'Don't scream,' he whispered against her ear. 'I won't harm ye.'
Unconvinced, she opened her mouth again, but his lips pressed against her ear stopped her.
'I don't want to stuff my handkerchief in your mouth, but I will if I must.'
Sammie reluctantly swallowed the scream trembling on her lips. Although she was not one to panic, she couldn't stop the alarm quivering through her. 'I demand that you stop this horse and release me. Immediately.'
'Soon, lass.'
'You've made a mistake. My family cannot pay a ransom.'
''Tis not a ransom I'm after.' He leaned closer, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine. 'Fear not, Miss Briggeham. You're saved.'
Cold dread filled her. He knew her name. Clearly this was not a case of mistaken identity. But who was he?
'How do you-?'
'Quiet, please,' he whispered. 'We'll talk after we arrive at the cottage.'
Cottage? A fresh wave of fear rolled over her, but she forced herself to concentrate. Inhaling as deep as his binding arm would allow, she logically and quickly weighed her options. Obviously he couldn't be reasoned with, persuaded to release her. Did he mean to harm her? Anger edged some of her fear aside, and she pressed her lips together. If he had it in his mind to hurt her or force himself upon her, he'd have a devil of a fight on his hands.
Escape. That's what she had to do. But how? The horse was running at full gallop. She attempted to wriggle a bit, but his muscular arm only tightened around her, pinching her ribs and expelling the air from her constricted lungs. Even if she managed to throw herself from the saddle-which judging by his strength would be impossible-the fall would no doubt kill her. At the very least injure her gravely. And then she'd be at his mercy.
She pushed that disturbing thought aside with a resounding shove.
Who on earth was he? She peered up at his masked face. Black material covered his entire head. There was a slit for his mouth, two small holes for his nostrils, and narrow oblong cutouts for his eyes. She squinted, trying to determine their color, but could not.
Apprehension prickled her skin as she noted the power in his frame. Even through the layers of their clothing, there was no mistaking his hard muscles. His chest, pressed into her side, possessed all the flexibility of a brick wall. And the thighs cradling her felt like stone. He held her as if she were a doll in his grasp. There was no way she could physically overpower him.
Unless she found a weapon and struck him over the head with it. A wave of grim satisfaction washed over her at the thought of rendering the brigand unconscious.
Unfortunately she'd have to wait until they reached whatever destination he had in mind. But then she would escape him, either by outwitting him or coshing him.
In the meanwhile, she forced herself to focus on her surroundings. They were traveling deep through the woods, but without her glasses, any landmarks she might have recognized were mere blurs. Glimmering shafts of moonlight filtered through the trees, but still the path was shrouded in darkness. Sammie wondered that he could even see, between the darkness and his mask.
They traveled for nearly an hour, and try as she might, she could not determine where they were. His grip on her never relaxed, and she forced herself not to think about the strength of the masculine body pressed against her. Her backside felt bruised, and her arms tingled from lack of circulation caused by his tight hold on her.
Finally he slowed their pace to a trot. Clearly they were approaching the cottage he'd mentioned, but without her spectacles, she couldn't see it in the darkness. She had no idea where they were and she wondered if he'd purposely ridden in circles to confuse her. Still, by the time he slowed the mount, she'd planned her strategy. It was simple, straightforward, and logical: get off the horse, find an object to cosh him with, commence coshing, get back on the horse, then find her way home.
He pulled back on the reins, and the horse halted. Squinting, Sammie discerned the outline of a cottage. Still holding her, her captor dismounted and set her on her feet. Frustration suffused her when her watery knees threatened to buckle. If he hadn't retained his grasp on her upper arms, she would have slithered to the ground. How was she to attack the libertine if she couldn't even stand? Gritting her teeth, she locked her knees and prayed for the quick return of feeling in her numb limbs.
'Damnation, did I hurt ye, lass?' His husky whisper held a note of concern that surprised her. Before she could answer, he swept her up in his arms and carried her toward the cottage. 'Shouldn't have held ye so snug, but I couldn't have ye falling. Let's get ye inside and take a look at ye.'
Sammie silently swore that if he tried to take a look at her, she'd poke his eyes out. She wanted to pummel him with her fists, but to her infinite disgust, her arms possessed all the strength of porridge. However, tingles pulsed up her limbs, prickling her skin, a sure indication that feeling would soon return.
Perhaps it was best if he thought her weak and defenseless. That would surely lower his guard. Then she could find something inside the cottage to use as a weapon-a nice sharp knife or fire poker-and escape this fiend.
He opened the cottage door and entered, pushing it closed behind them with his foot. A low fire burned in the grate, casting the small room with a pale golden glow. Sammie looked around and her heart sank.
The room was empty. No furniture, no rugs, and nothing resembling a weapon.
His boots clicked against the wood floor as he crossed to the fireplace. Her gaze ran over the mantel, hoping to spy a candlestick, but like the rest of the room, the mantel was bare. Hope leapt through her when her blurry vision locked on what looked like a set of brass fireplace tools propped against the wall on the opposite side of the fireplace. Too far for her to reach, but she'd figure out some way to grab one. All she needed to do was bide her time.
Her captor knelt, lowering her to the floor near the fire with a gentleness that surprised her. The instant he released her, she scooted backwards until her back hit the wall.
'Stay away from me,' she ordered, proud that her voice didn't quaver. 'Don't touch me.'
He went completely still. Sammie stared at him, wishing mightily for her spectacles so she could see him more clearly. Although she could barely make out his eyes between the slits in his mask, she felt the weight of his steady stare.
'You've nothing to fear from me, Miss Briggeham. I wish only to help ye-'
'Help me? By kidnapping me? By holding me against my will?'
'Not against your will.' Bowing his head, he said in a husky rasp, 'Rejoice, lass. 'Tis the Bride Thief, come to rescue ye.'
Eric watched Miss Briggeham through the slits in his mask and waited for relief and joy to replace the apprehension shadowing her eyes.
Miss Briggeham regarded him with a blank stare. 'Bride Thief? Rescue?'
Poor woman. She was clearly dumbstruck with gratitude. 'Why, yes. I'm here to help ye start a new life… a life of freedom. I know ye've no wish to marry Major Wilshire.'
Her eyes widened. 'What do you know of Major Wilshire?'
'I know he is your betrothed, and that ye are being forced to marry him.'
Her expression immediately changed, and unmistakable annoyance streaked across her face. 'I've had quite enough of people telling me I am engaged.' Straightening her spine, she pointed her finger at him, punctuating each word. 'Major Wilshire is
Eric froze, unease creeping down his spine. Not her betrothed? Damn it all, had he taken the wrong woman? Is that why she wasn't leaping about with joy that he'd rescued her?
His gaze slid over her, taking in her disheveled appearance. Her bonnet hung from her neck by its ribbons. Dark hair surrounded her face in wild disarray, several strands sticking straight upward in a way that reminded him of devil's horns-not a happy comparison under the circumstances. Her eyes appeared huge in her face-a plain, pale face that currently bore an expression of clear displeasure. Definitely not a look he was accustomed to seeing on the faces of the women he rescued.
'Are ye not Samantha Briggeham?' he asked.
She glared at him and squeezed her lips together.
Damn stubborn woman. He leaned closer to her and ignored the twinge of guilt when her eyes flickered with
