The Bride Thief

Chapter Three

"What do you mean you're not marrying my daughter?"

Cordelia Briggeham stood in her drawing room and stared at Major Wilshire in her most imperious manner, somehow resisting the urge to beat the arrogant soldier with her lace fan.

The Major stood ramrod stiff next to the fireplace and looked down his long nose at Cordelia. "As I stated, Miss Briggeham and I mutually agreed earlier this evening that a marriage between us is inadvisable. I was certain she'd have told you by now."

"She's told me no such thing."

The color drained from the Major's florid face. "Egad, surely the chit doesn't claim we're still betrothed?"

Cordelia was certain she detected a shudder run through the Major's large frame. Then he glanced down at his Hessians and wrinkled his nose. Such odd behavior. Perhaps the man was daft.

"My daughter has made no claims of any kind, Major. I've not seen her nor spoken to her since dinner." She turned to her husband, who sat in his favorite wing chair in the corner. "Charles, have you spoken to Samantha this evening?"

When silence greeted her question, Cordelia pursed her lips and for the second time in minutes considered coshing a man. Men. They were going to be the very death of her. "Charles!"

Charles Briggeham's head snapped up as if she'd jabbed him with a stick. His glazed eyes clearly indicated he'd been dozing. "Yes, Cordelia?"

"Has Samantha discussed her betrothal with you this evening?"

"There is no longer a betrothal…" Major Wilshire's voice trailed off when Cordelia shot him her most glacial glare.

"Haven't seen Sammie since dinner," Charles said. He turned to the Major. "Excellent pot roast, Major. You should have-"

"What have you to say about the Major's outrageous claim, Charles?" Cordelia cut in.

Charles blinked rapidly. "Claim?"

"That he and Samantha are no longer engaged?"

"Rubbish. I heard nothing of the sort." Charles turned toward the Major with a frown. "What's this about? All the arrangements are in place."

"Yes, well, that was before Miss Briggeham paid me a visit this evening."

"She did no such thing," Cordelia stated, praying she was correct. Lord, what sort of mess had Sammie conjured up now?

"She most certainly did. Told me she didn't think we made a good match. After some, er, discussion, I agreed with her assessment of the situation and took appropriate action." The Major cleared his throat. "To put it bluntly, the wedding is off."

Cordelia eyed the sofa and decided it was too far away for her to properly swoon. Damnation.

No wedding? Lud, this presented a ticklish mess. Not only might there be a scandal depending on what Sammie had done to dissuade the Major, but Cordelia could just hear that odious Lydia Nordfield once she got wind of this debacle. Why Cordelia, Lydia would say, batting her eyes like a cow in a hailstorm, how tragic that Sammie's no longer betrothed. Viscount Carsdale has shown an interest in my Daphne, you know. And Daphne is so very lovely. It seems like I'll have all my daughters married before you do!

Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut to banish the horrible scenario. Sammie was worth ten of that vapid Daphne, and Cordelia's blood all but boiled at the injustice of it all. Daphne, whose sole talents lay in swishing a fan and giggling, would capture a viscount simply because she possessed an attractive face. While Sammie would remain on-the-shelf, forcing Cordelia to listen to Lydia harp about it for the next twenty years. Oh, it was simply not to be borne!

She'd arranged for Sammie to marry a perfectly respectable gentleman-and now Major Wilshire thought he was going to ruin all her plans? Humph. We shall see about that.

Tightening her jaw, Cordelia inched closer to the sofa in case she needed to employ it, then turned her attention back to the Major. "How can a man who calls himself honorable disgrace my daughter in such a way?"

Charles rose and tugged on his waistcoat. "Indeed, Major. This is most irregular. I demand an explanation."

"I've already explained, Briggeham. There will be no wedding." He fixed a steely stare on Cordelia. "You, madam, led me astray when describing your daughter."

"I did no such thing," Cordelia said with her most elegant sniff. "I informed you how intelligent Samantha is, and you well knew she wasn't fresh from the schoolroom."

"You neglected to mention her fondness for slimy toads and other assorted vermin, her predilection for crawling about on the floor, her frightening lack of musical talent, and her habit of setting up laboratories and starting fires."

Cordelia made a beeline for the sofa. Emitting two breathy, chirp-like oohs, she dropped down in a graceful swoon. "What a dreadful thing to say! Charles, my hartshorn!"

Waiting for the hartshorn, Cordelia's mind raced. Ye gods, the Major must have met Isadore, Cuthbert, and Warfinkle. Of all the rotten luck! Oh, Sammie, why couldn't you have simply brought along a book? And what was this about crawling about on the floor? Of course, she'd known the lack of musical talent and the laboratory situations could prove troublesome, but whatever did he mean about starting fires? Great heavens above, what outrageous tales had Sammie told the man?

Heaving a sigh, she wondered what was taking Charles so long with the hartshorn. There was much to be done to remedy this debacle-she couldn't lay about on the sofa all night.

"Here you are, my dear." Charles waved the hartshorn under her nostrils with an enthusiasm that brought tears to her eyes.

Pushing herself upright, Cordelia thrust his hand away. "That's quite enough, Charles. The idea was to revive me, not put me in the grave." Settling her features into her most forbidding frown, she glared at the Major. "Now see here, Major. You cannot-"

The study door burst open and a wild-eyed Cyril rushed into the room. "Missus Briggeham! Mr. Briggeham! 'Tis the most awful thing wot's 'appened."

"Good God, man, I can see that," Charles said, taking in the coachman's disheveled appearance. "Your cravat's completely unraveled and you're sporting grass stains on your breeches. And are those twigs in your hair? Why, you're completely undone. Whatever has happened to put you in such a state?"

Cyril attempted to catch his breath, then mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's Miz Sammie, sir." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "She's… gone."

"Gone?" Charles asked with a puzzled frown. "You mean from the house?"

"Yes, sir. On returning from her visit to the Major-"

"Ooh! Ooh! It's true, then," Cordelia chirped, swooning back onto the sofa. "My baby! She's ruined!"

"No, Missus Briggeham. She's kidnapped," Cyril intoned, bowing his head.

Cordelia jumped to her feet. "Kidnapped? Oh, you're daft. Why would you think such a ridiculous thing? Who on earth would kidnap Sammie? And why?"

For an answer, Cyril held out a bouquet of flowers.

Cordelia fought the urge to roll her eyes. "That's very sweet, Cyril, but this is not the time for posies."

"No, Missus Briggeham. This 'ere's wot the kidnapper gave me. Tossed it to me, 'e did, right after he plucked Miz Sammie up like a weed from where she were gatherin' insects for Master Hubert, and raced off with 'er on a big black 'orse." He handed her the flowers. "There's a note attached."

Cordelia stared at the bouquet, rendered utterly speechless for the first time in her memory.

Charles pulled the note from the flowers, then broke the wax seal. Scanning the contents, the color drained from his face, and Cordelia wondered if she'd need to apply the hartshorn to him.

Somehow she managed to remain standing on her watery legs. "What does it say, Charles? Has she truly been kidnapped? Is there a ransom demand?"

Looking at her over the top of the ivory vellum, Charles regarded her with stricken eyes. "She has indeed been stolen, Cordelia."

For the first time in her life, Cordelia's knees folded without a thought to where she would land. Luckily she plopped onto the sofa. "Dear God, Charles. What fiend has taken our Sammie? How much money does he want?"

"None. Read it for yourself."

Cordelia took the note from his shaking fingers and held it away from her like a snake. The words she read staggered her.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Briggeham,

I write this note for the purpose of allaying your fears for your daughter Samantha. Rest assured she is perfectly safe and no harm shall come to her at my hands. I've simply given Samantha the opportunity for freedom, for a life of her own, without the prospect of having to marry a man she doesn't wish to wed. I hope you will find it in your hearts to wish her the happiness she deserves.

The Bride Thief

Cordelia's gaze fixed on the signature, her thoughts in turmoil.

The Bride Thief.

The most notorious, sought-after man in England had absconded with her baby.

"Dear God, Charles. We must call the magistrate."

Lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled the cottage windows. Seconds later rain splattered against the roof. Eric smothered an oath. The last thing he needed was a storm to delay his and Miss Briggeham's departure from the cabin.

Reaching down his hand, he whispered in his Bride Thief voice, "Please allow me to assist ye to your feet."

She cast his hand a baleful glare. "I can manage on my own, thank you." Keeping a wary eye on him, she rose to her feet.

He studied her as she brushed dust from her plain gown, then hastily adjusted her bonnet, shoving several tangled curls beneath the material. She was petite, the top of her head rising no higher than his cravat. The little he could see of her disheveled hair under the bonnet appeared thick and glossy. With the room illuminated by only the low-glowing fire, it was impossible to distinguish her exact eye color, but they were pale-blue, he'd guess-and very large in comparison to her small features. Except her lips, which, like her eyes, seemed too big for her face. While she could not be described as beautiful, he found her face, with those too-large eyes and too-full lips, intriguing.

His gaze wandered down her form and his brows rose beneath his mask. Quite the curvaceous piece, this Miss Briggeham. Even her dowdy gown could not hide the generous swell of her breasts. His gaze dipped lower, and he wondered if her hips matched the ripeness of her bosom.

The thought slapped him like a pail of cold water in the face. Bloody hell, man, get hold of yourself. You've got to get the chit home without getting hanged for your trouble.

Snapping his gaze back to her face, he saw she regarded him with clear suspicion. "I demand to know what you plan to do with me."

He had to admire her show of bravery. The only thing that ruined it was the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "Fear not, lass. I shall return ye home to the bosom of your family."

A bit of the wariness left her eyes. "Excellent. I'd like to leave immediately, if you don't mind. I've no doubt my family is concerned."

Eric glanced toward the window. " 'Tis raining. We'll wait a few minutes to see if it passes."

"I'd prefer to leave now."

"As would I, but I want to get ye home in one piece." To ease the tension in her stance, he added, "I'll strike a bargain with ye. We'll stay here for another quarter hour. If the rain hasn't let up by then, we'll leave regardless."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You've my word of honor, lass."

An unladylike snort escaped her. "Coming from a man named 'Thief,' I'm not certain that's a comfort."

"Ah, but surely you've heard there is honor even amongst thieves, Miss Briggeham." Bending his knees, he settled himself on the floor, scooting back until he leaned against the wall. "Come sit by me and we'll have a chat," he invited in his husky brogue, patting the space next to him. "I promise not to bite. As long as we're stuck here for a wee bit, we might as well be comfortable."

When she hesitated, he rose, then walked to the opposite side of the fireplace. Pulling the fire poker from the brass stand, he held it out to her. "Here. Take this if it will make ye feel safer."

She squinted first at the poker, then at him. "Why would you give me a weapon?"

"As a show of faith and trust, lass. I took ye by mistake and it's back to your home I'll bring ye. In all honesty, have I hurt ye in any way?"

"No. But you frightened me half to death."

"I'm truly sorry."

"I also lost my spectacles during the fray, and dropped my pouch."

"Again, I offer my sincerest apologies." He indicated the poker with a nod. "Take it. I give ye permission to cosh me should I attempt to harm ye."

Sammie ignored the hint of amusement lacing his voice and snatched the poker from his outstretched hands. Stepping hastily back, she gripped the warm brass tightly, ready to render him senseless if he didn't keep his word. Instead of pouncing on her, however, he merely lowered his tall frame to the floor, propped his back against the wall, and watched her.

Sammie held the poker and pondered what to do next. Rain slashed against the windows and she had to admit that attempting to make their way through the woods in the rainy darkness was not a wise idea.

But how could she possibly consider trusting him? True, he'd given her the poker, but he no doubt believed he could disarm her should she attack him. Drawing a deep breath, she forced her thoughts to align in logical order.

The Bride Thief. She searched her memory and realized that she might have heard mention of such a person, but as she almost always turned a deaf ear to the gossip that her sisters and Mama delighted in, she couldn't be certain. Still, now that she thought upon it, the name did sound vaguely familiar.

Surely her best course of action was to engage him in conversation. Perhaps she could glean some information that would help her decide if he could be trusted-or clues that would assist the authorities.

Still gripping the poker, she sat on the floor on the opposite side of the empty room, then squinted at the blurry black blob that was her abductor. Keeping her tone light, she asked, "Tell me, Mr., ah, Thief, have you stolen many reluctant brides?"

A deep chuckle emanted from the black blob. "Aye, 'tis a blow to my pride, to be sure, that ye've truly never heard of me. I've helped more than a dozen brides, lass. Unfortunate women, each one on the brink of being forced to marry against her will."

"If you don't mind me asking, how exactly do you 'help' them?"

"I provide them with passage to the Continent or to America, and with enough funds to establish them in their new life."

"That must be quite costly."

She fancied that he shrugged. "I've enough funds."

"I see. Do you steal those as well?"

Again he chuckled. "Suspicious sort, aren't ye? No, lass, I've no need to rob anyone of their baubles or gold sovereigns. The money I give is my own."

Sammie couldn't hide her surprise. Heavens, what manner of man was he? After taking a moment to assimilate his words, she nodded slowly. "I believe I'm beginning to understand. You're rather like Robin Hood, only instead of robbing jewels, you steal brides. And instead of giving monetary spoils to the poor, you offer the gift of freedom."

"I never thought of it quite like that, but yes."

Realization dawned and Sammie's breath puffed out. "And you were prepared to offer that gift of freedom to me… to save me from marrying Major Wilshire."

"Indeed I was. But clearly you're a lass of strong convictions and took care of the problem on your own." He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like if only I'd known I'd have saved myself a bloody lot of trouble, but she couldn't be sure. "Tell me, lass, why did ye not wish to marry the Major?"

Heavens, a full explanation could take hours. Clearing her throat, she said, "We've little in common and would not suit at all. But in truth, I've no desire to marry anyone. I'm very content in my life, and spinsterhood affords me the freedom to pursue my scientific interests. I fear most men, the Major included, would attempt to thwart my studies."

She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "But enough about me. Please tell me more about this absconding with the brides. You may regard it as helping, but surely the families of these women view your actions as kidnapping."

"Aye, that they do."

"And I imagine the magistrate would like to find you."

"Indeed, he'd like to see me with a noose decorating my neck."

Sammie leaned forward, fascinated in spite of herself. "Then why do you do this? What can you possibly gain from placing yourself in such danger?"

Silence met her question for the space of several heartbeats. Then his husky rasp floated across the room, his tone harsher than before. "Someone I loved was forced to marry a man she loathed. I failed to save her. So I try to help others like her. A woman should have the right to choose not to marry a man she finds distasteful." He paused, then added so softly she had to strain her ears to hear, "My gain is the gratitude shining from the women's eyes. Each one loosens, just a bit, the knot of guilt that binds me for not being able to help the one I loved."

"Oh, my," Sammie said, expelling a long, pent-up breath. "How incredibly… noble. And romantic. To risk your life, and for so worthy a cause." A shiver that had nothing to do with fear trembled down her back. "Heaven knows I'd have been grateful for your help, had I in fact needed it."

"Yet ye didn't need my assistance, which places me in the awkward position of having to return ye."

"Yes, I suppose it does." Sammie stared across the room at him, her heart slapping against her ribs so loudly she wondered if he could hear it. Oh, how she wished she could see him better, for here was a man who clearly embodied all the qualities of her secret fantasies-all the dreams burrowed deep in her plain, socially inept, bookwormish soul.

He was big, and strong, and she just knew his mask hid a fascinating face-one filled with purpose and character. He was dashing, brave, swashbuckling, and noble.

He was a hero.

It was as if he'd materialized from her imagination and stepped from the pages of her personal journal, the only place she dared reveal her innermost, secret desires. Desires sparked by impossible dreams that a man such as this would ever find a woman such as her worthy of his attention, would sweep her off her feet and bring her to magical places.

A heartfelt sigh escaped her-the sort of dreamy, useless, impractical feminine sigh she rarely indulged in. She had to know more… about him and this exciting, danger-fraught life he led. Setting the poker on the wooden floor, she rose, crossed the room, then sat next to him.

She stared at his mask and their gazes met through the narrow slits. A tingle washed over her, and she wished she could discern the color of his eyes. All she could tell in the muted firelight was that they were dark. And fathomless.

"Are you ever afraid?" she asked, trying not to sound too breathless.

"Aye, lass. Every time I don this costume." He leaned closer to her and her breath stalled. "I've no desire to die, especially not at the hands of the hangman."

He smelled wonderful. Like leather and horses and… adventure. "Do you carry a weapon?" she asked.

"A knife in my boot. Nothing more. I cannot abide the feel of a pistol in my hand."

She fancied pain flashed in his eyes, but she couldn't be certain. "Tell me, where would you have sent me?" she asked. "America or the Continent?"

"Where would ye have wanted to go, lass?"

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes drifting shut at mere thought of choosing. Longing rushed through her like a raging river, forcing a crack in the dam behind which she hid her innermost desires. "There are so many places I yearn to see."

"If ye could travel anywhere, where would ye go?"

"Italy. No, Greece. No, Austria." Opening her eyes, she laughed. "I believe it is fortunate I do not require your services, sir, for I'd not be able to decide where you should send me."

His gaze seemed to bore into hers, and her laughter trailed off. The weight of his intense stare chilled and heated her at the same time. "Is something amiss?" she asked.

"Ye should do that more often, Miss Briggeham."

"What? Be horribly indecisive?"

"No. Laugh as ye just did. It… transforms ye."

She wasn't certain that he meant his words as a compliment, but still, delivered in that velvety rasp, they enveloped her like a coating of warm honey.

"Tell me," he whispered, "if ye had to choose just one place, where would it be?"

For some odd reason, her heart beat in slow, hard thumps. "Italy," she whispered back. "I've always dreamed of seeing Rome, Florence, Venice, Naples… and every city in between. To explore the ruins of Pompeü, trek through the Colosseum, visit the Uffizi, view the works of Bernini and Michelangelo, swim in the warm waters of the Adriatic…" her voice trailed off into a vaporous sigh.

"Explore?" he repeated. "Trek? Swim?"

Heat scorched her cheeks and embarrassed confusion washed through her as she realized that with her unguarded words, she'd inadvertently told this stranger things she'd only ever shared with Hubert.

Humiliation prickled her skin. Was he laughing at her? She squinted at him, trying to see his eyes, fearing the certain derision she'd read there. But to her surprise, his steady gaze revealed no amusement. Only a deep intensity that oddly unsettled her and rippled flutters through her.

Anxious to break the uncomfortable silence, she remarked, "I assume no one knows your true identity."

He hesitated for a moment, then said," 'Twould cost me my life if anyone knew."

"Yes, I suppose it would." A rush of sympathy washed through her. " 'Tis a lonely life you've chosen, sir, in pursuit of your noble cause."

He nodded slowly, as if considering her words. "Yes, it is. But it's a small price to pay."

"Oh, but it's not. I… I'm often lonely myself. I know the emptiness that can accompany it."

"Surely ye have friends."

"A few." A humorless sound escaped her. "Actually, a very few. But I have my family. My younger brother and I are particularly close. Still, sometimes, it would be nice…"

"Yes?"

She shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "To have someone else besides a young boy who understands you." She studied her wrinkled gown for several seconds, then raised her gaze to his. "I hope some day you'll find someone or something to ease your guilt and loneliness, sir."

He studied her for several seconds, then, slowly reaching out, he ran a single gloved fingertip gently down her cheek. "As do I, lass."

Sammie's breath caught at the brief touch that whispered over her skin like a soft breeze. Unable to move, she simply stared at him, confused by the unprecedented warmth pulsing through her. Before she could examine the feeling more closely, he rose to his feet in one fluid motion and held his hand down to her. "Come. The rain has stopped. 'Tis time I brought ye home."

Home? Sammie stared at his outstretched hand and mentally shook herself from her dreamlike stupor. Yes, of course. Home. Where she belonged. Where her family-

Good heavens, her family! They must be frantic with worry. Surely Cyril had reported her disappearance by now. Her stomach churned with guilt when she realized that she'd been so caught up with her masked abductor, she'd forgotten how concerned Mama, Papa, and Hubert must be.

"Yes," she said, placing her hand in his and allowing him to assist her to her feet. "I must go home." She wanted to go home. So why did this hollow feeling of regret wash through her?

Without another word, they left the cabin. He gave her a hand up, then swung into the saddle behind her, cradling her between his hard thighs. One muscular arm held her close against his chest. Warmth from his body seeped into her, but in spite of that heat, a legion of chills skittered down her spine.

"Don't worry, lass. I won't let ye fall."

Before Sammie could assure him she wasn't worried, they were off, speeding through the forest. This time, instead of fear, nothing but exhilaration raced through her. Closing her eyes, she savored every sensation: the wind whipping over her face, the scent of moist earth, the rustle of leaves. She imagined she was a beautiful princess, held by her handsome prince as they dashed across the kingdom on their way to some exotic locale. Silly, foolish imaginings. But she knew these moments with this masked hero were precious, and she would never live them again.

All too soon he pulled on the reins and halted the horse. She opened her eyes and squinted. She could make out pinpricks of light in the distance, reminding her of the fireflies she'd caught earlier.

"Briggeham Manor lies just beyond these trees," he whispered. "I fear an alarm has been raised by your absence."

"How do you know?"

"Listen."

She strained her ears and heard the low murmur of voices. "Who is that?"

"Judging by the number of lanterns held aloft and the crowd gathered on the lawn, I'd say half the town is present."

"Oh, dear. Just leave me here and I'll walk to the house. I wouldn't want you to risk capture."

He paused for a moment, and she sensed him scanning the area. "It doesn't appear as if anyone is brandishing a weapon," he said against her ear. "I shall therefore bring ye to your family. I do not want ye to walk into a hole or fall in the darkness. I will, however, say good-bye here, as I will regrettably need to execute a hasty exit."

"Thank you, sir."

"No need for thanks. 'Twas my duty to bring ye home, lass."

"Not for that, although I do appreciate it." Staring up at him, a lump of emotion clogged her throat. Forcing a smile, she said, "I thank you for this incredible evening that I shall never forget. This has been a grand adventure." She lowered her gaze. "I've always wanted one, you see."

Placing his gloved fingers under her chin, he raised her face. "Well, then, Miss Briggeham, I am glad I was able to provide ye with your grand adventure.". "I wish you Godspeed with your endeavors, sir. It's a noble and heroic thing you do."

She sensed that he smiled beneath his mask. "Thank ye, lass. And I hope ye get to explore all those places ye dream of some day. I hope all your dreams come true."

With that, he urged his mount into a gallop. They emerged from the fringe of trees and raced across the grass. Sammie squinted against the rush of air, her heart pounding as they drew closer to the crowd.

He pulled on the reins and the horse halted not ten feet from the crowd. A chorus of audible gasps, followed by a hum of whispers reached Sammie's ears. He lowered her to the ground then turned to the group gaping at them.

"I return Miss Briggeham with my apologies." He jerked the reins and his magnificent stallion reared up on its hind legs, pawing the air. Sammie, along with everyone else, stared, mouths agape at the awesome spectacle of the masked rider silhouetted against the glow of a dozen lanterns. She looked toward her father and watched his monocle fall to the ground.

The instant its hooves touched the ground, the horse galloped away, the Thief's long black cape flapping behind. Within ten seconds the darkness swallowed them.

"Samantha!" Her father's voice, rough with worry, broke the stupefied silence.

"Papa!" She ran to him and he wrapped her in his arms, so tight she could barely draw a breath.

"Sammie, my dear sweet girl." She felt him swallow and blow out a long breath. "Thank God." Loosening his grip, he held her at arm's length and ran his anxious gaze over her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine."

Lowering his voice, he asked, "Did he hurt you?"

"No. In fact, he was very kind."

He gave her a searching look, then, apparently satisfied she was unharmed, he nodded. Glancing toward the woods, he remarked, "I suppose there's no point in going after him. It's too dark and he has too much of a head start. Besides, all that matters is that you're home. And safe." He reached into his waistcoat pocket. "Here are your spectacles, my dear. Cyril found them in the woods."

Grateful, Sammie slipped them on her nose. The crowd pushed in, expressing their happiness over her safe return, while casting wide-eyed glances toward the forest. Cyril mopped his tears with a huge hanky and squeezed her until she thought her eyes would pop.

"I 'ope I never get another scare like that again, Miz Sammie," he said, giving his nose a hearty blow. "Took ten years off me life, it did. And me 'eart ain't what it used to be."

Hubert engulfed her in a mighty hug, his bony arms crushing her to his narrow chest, the metal frame of his spectacles biting into her cheek. "I say, Sammie, you gave us all quite the fright."

She kissed his cheek and tousled his unruly hair. "I'm sorry, darling. I-"

The front doors of Briggeham Manor flew open. "My baby! Where's my baby?" Cordelia Briggeham rushed down the steps and pushed her way through the crowd. She launched herself at Sammie with such force, she nearly propelled them both to the ground. Only Papa's restraining hand kept them upright.

Enveloping Sammie in a bone-jarring, floral-scented hug, Mama moaned, "Oh, my poor, poor child." Thrusting Sammie back a step, she peered into her face. "Are you hurt?"

"No, Mama. I'm fine."

"Thank heavens." She emitted a single chirp and raised her hand to her brow.

Papa stepped forward and whispered in a furious undertone, "Do not even consider swooning here, Mrs. Briggeham, as I swear I'll leave you where you fall. I've had quite enough of your hysterics for one evening."

Mama couldn't have looked more shocked if Papa had claimed to be King George himself. Taking advantage of her temporary speechlessness, Papa raised his voice and said to the crowd, "As you can all see, Samantha is fine. Thank you all for coming, but now if you'll excuse us, we wish to get our daughter into a warm bed."

Calling out good wishes, the neighbors departed for their homes, and the servants returned to their quarters. As they climbed the stone steps leading to the front door, a man on horseback rode up.

"Mr. Briggeham?" he called out.

Papa halted. "Yes?"

"My name is Adam Straton. I'm the magistrate. I understand your daughter was kidnapped by the Bride Thief."

"Indeed she was, sir. But I am happy to report that she has been returned to us, unharmed." He indicated Sammie with a nod of his head.

The magistrate studied Sammie with keen interest. "That is happy news, sir. I've never known the brigand to return one of his victims. You are fortunate."

Sammie bristled at the man's words, but before she could open her mouth to protest, he continued, "I'd like very much to speak to you about your abduction, Miss Briggeham… if you're feeling up to it."

"Certainly, Mr. Straton." She relished the opportunity to disabuse him of his misconceptions. Brigand, indeed!

"Why don't you show Mr. Straton to the drawing room, Charles," Mama suggested in a voice mat brooked no argument. "Samantha and I will join you in a moment. I'd like a private word with her."

"Very well," Papa agreed. "This way, Mr. Straton." They entered the house, closing the door behind them.

The instant they were alone, Mama turned to her. "The truth now, dearheart. Did that man hurt you? In… any way?"

"No, Mama. He was a perfect gentleman, and very kind. And very apologetic for absconding with me in the first place."

"As well he should be, although I must say that I lay the blame for this entire episode at Major Wilshire's feet. He's a horrid, horrid man, darling, and I refuse to allow you to marry him."

Sammie tried to speak, but Mama rushed on. "Now don't try to talk me out of this, Samantha. My mind, and your father's as well, is quite made up. You will not, under any circumstances, wed that cad Major Wilshire. Do you understand?"

Totally at sea, but knowing better than to argue, especially when she wasn't going to wed the Major, Sammie said, "Er, yes, Mama. I understand."

"Excellent. Now I have one more question before we go inside." Mama leaned closer and lowered her voice. "I've read all about this Bride Thief in The Times. They say he wears all black like a highwayman, and a full-head mask as well. Is that true?"

"Indeed it is."

A delicate shiver shook Mama's shoulders. "They also say he is strong and ruthless."

"He's very strong. But not ruthless." An involuntary sigh escaped her. "He's gentle and thoughtful and noble."

"But a thief."

Sammie shook her head. "He does not steal money, Mama. He has plenty of his own. He wants only to help women who are being forced into unwanted marriages to be free to start new lives, because someone he loved was forced to marry a man she loathed."

Mama heaved out a long breath. "As noble as that sounds, darling, the fact remains that you spent several hours in a man's company. Unchaperoned. We must face the fact that you could suffer social ruin."

Sammie didn't know what to say, as she hadn't considered such an outcome to her adventure. While she didn't particularly care how others viewed her, she had no desire to foist scandal upon her family. Heavens, this could indeed present a problem.

She looked at Mama, and dread slithered down her spine at the grim speculation in her eyes. Sammie knew that expression all too well. It was Mama's infamous "there-must-be-a-way-to-turn-this-debacle-to-my-advantage" gleam that invariably preceded her most outrageous schemes. She could almost hear the thoughts whirling through her mother's pretty head.

"You must join your father and Mr. Straton, Sammie. I'll be along in a moment. I need to collect myself."

"Shall I fetch your hartshorn?"

"No, I'm quite all right." She cradled Sammie's cheek in her warm palm. "I simply need a bit more air to gather my wits. You go, and I'll be in shortly."

Sammie kissed her mother's soft cheek, then entered the house, praying that whatever plan Mama might hatch would prove less disastrous than the Major Wilshire scheme.

Alone on the stone steps, Cordelia paced rapidly and prayed for inspiration. How on earth she was going to keep this botched kidnapping from turning into a scandal that could ruin the family, she didn't know. How could she possibly shed a positive light on these events? Her daughter abducted by the most notorious man in England? In his company, unchaperoned, for several hours? Ye gods, her head ached just thinking about it. And the thought of Lydia's reaction sent a chilled shiver through her. What on earth was a mother to do?

Staring off into the distance, where the moonlight caressed the fringe of trees marking the edge of the forest, she wondered about the man who had stolen Sammie.

She pursed her lips. According to Sammie he was gentle, thoughtful, and noble. And possessed plenty of money.

Perhaps he was a kidnapper-but he was clearly a decent kidnapper. And wealthy. Hmmm.

She couldn't help but wonder if he was married.