Turning from the window, he strode across the Axminster rug to his desk. Reaching across the mahogany surface, he picked up the miniature of his sister. She'd had it painted for him just before he entered the Army. "Keep it with you, Eric," Margaret had said, her encouraging smile not masking the deep concern in her dark eyes. "That way I'll be with you. Keeping you safe."

A lump tightened his throat. Her lovely face had accompanied Him to places he chose to forget. She'd been the one spot of beauty in an existence of ugliness. Yes, she had kept him safe. Yet he had failed to keep her safe in return.

He stared at her image resting in his palm, and a vivid memory rose in his mind's eye. The day she'd been born. His father's disgust with his wife for presenting him with a girl. His exhausted mother's sadness. Creeping into the nursery that night, staring at the tiny, cooing bundle. "It doesn't matter that Father doesn't like you," he'd whispered, his five-year-old heart filled with resolve. "He doesn't like me either. I'll watch over you." She'd wrapped her minuscule fist around his finger and that, quite simply, had been that.

A myriad of images flashed through his mind. Teaching Margaret to ride. Helping her rescue a bird with a broken wing. Patching up the scrapes she'd sustained when she fell from a tree limb, so their father wouldn't scold her. Escaping to the quiet of the forest to evade the constant strain and arguing in the house. Teaching her to fish, then rarely ever catching more fish than she. Acting out Shakepeare's plays. Watching her grow from an impish child into a beautiful young woman had filled him with deep pride. We were all we had in this unhappy family, weren't we, Margaret? We made it bearable for each other. What would I have done without you?

But he had failed her.

His lingers closed around the miniature. Like Samantha Briggeham, Margaret had been forced to wed, a fact Eric hadn't forgiven his father for, even when he lay on his deathbed. He had bargained innocent, beautiful Margaret away like a piece of jewelry to elderly Viscount Darvin, who wanted an heir. Rumors of Darvin's debauchery had circulated through the ton for years, but he had possessed the attributes Eric's father had sought when making the match-money and several unentailed estates. In spite of his own substantial holdings, Marcus Landsdowne had greedily wanted more. He'd thought nothing of Margaret's feelings, and the marriage had devastated her. Eric had been fighting on the Peninsula at the time and had been unaware of her situation.

He'd been too late to rescue Margaret.

But he'd vowed upon his return to help others like her, and bring attention to their plight. How many poor young women were forced into unwanted marriages each year? He shuddered to consider the number. He'd tried to convince Margaret to leave Darvin, promising he'd help her, but she'd refused to dishonor her marriage vows, and he had reluctantly honored her decision.

Since first donning his costume five years ago, he'd helped more than a dozen young women escape. And by doing it with such dash and drama, rather than by quiet financial means, he'd succeeded in bringing the problem to national attention.

He'd accomplished his goal, perhaps too well. Several months ago a reporter for The Times had dubbed him the Bride Thief, and now it seemed as if everyone in England hankered for information about him-most especially the magistrate who was determined to unmask the Bride Thief and put an end to what he called "the kidnappings."

A substantial reward was offered for his capture, igniting interest in his activities even further. Arthur had recently reported a rumor that several irate fathers of "stolen" brides had banded together with the common goal of capturing the Bride Thief. Eric rubbed his fingers over his throat. The magistrate, not to mention the fathers, wouldn't be satisfied until the Thief hanged for his crimes.

But Eric had no intention of dying.

Still, the search for the Bride Thief's identity had now escalated to the point that each time Eric donned his costume he risked his life. But knowing he would free another poor woman from the untenable fate that had robbed Margaret of her happiness made the risk worth the possible price. And helped ease his guilt over failing to aid Margaret.

He would not allow the heartache and despair that ruled his sister's life to destroy Miss Samantha Briggeham.

He would free her.


Samantha sat in the family coach, staring out the window at the fading light. Bright orange and purple streaks fanned across the sky, marking the beginning of twilight, her favorite time of day.

Adjusting her spectacles, she breathed deeply and tried to calm her jittery stomach. When she arrived home, she faced speaking with Mama and Papa-not a welcome prospect as she suspected they would not be pleased by the errand on which she'd just been.

Looking out the window, she observed a tiny flash of color in the waning light. Heavens, could that have been a firefly? If so, Hubert would be ecstatic. He'd been trying to breed the rare insects for months-both in the woods and in his laboratory-from larva he'd had shipped from the colonies. Could his experiments be bearing fruit?

She quickly signaled Cyril to stop the coach, and pulled a small bag from her reticule. Her inner voice told her she was only delaying the inevitable argument with her parents, but she had to capture the insects for Hubert if they'd hatched. His fourteen-year-old mind was fascinated by the soft intermittent light the bugs exuded.

Exiting the coach, she inhaled the cool evening air. The heavy scent of damp earth and decaying leaves tickled her nostrils, and she sneezed, sending her spectacles sliding downward until they halted on the upturned end of her nose. She pushed the glasses back into place with a practiced gesture and scanned the area, searching for the fireflies while Cyril settled back on his perch atop the coach to wait. He was well used to these unplanned stops in the woods.

Sammie walked down the path toward where she'd seen the glow. Warmth spread through her as she imagined Hubert's thin, serious face wreathed in smiles should she return with such a treasure. She loved the boy with all her heart-his brilliant, sharp mind and his tall, gangly frame with large, awkward feet he hadn't yet grown into.

Yes, she and Hubert were cut from the same cloth. They wore similar spectacles and possessed the same blue eyes and thick, unruly chestnut hair. They both enjoyed swimming, fishing, and searching the forest for flora and fauna specimens-activities that had more than once driven Mama to the vapors. In fact, Samantha and Hubert's secret name for Mama was Cricket because she emitted a series of high-pitched chirps just before she "fainted"-always artistically-onto one of the many settees scattered strategically about the Briggeham home.

Mama will most definitely chirp when she discovers where I've just been. And what I've done.

Tiny flashes of yellow light caught her eye and her heart jumped with excitement. It was indeed fireflies! Several hovered near the ground at the base of an oak a short distance away.

"No running off now, Miz Sammie," Cyril called as she moved toward the oak. " 'Tis gittin' dark and me eyes ain't what they used to be."

"Don't worry, Cyril. There's still plenty of light and I'll not go farther than this." Dropping to her knees, she gentry captured the rare insect in her hand and placed it in her pouch.

She'd just slipped another in the bag when a sound coming from the dense forest caught her attention. A horse's faint whinny? Lifting her head, she listened for several seconds but heard nothing more than the rustling of leaves from the breeze.

"Did you hear something, Cyril?"

Cyril shook his head. "Nay, but then, me ears ain't what they used to be."

With a shrug, Sammie returned her attention to her task. Clearly she'd been mistaken.

After all, who would be riding on her family's property? And with darkness swiftly approaching?


Sitting astride Champion, he silently observed her through the trees. Pale streaks of moonlight glimmered down, and his heart clenched as he noted her posture.

Bloody hell, the distraught chit was praying. On her knees, bent at the waist so far her nose was nearly skimming the ground. Anger and frustration heated his blood. Damn it, he would save her from such misery.

Champion shifted beneath him and let out a soft whinny. Placing a comforting hand on the beast's sleek neck to quiet him, he watched Miss Briggeham. She clearly heard the sound, for she looked up. A shaft of waning light glinted off her spectacles as she glanced around. Then with what appeared to be a shrug, she lowered her head and resumed her prayers.

He'd followed her through the woods, waiting while she was inside Major Wilshire's home, wondering why she'd visited him. Clearly their time together hadn't gone well, for now she was kneeling on the ground, praying in the woods as darkness approached. Pity tugged at his heart.

He glanced at her coachman and noted the man was dozing in his perch. Excellent. The time had come.

With quiet concentration, he slipped on his tight-fitting black mask, adjusting it until he knew his entire head was covered, except for his eyes and mouth. He tugged the material to settle two small openings over his nostrils. His long black cloak draped on the saddle behind him, and snug black leather gloves encased his hands. His black shirt, breeches, and boots rendered him all but invisible in the growing darkness.

His gaze settled on the distressed girl kneeling at the base of the oak tree.