The Guise of a Gentleman (Rogue Hearts) Page 2

  With her pulse hammering in her throat, Elise eased her loaded rifle out of its resting spot by her knees.

  Following the voices, she walked Prince forward, his footsteps muffled in the damp loam. At the edge of a clearing within a hollow, she pulled him to a stop. The scene that met her exceeded her fears. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.

  Like entertainers in a play, three men and a small boy performed a deadly act. A man with a large, plumed hat slowly pulled a rope stretched over the limb of a nearby tree. The rope encircled the neck of a second man who stood on his toes in a desperate attempt to keep the noose from cutting off his breath.

  Shock rippled through Elise, robbing her breath. That man was being hanged.

  Only a few paces away, a third man with long, black braids straddled a boy who was lying on his stomach on the dirt. The ruffian fisted one hand in the boy’s hair, pulling the head back. The other hand held a knife against the young victim’s exposed throat.

  The man holding the rope spoke in a faintly Spanish accent. “Then Santos will carve him up. Since you don’t care.”

  The child appeared to be eight or nine, not much older than Elise’s son. He squeezed his eyes closed, and the pain and terror in his expression twisted her heart.

  “Stop!” the man in the noose gasped. “Let the boy go.”

  The captors exchanged knowing glances. “I knew you were bluffing,” sneered the man with the rope. “First you watch Santos kill the pup, then your turn ... unless you talk.”

  The man being hanged twisted against his bonds. “I told you, Leandro, someone else took it. I don’t have it and I don’t know where it is.”

  “Then you are of no use to me alive. I still owe you for killing Macy. I will enjoy watching you die a slow death. But first, the boy. Santos, slit his throat.”

  Horror froze a knot in Elise’s stomach.

  A curved sword hung from Leandro’s belt, but Elise saw no sign of a gun. The boy emitted a cry of pain and fear. Her heart lurched, demanding action. Anger surged, followed by determination. She raised her rifle to her shoulder, sighted down the left barrel at Santos who threatened the boy, and eased her finger over the first trigger.

  “I’ll tell you,” the man in the noose man gasped. “Let him go and I’ll tell you.”

  Leandro pulled hard on the rope until the man’s feet dangled an inch off the ground. The man in the noose let out a strangled noise and then all sound abruptly silenced.

  “Gentlemen!” Elise’s voice rang out with more confidence than she felt. “Remove your hands from the boy. Release the man. Get off my land.”

  Every eye turned to her, and mouths dropped open. Whether their surprise stemmed from her sudden appearance or her boldness in addressing them, she did not know.

  The ruffians made no move. Perhaps they needed more encouragement. She braced herself against the rifle’s kick and squeezed the front trigger. The ground erupted in a tiny explosion inches away from Leandro’s feet. Yelping in surprise, the Spaniard released his hold on the rope. The hanging man fell to his knees and collapsed face-down.

  Prince, the hunter that he’d been for years, remained calm. Leandro kicked the motionless man on the ground. Elise’s stomach tightened at the brutality. She squeezed the second trigger which fired a ball through the other barrel. The ball hit the ground at the horses’ hooves in the clearing. The horses whinnied and reared and stomped.

  With remarkably calm fingers considering the situation, Elise began the reloading process. Before she could fire another shot, the scoundrels scrambled to their horses. Leandro glowered down at his former victims, his face twisted in rage. Even at this distance, Elise felt his malignant hatred. He galloped away with Santos following him until the trees swallowed them.

  Still lying on his stomach, the boy dropped his head into his arms, his shoulders shaking silently. Elise spurred Prince toward him in the hollow. Before Prince fully stopped, she slid out of her saddle and rushed to the lad. His eyes wide with terror, he shrank from her. At least the wound on his neck appeared superficial rather than life threatening.

  She halted and laid the rifle at her feet. With her hands held out, she spoke in soothing tones. “It’s all right. They’re gone. I’m a friend. I’m here to help.”

  He stared at her with large, dark eyes.

  She tried to smile reassuringly. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Those blackguards nearly got the better of you, didn’t they?”

  With his frightened eyes still upon her, he pushed himself to a seated position and hugged his knees. Except for a shallow cut on his neck, he appeared unharmed.

  Choking noises from the fallen man snatched her attention. How could she have forgotten him? Alarmed, Elise dashed to his side and fell to her knees. His face and neck were mottled and purple. With trembling fingers, she ripped off her riding gloves and pulled at the tight knots around his neck.

  Elise continued to work at the noose, breaking her nails as she tore desperately at the ropes. The instant the knot loosened, the stranger gasped and coughed. When she enlarged the loop enough, she slid it over his head and cast it aside. The rope had bitten into his skin, and bruises surrounded a raw wound.

  “Scoundrels,” she muttered, her heart squeezing in sympathy for the injured man.

  The boy crawled closer, warily eyeing her. Tears and grime streaked his face. Blood dripped onto his shirt from his throat.

  “It’s all right now,” she soothed as she glanced at the boy. “Did they hurt you elsewhere?”

  The child blinked and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Without speaking, he shook his head. He wore the coarse clothes of a field worker, but they were in good repair. He looked anxiously at the gasping man lying face-down at her side.

  She returned her gaze to the man. “Sir?”

  With his face turned away, he continued to cough and wheeze.

  “Sir? Can you hear me? Those men are gone. The boy is well. You’re both safe. Sir?”

  She shook him gently, unsure if he were even conscious. Or did coughing signify consciousness? She had no idea. Except for his attempts to breathe, he made no effort to move. His harsh breathing continued, but the coughing abated.

  Hoping to rouse him, she ran her hand over his head as she would a distressed child. His dark hair curled slightly around her fingers as she stroked it. In a flight of fancy, she imagined the sun had also run its fingers through those thick waves, leaving lighter streaks behind. When her hand encountered a bump on the back of his head, he hissed in his breath and pulled against the binding which secured his wrists behind his back. Wishing she had a knife, Elise turned her attention to the cords on his hands. As she worked at the knots, the rough jute bit into her flesh, her bleeding fingers staining the rope.

  The bound man wore no coat; only a linen shirt, breeches, and heavily creased, leather boots. No gentleman would go about so roughly clad. He must be a craftsman or tradesman. With his powerful, muscular body, she could easily imagine him as a blacksmith or a pugilist. He could be a sailor, but Port Johns lay a two-hour carriage ride away. Few sailors ventured this far inland, preferring to remain in the port town.

  His identity mattered little. At the moment, her most pressing concern lay in seeing to his welfare.

  At least he breathed more easily now. Once Elise loosened the knots around his wrists, the man wrenched his hands free and rolled over onto his back, chest heaving, eyes closed.

  Elise caught her breath. A shiver raced through her nerves.

  He was without a doubt the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He appeared perhaps thirty, with a deeply suntanned, clean-shaven face. Dark brows arched over his closed eyes. His long lashes no doubt drew envy from women, but nothing effeminate touched his rugged face. He had the kind of strong features, square jaw, and well-formed mouth that would have fascinated a sculptor. Unlike most men in her social circle, his features possessed a certain hardness which hinted at a life of struggle. Typically, that edge only appeared on the visages of th
e impoverished or those who had returned from the horrors of the Peninsular War. Though the upper part of his face bore the tan of a man who spent much of his time outdoors, the lower half had a much lighter color as if he’d recently shaved off a beard.

  A horse nickered. Fearing the ruffians had returned, she reached for her rifle and came to her feet. A lone blue roan thoroughbred stood in the shade, its reins dragging on the ground. She listened. Except the wind in the trees, no other sound reached her ears. No one else appeared to be nearby.

  She looked back at the roan, the horse of a wealthy man. Had this man stolen it? Had she unwittingly aided a horse thief? That might explain the hanging, however illegal. But no, the Spaniard, Leandro, had been demanding information.

  The boy remained curled up, watching her with enormous eyes. He pointedly glanced at her gun and inched further away.

  “You’ve nothing to fear from me, lad. I’d never shoot a little boy.” She poured a teasing tone into her voice. “Unless, of course, you refuse to eat your vegetables.”

  He studied her warily and heaved a shuddering breath. A glimmer of a smile touched one side of his mouth.

  She returned her gaze to the stranger and sank back down beside him. One eye had swollen and discolored, and he bled from a cut at the corner of his lip.

  Resting her hand on his chest, she leaned over him. “Sir, can you hear me?”

  He opened his eyes. Vibrant blue-green, they possessed a penetrating quality that left her feeling strangely revealed. Under his focused stare, her pulse quickened.

  “My lady,” he said hoarsely. In direct opposition to his attire, his accent bespoke good breeding.

  Despite his rough clothing, an air about him mocked the idea that he could be a servant. Moreover, his features looked decidedly patrician. The by-blow of a nobleman, perhaps?

  He gazed at her with unnerving intensity. “Are you the angel who rescued me?” He lapsed into coughing again.

  With effort, she found her voice. “I’m no angel, sir. However, you’re fortunate I happened along. You’d surely be conversing with St. Peter if those ruffians had their way.”

  “I doubt I’ll be allowed anywhere near the pearly gates.” He touched her face as if to assure himself she truly existed.

  The intimate contact startled her and her nerve endings sizzled. The gentleness of his caress left her alternating between wanting to flee and lean closer. She never expected a soft touch from such a large and heavily-calloused hand. Nor did she foresee the delicious warmth that traveled through her body in response. Shocked more at her own reaction than his bold behavior, she moved out of reach. To her dismay, a small place in her heart cried out for more.

  He lowered his hand and glanced toward the boy. “José, lad, are you all right?”

  “Aye, sir, well ’nough,” the boy replied in an accent Elise could not place.

  Relief touched the man’s face. Then he refocused those aquamarine eyes upon Elise. “I’m in your debt, my lady.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir.”

  “You are a woman of great courage to face those cutthroats alone.”

  His fingers closed around hers as if she were a lifeline. Her late husband’s hands had always been smooth and soft, the hands of a gentleman, so unlike this man’s calluses which bespoke hard work. She marveled at the strength in those hands, not to mention the tingles racing up her arm.

  A flush crept over her face and she struggled to retain her composure. “I saw a cruel act and felt compelled to intervene. I could do nothing less.”

  His eyes darted over her face, and he said in a stronger voice, “They might have turned on you.”

  “I’m an excellent shot.”

  “And did you not consider that you may have been in danger from me?”

  She suspected many women found him a very great danger, but not for the reason he spoke.

  Swallowing against a dry mouth, she lifted her chin. “You hardly looked dangerous at the time. And I daresay you lack the strength to offer any threat now.”

  The barest hint of a smile twitched his lips and a wicked light glinted in his sea-green eyes. He opened his mouth as though to say more but refrained. Instead, he said, “I’m grateful to you. Now we must leave or risk them returning.”

  Without letting go of her hand, he tried to rise. Instead, he sucked in his breath sharply, his features twisted in pain, and eased himself back down. Elise bit her lip in sympathy and almost wished she’d shot the villains instead of the ground.

  After breathing against pain, he glanced at the boy. “José, lad, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then shimmy up a tree and see if you can spot them.”

  José clamored up a nearby tree and peered out over the countryside. After a moment, he called down, “I see farms, sir, and open fields. No riders.”

  “Keep a sharp eye out, lad.”

  Elise turned her mind to the man’s well-being. The bruising around his eye had darkened and it had swollen nearly shut. Looking for bloodstains, she made a visual perusal of his body. She found none but wondered what hidden injuries he’d suffered.

  He closed his eyes, and his face relaxed. “Your hands are so soft,” he whispered, his fingers tightening over hers. “My mother used to stroke my hair like you did a moment ago.” He brought her hand to his face and pressed it against his cheek as if hungry for human touch.

  Torn between wanting to comfort him and achingly aware of the impropriety of his conduct—and hers—she turned her hand over and rested it against his cheek. She couldn’t remember when she’d touched a man in such an intimate manner. It felt right somehow.

  And that terrified her.

  She removed her hand. “Are you well enough to be moved? Or should I send for a doctor?”

  “Not necessary. I merely need to rest a moment.” Again those vivid eyes fixed upon her. The corners of his mouth lifted. “Your timing could not have been better.”

  He slowly pushed himself up, breathing harshly against hidden pain, and steadied himself. As he leaned forward and shifted his position, his unbuttoned shirt exposed a shocking amount of his chest. Muscular and broad, it provided a tempting sight. She’d never even seen Edward so scantily clad. Her late husband had been the perfect English gentleman, always immaculately dressed.

  She caught herself staring at the indecent sight of this stranger’s dishabille. She blushed at her brazen behavior. Guilt tugged at her heart for betraying Edward’s memory by looking at another man so wantonly.

  The stranger ran his tongue along his lip and she watched the motion as if hypnotized. He returned his attention to Elise. His eyes softened. “My beautiful angel.”

  He cupped her cheek, leaned in, and kissed her softly.

  Too startled to react, she froze. His lips brushed against hers, light as a whisper and more provocative. His fingers slid to the back of her neck. His thumb stroked her cheek while his lips grew more insistent. The passion contained in such a gentle contact left her breathless. For a blissful moment, she allowed her lips to melt into his, reveling in the long-absent touch of a man. An altogether unfamiliar longing took root in the middle of her stomach and spread outward like a climbing vine.

  Edward had always been careful and controlled as if he feared he would sully her. This stranger, though gentle, kissed with passion, stirring a fire within she’d never known.

  Remembering herself, she gasped and pushed against his chest. Even in his weakened state, he held her with surprising strength. When she pushed harder, he released her. Slowly. Her heart hammered against her chest as if trying to break free and heat rushed up her neck to her face. The desire lurking in his aqua eyes sent shivers of excitement through her, mingled with twinges of fear.

  She held on to the fear. It was safer.

  “Sir, you have taken unkind advantage of me,” she accused, her breathing ragged. Her traitorous lips ached for another kiss. “I am not a common wench to be used at whim.”


  “No, there’s nothing common about you,” he murmured, his thumb caressing her cheek. Wickedness joined the desire so clear in his eyes.

  Appalled at her lack of self-restraint and his lack of regret, she reached for something stronger than fear to protect herself from him—from herself—and seized anger. She sat further back, beyond his reach. “You must be half-mad from your ordeal to be behaving in such an atrocious manner!”

  His eyes glittered with a devilish light. “I’m a healthy man who knows a brave and beautiful woman when I see one. Clearly, I’m in my right mind.” His recovering voice, rich and deep, rippled over her like a physical caress.

  Infuriated that a stranger could have such power over her, she frowned. “You speak as a well-bred gentleman, but you certainly do not behave as one.”

  He flashed an unrepentant grin. “I’ve had years of practice rejecting my upbringing.”

  The frenzied fluttering in her stomach annoyed her as much as his shocking actions. “Perhaps I should have saved only the boy and let your friends have you.”

  He lay back down, lacing his fingers behind his head, and laughed with abandon, the sort of truly mirthful laugh that invited one to join in.

  She resisted. “Pray tell me why you were being threatened by those men?”

  Still amused, he tilted his head. “Are you always this direct?”

  “Only under unusual circumstances.”

  “Two men threatening to kill another man and a boy is not a circumstance you normally encounter?”

  “Do not mock me, sir.”

  “But you make it such fun. Your cheeks grow pink when you are riled. Or flustered. You’re really quite lovely.”

  Since getting a straight answer seemed unlikely, Elise thought it best to flee this dangerously handsome man and his irreverent allure. No man had ever tempted her like this. What was the matter with her?

  She pulled on her gloves, gathered the skirts of her riding habit, and stood. “Since you appear to be sufficiently recovered, I shall leave you.”

  He grinned up at her. “Where have you been all this time, my angel?”