He’d pulled two robberies this week while Kendra was reading to the children at Caldwell Manor. He wished he’d escaped unseen today, but she’d lain abed late, and it had been necessary to leave.
He’d seen a pattern occurring, every third day mid-morning, and today was day number three. He could only hope his wife had been sleepy enough that she hadn’t noticed what he’d been about.
She’d been losing sleep. Over him? The thought made him smile.
He was making subtle progress, in more areas than one.
TWENTY
HER PULSE pounding, Kendra dismounted and tethered Pandora to a tree, then made her way on foot to the hill.
As she neared the crest, she dropped to her knees. One hand snaked out and snatched a hat, a handsome brown one with a bright yellow plume. She perched it on her head and slithered forward on her belly, tossing the wooden block behind her and lying low, hopefully at the same level as the other hats. Maneuvering a pipe before her, she propped her chin on it and focused on the road below.
Dear heavens, Trick had someone already. Mounted on Chaucer, he aimed his pistol into the gaping blackness of an open coach door. Her heart thundered in her chest as a gray-garbed man emerged and climbed reluctantly to the road.
“Oh, aye?” Trick’s drawl floated up to her. “You may want to reconsider. My friends would think it great sport to put a bullet through your chest. Or a dozen, maybe. Ah, a contest. Target practice on your sorry hide.”
The man would have been quaking in his boots, except he was wearing ugly thick shoes with dull silver buckles. His eyes flicked nervously up toward Kendra, and she held her breath when Trick’s gaze followed. It took every ounce of her will to keep from flinching or ducking as her husband squinted in her direction.
The victim’s eyes narrowed. In seeming slow motion, Kendra watched as the man backed away, one hand deliberately rising. He stared at Trick with a tight expression that made a cold knot form in Kendra’s stomach, especially because her husband’s concentration remained fixed on the place where she hid.
Why, oh why had she come? Recognition lit Trick’s eyes along with clear displeasure, and she knew he would kill her—if he didn’t die first. As the stranger’s hand inched beneath his coat, her fingers clenched on the pipe, vainly searching for the fake gun’s nonexistent trigger.
Why wasn’t Trick taking heed?
And why wasn’t the Roundhead afraid of Trick’s “friends”? In her peripheral vision, she could see the hats and pipes lined up in a soldierlike array. An explicit threat to anyone below. But the stranger’s edginess was obvious, his gaze glued to Trick, who in turn was still focused on her.
The victim wasn’t thinking clearly, Kendra realized—distracted as he was, he couldn’t be counted on to act rationally. Which made him dangerous. As his hand delved even deeper, she found it increasingly hard to hold still, and Trick wasn’t paying attention.
Silver flashed—a pistol or a knife? It happened so quickly, Kendra couldn’t be sure. Her heart seemed to stop, and her mouth opened to cry out a warning. But before it could pass her lips, her husband burst into action.
A blur of flying arms and legs, Trick leapt from his horse. He landed and twisted the Roundhead’s hand up behind him, all in one smooth motion. The next thing Kendra knew, a gun had thudded to the ground, and the man was facedown in the dirt with a knee in the small of his back.
Her heart stuttered and restarted. Where on earth had Trick learned to do that? Most of the men she knew trained with pistols and swords, and quite a few were proficient in boxing, besides. But those were gentlemen’s sports—nothing like what Trick had just done. She’d never seen such lightning-fast reactions.
Evidently, neither had the Roundhead. Fear was etched on his face, and she could see his legs shaking when Trick finally allowed him to rise, still holding one arm twisted back and high.
Relief singing through her veins, she collapsed flat on her belly. The hat fell off, rolling a foot before it slipped over the edge and tumbled to the road below with a muted plop that made her grimace.
But her husband didn’t spare it—or her—a glance. At his bidding, the man managed to empty both pockets with his one free hand, defeat evident as he hurried to comply. When Trick demanded his coat as well, he relinquished it without argument.
After a short glimpse into the cabin and a circuit around the coach seemed to convince Trick no more booty was forthcoming, he released the stranger and shoved him inside. Motionless, he held Chaucer’s reins while the coach rumbled off down the road.
Dust puffed in its wake, settling slowly to earth as the carriage disappeared into the distance. Nothing but the calls of blackbirds filled the air when Trick finally turned to the hill.
His voice wafted to Kendra, calm, yet dangerous. “What the deuce do you think you’re doing up there?”
He led Chaucer forward, stopping to retrieve the victim’s gun and the fallen hat before walking around and up the hill. He removed his mask as he went, then stood gazing down at her.
She dropped her head to the grass. Though her face was mashed into the springy blades, she felt his eyes boring into her back.
“Well?”
“I was spying on you,” she squeaked.
His breath huffed out. “Sit up, Kendra. I cannot talk to you like this.”
She pushed up and sat, her gaze on her hands clenched in her lap. Her pale yellow gown was damp, the area around the knees stained bright grass-green.
“Look at me,” he said, unmistakably exasperated. “It’s not like you to hide. Not how I envision you at all.” As she glanced up, he flicked the long, crimped brown periwig hair over his shoulders.
“I came because I was afraid you’d get hurt,” she said.
“What made you think
