Free Clandestine by Nichole van Page A

was.” Marc adopted his movie-mournful face—the one he perfected when playing a doctor dealing with terminal patients in The Docs of Hazard . “Highwaymen. Four of them. They came upon me as I traveled this morning, forced me off my horse at gunpoint and galloped off with all my possessions. At least they left me my clothing.” He gestured down at the greatcoat.
    Kit seemed concerned. Perhaps too concerned.
    “How horrid. What did the men look like?” She leaned forward, eager for his answer.
    “Uh . . . it is hard to say. They had kerchiefs tied around their faces and hats pulled down low,” Marc said and then instantly rethought his words.
    Is that how highwaymen dressed in 1814? Or was he just thinking of John Wayne westerns?
    Kit didn’t seem to find his description odd. She pursed her lips.
    “So would you say the men were fair or dark? Tall or short?”
    Why the follow-up questions?
    “I . . . hardly remember. A little of both I suppose.”
    She gave an exasperated huff. “How can the criminals be apprehended if you cannot provide an accurate description of them?”
    Damn.
    That was the last thing he needed. Innocent men being arrested because he fingered them in his fictional robbery.
    “Well, I shall think upon it carefully and see what I can remember. I would hate to provide a false description . . .” That, at least, was the truth.
    Again, the silence stretched a little too long.
    Her gaze narrowed. “I had thought you were perhaps an escapee from the circus.”
    “Circus?” That startled a laugh from him.
    “The jumping onto the horse and all . . .” She trailed off helpfully, giving a flick of her wrist.
    Marc finally caught the teasing glint in her eyes.
    “Or perhaps you are more clown than acrobat?” Her eyebrows raised a sardonic inch.
    Ah. Stunning, intelligent and snarky.
    A lethal combination.
    Unbidden, he smiled. Snark was a language he spoke fluently. Was nineteenth century snark any different? He sincerely hoped not.
    “Indeed. How did you know?”
    She grinned. “Consider it a fortunate guess.”
    “‘Tis such a pity. My parents had such hopes of a fine career as a lion tamer, but alas, I am always bound to disappoint. I was more suited for clown-ery in the end.”
    Wait. Was he flirting with her?
    “Clown-ery? Really?”
    “Clownishness?” he offered.
    “How about we settle on buffoonery?”
    Slowly, they both smiled at each other. She had a lovely smile, wide and full of mischief.
    He reflected it right back at her.
    A shared sense of . . . awareness passed between them. One creature recognizing another of its same species.
    Yes, there was definitely some flirting going on.
    Heaven help him.

Chapter 6

     
    I say, Miss Ashton, was that you?” A voice suddenly called from the opposite side of the road.
    Marc whipped his head around and looked over the top of the horse to see two gentlemen nearly running out of the trees, hunting dogs yapping around them. Dressed like himself in long overcoats that fell to their heels, rifles tucked against shoulders, though both men sported beaver hats and leather gloves. Right behind them came what must be three servants in rougher clothing.
    The taller of the gentlemen gestured with a concerned look. “Jedediah’s shot went wide, and we heard a woman scream.”
    Kit gave a forced laugh. “Mr. Knight, I am quite well, as you can see. Though the shot did startle my poor horse.”
    “Dash it, Arthur. I told you it was nothing.” The shorter of the gentlemen—Jedediah, Marc presumed—grimaced in annoyance as they came near. “‘Tis only Mother’s companion and everything is obviously set to rights.” He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow.
    Kit stiffened in her seat.
    Had the man been offensive? Marc wasn’t sure.
    But wait—hadn’t he just referred to the taller man as Arthur?
    Marc nearly sagged with relief. Hallelujah! And not a moment too soon. Arthur would know how to smooth all this over.
    The men stopped alongside