Miss Briggeham?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You're striding toward the stables as if pursued by the devil himself.'

Without slowing her pace, she shot him a sidelong glance. 'Perhaps I am.'

His chuckle deepened into a full laugh. 'I'm quite the opposite, I assure you.'

'Are you trying to convince me that 'angelic' describes you?'

'Well, it is another 'a' word…'

His voice trailed off into a chuckle, and for some inexplicable reason, Sammie felt the need to quicken her pace even more. The sooner he left, the better. This man unsettled her, in a dismaying way she was certain, or at least almost certain, that she did not like.

They reached the stables less than a minute later. While Cyril brought around Lord Wesley's mount, Sammie fought to catch her breath from their brisk near-trot across the lawns. When Cyril appeared leading a chocolate- brown gelding, she couldn't suppress the appreciative sound that escaped her.

'He's magnificent, Lord Wesley,' she said, reaching out to touch the beast's glossy neck. The animal immediately turned and nuzzled her cupped hand, blowing out a warm whinny that tickled her palm. 'What is his name?'

'Emperor.' He swung gracefully into the saddle. Stepping back, she shaded her eyes and looked up at him. The warm breeze ruffled his dark hair. His hand held the reins and his muscular legs hugged the horse's body with an ease that marked him as an experienced horseman. He looked incredibly masculine sitting astride his beautiful horse, and she wished she possessed the artistic talent to capture him in a drawing. She could almost see him, galloping full bent across a meadow, sailing over a fence, at one with his mount.

'Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Briggeham,' he said, dragging her from her reverie.

'You're welcome, my lord.' A frisson of regret washed through her that their time together was over. He'd proved himself polite, humorous, and charming, and the fact that he'd shown such kindness to Hubert tugged at her in a way that she couldn't put words to. If only circumstances were different… if she were the sort of woman to attract his attention for more than a fleeting moment-

But of course, she wasn't. He was an earl, and she was merely a… passing curiosity. Lifting her chin, she said, 'Thank you for the flowers.'

He stared down at her with an unreadable expression for several seconds. It seemed as if he wished to say something, and her heart beat in slow thumps, waiting for him to speak. He merely inclined his head, however, and murmured, 'You're welcome.'

Inexplicable disappointment rushed through her. Forcing a smile, she said, 'I bid you a safe journey, Lord Wesley. Good-bye.'

' 'Til we meet again, Miss Briggeham,' he said in a low, compelling voice. He set Emperor into motion and cantered down the path. Sammie watched him until he disappeared around the bend, trying quite unsuccessfully to calm her erratic pulse.

'Til we meet again. Surely he meant nothing by his parting words. They were merely a form of saying goodbye. She'd be a fool to read too much into them, to think that he meant to call upon her again. And why would she want him to? While she now couldn't, in all honesty, continue to think badly of him, he certainly bore no resemblance to the swashbuckling sort of gentleman she'd always imagined would set her heart aflutter. No, 'adventurous' was not an 'a' word she'd use to describe the Earl of Wesley.

Therefore, logically, she'd be the worst sort of fool to wish for him to return.

Yet suddenly she felt like the worst sort of fool.

Chapter Seven

From the London Times:

Several more outraged fathers have joined the Bride Thief Posse, all of them contributing to the reward money, which now stands at seven thousand pounds. Adam Straton, the magistrate where the last kidnapping occurred, stated that he has redoubled his efforts to solve the case, and he is confident he will apprehend the Bride Thief soon. 'I will not rest until I see him hang for his crimes,' Straton promised.

Eric stared out the window of his private study. Normally the warmth of the golden sunshine shimmering through the trees, and the sight of his stables in the distance brought him pleasure and comfort. Today, however, they failed to soothe, as he strove for the hundredth time to forget the one thing he couldn't seem to erase from his mind.

Samantha Briggeham.

Three days had passed since he'd called upon her. Three days since her honesty, intelligence, and lack of guile had charmed him, as it had on the two other occasions he'd met her. Three days of wanting to see her again, to the point where he'd actually had to force himself not to call upon her.

Damn it all, there was no need to concern himself with her welfare any longer. She bore no ill effects from his botched kidnapping. Yet he simply could not dismiss her from his thoughts.

Why? What was it about her that attracted him so? Certainly he could lie to himself and claim his interest lay only in the fact that he'd accidentally kidnapped her. But lying to himself was a futile exercise.

No, there was something about Samantha Briggeham that touched him… in a way he couldn't explain. What was it? She certainly was not beautiful, yet the combination of her too large eyes and those too large lips fascinated him in a way that a classic beauty never had. He'd enjoyed the company of many gorgeous women-women whose physical beauty could leave a man breathless, but he'd found them all eminently forgettable. Indeed, he couldn't recall one of their faces. The face that filled his mind during the day and rendered him wide awake at night was not that of a diamond of the first water, but of an unassuming country miss who inexplicably attracted him as no woman ever had.

Crossing to the decanters, he poured a finger of brandy, then stared at the amber liquid as if it held the answer to this extremely vexing puzzle.

Very well, he found her unusual looks intriguing. Pleasing. But that did not fully explain this… thing he could not name… this preoccupation with her. Leaning his hips against his mahogany desk, he sipped his drink, enjoying the trail of warmth easing down his belly. A series of images of Miss Briggeham flashed through his mind. Hiding behind Mrs. Nordfield's potted palms. Laughing as they'd examined Mrs. Nordfield's dreadful paintings. Her initial fright when he'd kidnapped her, her wistful expression when she'd confided her longing for adventure to the Bride Thief… her desire to swim in the Adriatic…

Bloody hell, perhaps that was the problem. He knew things about Miss Samantha Briggeham that he shouldn't, wouldn't know if he hadn't met her as the Bride Thief. And not just her yearnings for adventure. He knew how she felt in his arms, her soft body pressed against him, the heady sensation of galloping through the darkness with her, her honey-scented skin teasing his senses.

Then there was her anger… no, her annoyance… when he'd dared utter a word against the Bride Thief, a man she clearly admired. Her obvious love for her brother, and indulgence toward her mother. Her ambition to develop a medicinal cream to help her friend. She was intelligent, kind, loyal, amusing, horribly outspoken, and…

He liked her.

He was about to enjoy another swallow of brandy when the realization dawned, halting his hand halfway to his lips.

Bloody hell, he liked her.