Without letting her go.

Grace shook her head. “No,” she said softly.

“You have my heartfelt thanks for that,” he replied. “It would be lovely to catch you, but I’d have to drop my gun, and we couldn’t have that, could we?” He turned to the dowager with a chuckle. “And don’t you go thinking about it. I would be more than happy to catch you as well, but I don’t believe either of you would wish to leave my associates in charge of the firearms.”

It was only then that Grace realized there were three other men. Of course there had to be-he could not have orchestrated this by himself. But the rest of them had been so silent, choosing to remain in the shadows.

And she had not been able to take her eyes off their leader.

“Has our driver been harmed?” Grace asked, mortified that she was only now thinking of his welfare. Neither he nor the footman who had served as an outrider were anywhere in sight.

“Nothing that a spot of love and tenderness won’t cure,” the highwayman assured her. “Is he married?”

What was he talking about? “I-I don’t think so,” Grace replied.

“Send him to the public house, then. There is a rather buxom maid there who-Ah, but what am I thinking? I am among ladies.” He chuckled. “Warm broth, then, and perhaps a cold compress. And then after that, a day off to find that spot of love and tenderness. The other fellow, by the way”-he flicked his head toward a nearby cluster of trees-“is over there. Perfectly unharmed, I assure you, although he might find his bindings tighter than he prefers.”

Grace flushed, and she turned to the dowager, amazed that she wasn’t giving the highwayman a dressing down for such lewd talk. But the dowager was still as pale as sheets, and she was staring at the thief as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Ma’am?” Grace said, instantly taking her hand. It was cold and clammy. And limp. Utterly limp. “Ma’am?”

“What is your name?” the dowager whispered.

“My name?” Grace repeated in horror. Had she suffered an apoplexy? Lost her memory?

“Your name,” the dowager said with greater force, and it was clear this time that she was addressing the highwayman.

But he only laughed. “I am delighted by the attentions of so lovely a lady, but surely you do not think I would reveal my name during what is almost certainly a hanging offense.”

“I need your name,” the dowager said.

“And I’m afraid that I need your valuables,” he replied. He motioned to the dowager’s hand with a respectful tilt of his head. “That ring, if you will.”

“Please,” the dowager whispered, and Grace’s head snapped around to face her. The dowager rarely said thank you, and she never said please.

“She needs to sit down,” Grace said to the highwayman, because surely the dowager was ill. Her health was excellent, but she was well past seventy and she’d had a shock.

“I don’t need to sit down,” the dowager said sharply, shaking Grace off. She turned back to the highwayman, yanked off her ring, and held it out. He plucked it from her hand, rolling it about in his fingers before depositing it in his pocket.

Grace held silent, watching the exchange, waiting for him to ask for more. But to her surprise, the dowager spoke first.

“I have another reticule in the carriage,” she said-slowly, and with a strange and wholly uncharacteristic deference. “Please allow me to retrieve it.”

“As much as I would like to indulge you,” he said smoothly, “I must decline. For all I know, you’ve two pistols hidden under the seat.”

Grace swallowed, thinking of the jewels.

“And,” he added, his manner growing almost flirtatious, “I can tell you are that most maddening sort of female.” He sighed with dramatic flair. “Capable. Oh, admit it.” He gave the dowager a subversive little smile. “You are an expert rider, a crack shot, and you can recite the complete works of Shakespeare backwards.”

If anything, the dowager grew even more pale at his words.

“Ah, to be twenty years older,” he said with a sigh. “I should not have let you slip away.”

“Please,” the dowager begged. “There is something I must give to you.”

“Now that’s a welcome change of pace,” he remarked. “People so seldom wish to hand things over. It does make one feel unloved.”

Grace reached for the dowager. “Please let me help you,” she insisted. The dowager was not well. She could not be well. She was never humble, and did not beg, and-

“Take her!” the dowager suddenly cried out, grabbing Grace’s arm and thrusting her at the highwayman. “You may hold her hostage, with a gun to the head if you desire. I promise you, I shall return, and I shall do it unarmed.”

Grace swayed and stumbled, the shock of the moment rendering her almost insensible. She fell against the highwayman, and one of his arms came instantly around her. The embrace was strange, almost protective, and she knew that he was as stunned as she.

They both watched as the dowager, without waiting for his acquiescence, climbed quickly into the carriage.

Grace fought to breathe. Her back was pressed up against him, and his large hand rested against her abdomen, the tips of his fingers curling gently around her right hip. He was warm, and she felt hot, and dear heaven above, she had never-never-stood so close to a man.

She could smell him, feel his breath, warm and soft against her neck. And then he did the most amazing thing. His lips came to her ear, and he whispered, “She should not have done that.”

He sounded…gentle. Almost sympathetic. And stern, as if he did not approve of the dowager’s treatment of her.

“I am not used to holding a woman such,” he murmured in her ear. “I generally prefer a different sort of intimacy, don’t you?”

She said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid that she would try to speak and discover she had no voice.

“I won’t harm you,” he murmured, his lips touching her ear.

Her eyes fell on his gun, still in his right hand. It looked angry and dangerous, and it was resting against her thigh.

“We all have our armor,” he whispered, and he moved, shifted, really, and suddenly his free hand was at her chin. One finger lightly traced her lips, and then he leaned down and kissed her.

Grace stared in shock as he pulled back, smiling gently down at her.

“That was far too short,” he said. “Pity.” He stepped back, took her hand, and brushed another kiss on her knuckles. “Another time, perhaps,” he murmured.

But he did not let go of her hand. Even as the dowager emerged from the carriage, he kept her fingers in his, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin.

She was being seduced. She could barely think-she could barely breathe-but this, she knew. In a few minutes they would part ways, and he would have done nothing more than kiss her, and she would be forever changed.

The dowager stepped in front of them, and if she cared that the highwayman was caressing her companion, she did not speak of it. Instead, she held forth a small object. “Please,” she implored him. “Take this.”

He released Grace’s hand, his fingers trailing reluctantly across her skin. As he reached out, Grace realized that the dowager was holding a miniature painting. It was of her long-dead second son.

Grace knew that miniature. The dowager carried it with her everywhere.

“Do you know this man?” the dowager whispered.

The highwayman looked at the tiny painting and shook his head.

“Look closer.”

But he just shook his head again, trying to return it to the dowager.

“Might be worth something,” one of his companions said.

He shook his head and gazed intently at the dowager’s face. “It will never be as valuable to me as it is to you.”

“No!” the dowager cried out, and she shoved the miniature toward him. “Look! I beg of you, look! His eyes. His chin. His mouth. They are yours.”

Grace sucked in her breath.

“I am sorry,” the highwayman said gently. “You are mistaken.”

But she would not be dissuaded. “His voice is your voice,” she insisted. “Your tone, your humor. I know it. I know it as I know how to breathe. He was my son. My son.”

“Ma’am,” Grace interceded, placing a motherly arm around her. The dowager would not normally have allowed such an intimacy, but there was nothing normal about the dowager this evening. “Ma’am, it is dark. He is wearing a mask. It cannot be he.”

“Of course it’s not he,” she snapped, pushing Grace violently away. She rushed forward, and Grace nearly fell with terror as every man steadied his weapon.

“Don’t hurt her!” she cried out, but her plea was unnecessary. The dowager had already grabbed the highwayman’s free hand and was clutching it as if he was her only means of salvation.

“This is my son,” she said, her trembling fingers holding forth the miniature. “His name was John Cavendish, and he died twenty-nine years ago. He had brown hair, and blue eyes, and a birthmark on his shoulder.” She swallowed convulsively, and her voice fell to a whisper. “He adored music, and he could not eat strawberries. And he could…he could…”

The dowager’s voice broke, but no one spoke. The air was thick and tense with silence, every eye on the old woman until she finally got out, her voice barely a whisper, “He could make anyone laugh.”

And then, in an acknowledgment Grace could never have imagined, the dowager turned to her and added, “Even me.”

The moment stood suspended in time, pure, silent, and heavy. No one spoke. Grace wasn’t even sure if anyone breathed.

She looked at the highwayman, at his mouth, at that expressive, devilish mouth, and she knew that something was not right. His lips were parted, and more than that, they were still. For the first time, his mouth was without movement, and even in the silvery light of the moon she could tell that he’d gone white.