Masked rogue

Amelia Brown had shopped herself to exhaustion. Her feet hurt, her head was pounding, and everything she looked at silk parasols, rolls of cotton started to blur together. Most girls would have fainted or at least complained dramatically by now. But Amelia wasn’t like most girls. She didn’t faint easily, and she didn’t believe in all that nonsense about lightheadedness.That only happened when girls laced their corsets too tight. Amelia made sure she could breathe, eat, and move freely, so she didn’t worry about it. She glanced out the carriage window at the dark, empty heath. It was late. After a long day of shopping, she and her father had eaten early and gone to the opera. Amelia loved the opera. Even now, the music still echoed in her mind, filling her thoughts with images of dangerous men and bold, dramatic women dressed in red. She sighed. She should have been part of a story like that. It would have been far more exciting than her quiet life in Lewisham, as the daughter of a man who was always rich, sometimes very rich. She was twenty, and terribly bored. “What now?” she asked. “You think I spent too much today? Maybe I didn’t need both the pink and the green dress?” Her father, sitting across from her, made a low, annoyed sound. “You could’ve chosen one instead of both,” he muttered. “Oh, don’t be like that, Father,” Amelia said lightly. “You’re acting strangely this year.” “It’s easy to spend money when you’re not the one earning it,” he replied. “Tradesmen don’t give second chances if a working man can’t pay.” “Be fair,” Amelia said. “You have more money than most nobles. If people didn’t spend, how would those tradesmen survive?” She didn’t take his complaints too seriously. Amelia had never known a life without comfort. She knew she was spoiled—but she tried not to let it show. Suddenly, shouting broke the quiet. Amelia recognized the coachman’s voice, but there was another—deeper, unfamiliar, with a foreign accent. Fear tightened in her chest as the carriage shook violently before coming to a sudden stop. The stranger’s voice became clear. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” he said calmly. “A bullet in the stomach is a slow way to die.” A bandit. “Now,” the man continued, “slowly take the pistol from your boot and throw it into the hedge.” There was a dull thud as the coachman obeyed. “Good. Now cut the harness and throw the knife away as well.” Amelia’s father pushed open the carriage window. “What are you doing?” he snapped. “Shoot the man and drive on!” “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” the highwayman replied. His voice surprised Amelia. It wasn’t rough or crude like she expected. It was smooth… controlled… almost charming. “Please step out of the carriage, sir,” he added. Grumbling, Amelia’s father climbed down. “This is outrageous. Who do you think you are?” “Father,” Zoe said calmly, “he’s obviously a highwayman.” Zoe stayed inside the carriage, her heart racing. She had been clutching her purse so tightly . “Step away from the carriage, sir and quickly,” the highwayman said. “I don’t think your daughter would appreciate me shooting you in the head.” “Impudent brat!” her father snapped. That was enough for Amelia. She couldn’t just sit there. If she was about to be robbed by some foreign bandit, she at least wanted to see him properly. She quickly slipped off her spectacles and tucked them into her pocket trying to look as elegant as possible then stepped out of the carriage. Unfortunately, she stumbled a little as she landed, ruining the effect. Still, it was dark. Maybe he didn’t notice. She looked up at him. He was dressed all in dark clothes, with a mask covering part of his face. In the faint moonlight, she could just make out the red lining of his cloak. “Signorina…” the bandit said, his voice catching slightly. He stared at her in a way that was intense and almost dramatic. Oh, honestly. Amelia knew how this sort of moment was supposed to go but she couldn’t even see his eyes properly without her glasses. She reached into her pocket. The highwayman instantly raised his pistol and pointed it straight at her stomach. Amelia froze. “Why are you pointing that at me?” “Take your hands out of your pockets,” he said sharply. “And keep them where I can see them until I say otherwise.” “For goodness’ sake, I’m just looking for my glasses,” Amelia replied, finally pulling them out. She put them on quickly and completely ruined whatever elegant impression she had been trying to make.Putting on her glasses may have ruined her elegance, but it made everything much clearer. And he was worth seeing clearly. He was exactly the kind of man Amelia had always imagined long before other girls started dreaming about perfect princes. He was dressed entirely in black, except for the red lining of his cloak. His eyes, hidden behind the mask, were sharp and intense, like something out of the opera. His mouth was slightly full, but well-shaped. His shoulders were broad, his arms strong, and the way he sat on his horse was effortlessly confident. In one word—he was stunning. And he really was staring at her. Not casually, not politely—hungrily. As if he expected to find something extraordinary in her very ordinary gray eyes. Her father, clearly annoyed, handed over a purse. The bandit took it, putting away one pistol but keeping the other raised. “Your jewelry as well,” he said, steady again. “Your watch, sir. And you, signorina—that necklace.” Amelia unclasped her pearl choker and placed it in his hand. The pearls were still warm from her skin, and as his fingers closed around them, she felt a strange, tight feeling in her chest. She removed her rings, mostly pearls and sapphires, plus one very fine diamond. “Not the garnet, Amelia!” her father snapped. Amelia paused, instinctively closing her hand around a blue garnet ring. She looked at the bandit, almost apologetically. “It was my mother’s.” He held out his hand. After a moment, she gave it to him. It wasn’t the most valuable piece she had but it meant something. She didn’t remember her mother, not really. But the ring felt like a small connection to her. The bandit looked at her in a way that made Amelia wish, suddenly, that she were one of those bold, dramatic women from the opera—beautiful, dangerous, unforgettable. “I won’t take your mother’s ring,” he said at last, his voice softer now. “Tell me your name, and I’ll give it back.” “Amelia brown,” she said easily, smiling at him. “And what’s yours?” “amelia!” her father snapped. “Have you lost your mind? Don’t tell him your name!”