The August evening air hit her in a wave, blissfully chilled against her cheeks, as her satin-clad feet found the street beyond. Light spilled out behind her, throwing her shape upon the cobblestones, and the music had started up again.
He has already come face-to-face with the criminal.
Then it was he, Edward, who had fired at her, who had almost killed her – who had asked her to dance – and who had been drafted in to find and capture the Green Highwayman.
To capture her.
“Damn it,” she breathed. “Fool.”
“Miss Groves?”
Harriet started, faced by the very man she knew would haunt both her every waking moment and her nightmares from that point on.
“Major Roberts,” she greeted him with a watery smile, stepping a pace or two away, small movements, a head-start.
“May I ask you for a dance – or would you prefer a duel?”
It took all her effort not to stumble backwards, to keep her expression neutral. “I – pardon?”
If she ran would he catch her? How could he already know who she was? When did he –
“A dance,” repeated Edward, slowly, an imposing silhouette in the doorway. “Miss Groves, would you dance with me?”
Every instinct Harriet held told her to refuse, to build a wall between them, to do all she could to never see him again. She had to protect herself, her family, her life – everything she had fought to keep safe all this time.
He was dangerous, he was her demise, he was her death – holding his hand out towards her.
And yet she reached for it.
“Yes, Major Roberts,” she said, drawn to him and the danger he posed, unable to stop herself. “I would like nothing more.”
The warmth within the dancing hall was an oppressive wave after the fresh night air, dizzying as it brushed against her bare arms and curled around her lithe form. Or was it the soldier’s doing, his presence, which brought the rising heat? She felt safer out there, under a pinprick of stars and the crescent moon; Harriet was herself when the night came, even if she was concealed behind a mask. The thrill, the chase, the risk – she belonged out there, as the Green Highwayman. Under the cover of darkness she was herself and she was free.
She wore a different disguise now – one of polite, contrived civility.
It was crumbling.
Her hand slipped into Edward’s as though it belonged there, fettered, bound, imprisoned. His immovable form beside her quickened her pulse as he assisted her up the few, small steps and back inside. She kept her chin up, smile false, fearing that he would be able to read the deception on her face, as though it had been inked onto her pale, clammy skin.
They had met before; she knew it for certain now. In the woods, a night ago, on the tracks between the two main southerly trading hubs. She had shot – fired into the air – purposely missing him and yet firing nonetheless. If she had wanted to meet her mark, she could have extinguished the threat he posed. But she had promised herself, long ago, that she would never resort to that. However desperate her situation became, she could live with being a thief, but not a killer.
She had not crossed that line yet.
“Are you ready?”
“I am,” she replied.
More than ready.
How many had he killed? How many other robbers had he dragged to the gallows – a noose for a necklace, the hangman’s knot around their throats? She caught Edward’s eye, though he was at ease, nodding her way. Her demon from the forest. Harriet felt captured now, snared by him, unable to pull herself away without questions asked.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“You are shivering.”
“Excitement,” explained Harriet, bunching her fingers into fists until her nails bit half-moon indents into her palm. “I do so love to dance, don’t you?”
Edward’s reply was calm, still surveying her, attempting to get her measure. “It’s a necessary evil.”
Harriet couldn’t meet his eyes, for she only saw her executioner. Mere moments ago, he had been a simple, if affecting creature. Pale eyes that pierced her, a dark humour that already shone through and matched her own, a connection eager to be woven between them.
Now, she saw an enemy.
And it excited her more than it should have.
A new song began, the musicians ready, the melody fast. Dancing couples found their positions opposite one another, joined by the new pair, who made a handsome couple.
The farce would continue. Harriet had to act accordingly: smile when he smiled, respond to his enquiries, play her part to the man who would see her killed if ever he knew the truth. Tonight was simply a game and one she would play. It would not be the first time she was forced to entertain a man she disliked or mistrusted.
“You seem preoccupied?”
“I – no, not at all.” Edward’s question forced her to shut down her inner thoughts, ignore the nagging doubts and tingling fear. “It’s been a long evening.”
“I see,” he said, offering a small bow at the dance’s beginning. “Then I can only assume I am boring you?”
“Hardly,” replied Harriet, a curtsey following. “You’re interesting.” That, at least, was true. “Everyone else comes to these such gatherings to share gossip and brew scandal. This is purely a space for people to talk of the excitement others partake in, being too scared to pursue adventure themselves.”
“And do you pursue it, Miss Groves?”
A weapon in her hand, damp earth kicked up as she ran, a laugh on her lips and adrenaline surging through her veins. That was what she pursued and no man would take it from her.
“Not in the same ways you do, I am sure,” she said sweetly. “We women must find our amusements elsewhere.”
“By embroidering cushions and singing pretty songs?”
“You mock me, sir.”
“Only a little.” Edward had a soldier’s charm, all hard edges and brash wit. “Does that upset you?”
“On the contrary,” said Harriet, close enough to feel his breath ghost upon her jawline, down her neck, across her collarbone. “But you haven’t seen my embroidery, it is quite thrilling.”
He laughed again and she found, mutinously, that she wanted to prompt further outbursts. See his head tilt back, those teeth flash, the easy countenance waiting behind those guarded eyes. No. There was a brief respite from him, when dancing partners changed during the song’s course, where she caught her breath and roped back her common sense.
“I imagine capturing that highwayman of yours will spark many discussions, sir,” said Harriet, finding satisfaction in his ignorance, her own words dampening that tiny affectionate spark he’d kindled. “Your name will be on everyone’s lips up and down the country.”
“Only after I catch him.”
“And you think you will?”
“I’ve never failed before.”
Harriet kept her sweetness, that unaffected smile, as she replied, “There’s a first time for everything.”
She would lie low; she would find other ways to reach her financial aim. If only her brother would keep