The Bride Thief

her shawl and bonnet. On her way to the village for her daily visit, she paused at the stables to tell Cyril the story.

She spent several hours visiting with Miss Waynesboro-Paxton. Sammie read to her from a well-worn edition of Sense and Sensibility, then massaged the aging woman's stiff hands with honey cream. After enjoying a restorative cup of tea, she took her leave, anxious to return home and find out how Hubert had fared at the Major's house.

Walking home with the late-afternoon sun angling through the trees, she offered up a prayer that her plan would work and word of Anne Barrow's forced marriage would reach the Bride Thief's ears-and not the magistrate's. By purposely spreading the rumor, she was straddling a tense line between possibly endangering the Bride Thief and trying to secure freedom for a desperate woman. But critical situations called for desperate measures.

Of course, it was highly likely that word would not reach the Bride Thief in time to help Miss Barrow. She did not doubt for a moment that he would rescue her if he knew of her plight, but he could not rescue her if he didn't know. She had to ensure that Miss Barrow was freed from her upcoming marriage. But how?

An image of the dashing Bride Thief flashed in her mind, and an idea slammed into her with a lightning-like jolt. Her footsteps halted and she quickly turned the idea over, mentally weighing, measuring it from every angle. It was terribly risky, but a woman's life was at stake. Her mind warned her that a hundred things could go wrong.

Her heart told her one thing could go right. Miss Barrow would be free.

If the Bride Thief did not show up to rescue Miss Barrow, then Sammie would rescue her herself.

Eric alternated his gaze between Emperor, who grazed near the lake, and the path leading through the woods from the village. Pulling his watch fob from his waistcoat pocket, he frowned at the timepiece. Damn, had he missed her? It seemed unlikely, as he'd been waiting for over an hour. Perhaps she had not walked to the village today. Perhaps she was ill-

The cracking of a twig snapped his attention back to the path. When he caught sight of her, he released a breath he hadn't realized he held, a fact that annoyed him. The sudden leap his heart performed, further annoyed him. Bloody hell, he was behaving like a wet-behind-the-ears schoolboy. Standing in the woods, holding ajar of honey like a besotted fool. You are a besotted fool, his inner voice informed him.

Clenching his jaw, he banished his irritating-not to mention incorrect-inner voice to perdition. He wasn't besotted. He was merely…

His brows collapsed in a frown. He didn't know what the hell he was. Other than inexplicably irritated. At himself for wanting her. At her for looking so utterly…

Samantha-like.

If he weren't feeling so unsettled, he would have laughed at himself when desire hit him low and hard at the sight of her modest blue gown and shawl. She walked briskly along the path with her purposeful strides, her lips pursed and brows pulled down as if in deep thought. She swung her bonnet from its ribbons as if it were a reticule, and her shiny hair appeared more disheveled than usual. With an unconscious gesture, she pushed her spectacles higher on her nose-certainly not an action that should have pumped heat through his veins. But it instantly brought to mind an image of him slipping off her glasses and losing himself in her beautiful eyes.

A grunt escaped him, and he ran a hand over his face. He shouldn't have come here. Shouldn't have waited for her. Why in blazes had he? Because you couldn't stay away.

His annoyance level notched up another step at the undeniable truth. But how the hell was he supposed to stay away from a woman who fascinated him? Charmed him? And all without an ounce of artifice or coyness or even effort on her part? A woman who wished to become his lover? He didn't know, but clearly lying in wait for her in the forest was not the way to dismiss her from his thoughts.

He'd simply give her the jar of honey. This was an errand of honor. He'd promised her the honey and give it to her he would. Then he'd immediately remove himself from her distracting presence. Yes, that was an excellent plan.

When she was only a few yards away, he stepped from beneath the low-hanging willow leaves, onto the path.

She halted and gasped. 'Good heavens, Lord Wesley, you startled me.'

'Forgive me. I did not mean to.'

The most deafening silence he'd ever heard stretched between them. She twisted her bonnet ribbons between her fingers, clearly waiting for him to speak, but it was as if her presence rendered him witless. He simply looked at her, his question from yesterday echoing through his mind. Do you have any idea how close I came to making love to you? And her heartstopping reply. Do you have any idea how much I wanted you to? Good God, how had he managed to let her walk away?

Finally she cleared her throat. 'Well, it was lovely seeing you again, my lord. If you'll excuse me…' She inclined her head then started to move around him.

He caught her arm as she passed him. 'Wait. I wanted to give you this.' He held out the jar of honey. 'You forgot it the other evening.'

A blush stained her cheeks, and he wondered if she was thinking about the heated kiss they'd shared after he'd given her the honey at his home.

She took the jar from him. 'Thank you. I'll see to it that Mr. Timstone receives his cream. And now if you'll excuse me…' She tried to pull her arm away, but his fingers flexed, keeping her in place.

She peered up at him with a quizzical expression. 'Was there something else, my lord?'

His eyes narrowed, and he studied her upturned face. There was nothing even resembling desire in her eyes, in fact, she was regarding him with nothing more heated than cool detachment. Bloody hell, she looked downright disinterested.

Damn inconsistent woman. One moment she wanted him as a lover, now it seemed she couldn't get away from him fast enough. His common sense told him this was good. Every other part of him rebelled against it. Why this sudden change? Even though he'd refused to become her lover, his desire had not lessened. Not one damn bit.

'Is something amiss at home, Miss Briggeham? You seem in a hurry.'

'No, my lord. But there's a… project I need to start on as quickly as possible.'

'What sort of project?'

She lowered her gaze, apparently fascinated by something on the ground. 'Nothing that would interest you.'

An acute sense of loss flooded him. She didn't want to share the details with him-details of a project that was clearly important to her, as she couldn't wait to get home to start on it. Hell, he hadn't anticipated that he would so sorely miss the easy camaraderie they'd shared. He should let her simply walk away.

But he couldn't.

Moving to stand directly in front of her, he tipped her chin up until their eyes met. 'About our discussion yesterday…'

Crimson flooded her cheeks. 'Have you changed your mind?'

Yes. 'No.' A scowl pulled down his brows. 'But I was hoping that we could remain… friends.'

Whatever reaction he'd expected from her, it certainly wasn't the flash of temper that ignited in her eyes.

'Friends?' she repeated, raising her brows. 'Yes, I suppose we can remain friends. Lord knows I do not have so many that I can turn one away.'

'Yet you're angry with me.'

'No, I'm disappointed. However, I am angry at the situation I'm in. The same situation thousands of women are in. Because we're not beautiful or witty or heiresses-or for whatever reason-we are forced into celibate spinster-hood. Forced to live our lives without ever experiencing a man's touch.' Sparks all but flew from her eyes. 'A woman should be able to choose. Good lord, it's just as bad as being forced into an unwanted marriage.'

He stilled. 'It's not the same-'

'Yes, it is. It's exactly the same.' Yanking her arm from his suddenly lax fingers, she stepped away from him. 'The Bride Thief would understand.'