Pale Moon Rider by Marsha Canham

moment to catch hold of her wits. “Then … may I ask why you are here?”
    “I wanted to know a little more about you. It isn’t every night I am stopped on the road and hired to commit a robbery.”
    “But … h—how did you find me? And”—she glanced at the window and could not remember any vines or latticework attached to the outside walls—“and how did you get in here?”
    “I followed the coach,” he said simply. “And there is a rather convenient drainpipe running down the wall beside your window. As to how I knew which room was yours, well … that was sheer guesswork on my part, but the sudden appearance of candlelight made for a good start.”
    Renée felt a strange sensation flowing down her body, as if there were rivulets of water sliding over her skin, and she glanced down, startled into realizing the skimpy state of her dress. She had not retied the bows on her chemise and where it gaped open in front, the valley between her breasts was visible, laid bare almost to the waist. Where the linen had been splashed with water, it clung to her skin, clearly revealing the shape of everything not already glowing white in the moonlight. The lower edge of the hem barely reached the tops of her thighs to safeguard her modesty, and below that, her legs gleamed pale and translucent against the shadows. As casually as she could, she pulled the halves of her chemise together.
    “I was not expecting guests. May I at least put on my robe?”
    “I was actually enjoying the view. But if it would make you feel more comfortable, by all means do so.”
    She had to pass through the shaft of moonlight to retrieve the garment, with every step under the vigilant eye of the highwayman, and to her credit, she was able to accomplish it without tripping over her feet. Roth had certainly not planned for this contingency. Who, indeed, would have expected such audacity?
    When the robe was belted snugly about her waist, she turned and stared into the barrels of the guns again.
    “Are they absolutely necessary, m’sieur? As you must have clearly seen, I have no weapons.”
    There was another pause, followed by a soft, husky laugh as he tucked the snaphaunces beneath his coat. “I would not be too sure of that, mam’selle.”
    His laughter caused another flush of warm sensations to ripple through her body, and she pointed at the night-stand. “May I light the candle again?”
    “No. I like it fine the way it is.”
    “That you should know me, but I not know you?”
    “An unfortunate necessity in my profession.”
    For the second time that night, she found herself asking, “You do not trust me?”
    “No.” After a pause he added, “Is there any reason why I should?”
    “I have hired you to commit a crime,” she said slowl y. “Does that not make me un complice ?”
    “An accomplice? Only if you stand up in court and confess that you hired me. Otherwise it is your word against mine—if I am caught—and my word, I’m afraid, does not carry much weight with the local magistrates these days.”
    The wash of warm prickles she experienced this time went all the way to her knees, leaving them perilously unsteady. “Do you have any objections if I sit down?”
    “As it happens, I was going to invite you to do just that.”
    The only available seat, aside from the bed, put her directly in the beam of moonlight and she recognized the disadvantage at once. If she thought about it, of course, there was not much about this unplanned meeting that was not appallingly to her disadvantage. She was alone in her bedroom, in her bedclothes, with an armed and dangerous man who thrived on flaunting convention. Rape, she imagined, would likely not strain the dictums of his conscience, nor would the use of violence to get what he wanted.
    With the skirt of her wrapper belling softly behind her, she went back to the window and took a seat, noting that he moved as well, guarding against the possibility of any reflected light betraying