Pale Moon Rider by Marsha Canham Page A

his features.
    “And so, m’sieur, have you thought about our arrangement and reconsidered?”
    “Have you?”
    “No,” she said calmly. “I have not changed my mind. If anything, I am even more determined to see this thing done and leave this England of yours far behind.”
    “You dislike our country, mam’selle?”
    “I have found nothing here to commend it, m’sieur. The weather is foul, the people stare and whisper and act as if I am here to steal the food off their plates.”
    “You do not seem to be lacking too much in the way of creature comforts. Harwood House is not exactly a stew.”
    “ Que signifie-t-il... stew?” she asked with a frown. "It is food, is it not?"
    “A lso another name for a brothel. A place where strumpets sell their wares to the highest bidder.”
    There was a serrated edge of sarcasm to his voice, and it sent yet another rush of nervous flutters through her body. That he knew the name of the manor came as no surprise; Roth had said the highwayman was familiar with the parish. It stood to reason, then, if he knew the name of the house, he most assuredly knew who owned it.
    She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips to moisten them.
    “Perhaps to you it looks respectable, but the rooms, the furniture, the bedding always smell of mould and mustiness. There are beetles in the kitchen and mice in the walls; the windows are cracked and the wind howls through at night bringing in the rain and dampness. My toes, my fingers have not been warm since leaving Calais .”
    She realized too late it was a shockingly guileless invitation for him to inspect the slender and very bare feet that peeked out from beneath the hem of her wrapper. She held her breath a moment, wondering as she did, if Finn had returned from the stables yet and if so, would he hear the low murmur of their voices as he passed by her door? With her visitor’s next words, however, she forgot her feet, forgot Finn, forgot everything but the two cocked pistols that were no less a threat for not being visible.
    “Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places for heat and succour. The Fox and Hound, for instance, is hardly where one might expect to find such creature comforts … unless of course, you stopped there seeking a more immediate form of heated gratification.”
    Renée stared at the shadow within the shadow and felt the blood drain to her feet out of sheer foolishness this time. If he had followed her home, it was only logical to assume he had seen her stop at the inn. And if he was but a fraction as clever and resourceful a thief as he was reputed to be, he would undoubtedly have discovered why she had stopped and who she had met.
    Though she willed herself not to react outwardly, inwardly she was one thudding heartbeat after another. She wanted desperately to bolt for the door, but she knew she would never make it. Similarly, she wanted to look anywhere but at the looming shadow in the corner, but she could not seem to tear her eyes away from him. She dared not. He was waiting for her response and if she gave him the wrong one she was quite certain his reaction would be swift and violent. The warning he had given her on the hillside came back to her in a rush, and she knew it to be true: He would not hesitate to wring her neck if he thought she was lying to him.
    “You seem to have gone to a good deal of trouble, m’sieur, just to refuse me my request.”
    “Only fair, since you seem to have gone through a good deal of trouble to make it. And like you, I prefer to communicate any information I have—good or bad—face to face.”
    It was an odd time to do so, with her heart pounding and ice flowing through her veins, but she thought of the jungle cat again. Sleek, black, and deadly, it had prowled constantly from one end of his cage to the other just hoping for some sign of weakness in the bars, some flamboyant indiscretion on the part of the onlookers that would bring one within range of the razor sharp