Free Forbidden by Nicola Cornick

know so much about her. No one, not
even those people who had known her for twenty years or more, realized that she
loved those stories of beautiful heroines and handsome heroes and haunted
castles.
    Henry raised his brows. “I saw that you had a copy of Mrs.
Radcliffe’s book The Romance of the Forest in your
reticule. I assumed that it was yours, unless you are taking it home for the
admirable Mrs. Biddle.”
    Margery was betrayed into a giggle. “Mrs. Biddle reads nothing
other than books on household management,” she said. “She thinks fiction is
frivolous.”
    “We won’t tell her your secret, then,” Henry said with his slow
smile. “For fear of damaging your future prospects.”
    The music was becoming wilder still, the customers more raucous
and amorous. One of the tavern wenches was enthusiastically kissing a tall fair
man who had her pressed up against the plaster wall and looked as though he was
about to ravish her there and then, in full view of the customers.
    “He’s a scamp,” Margery said. “A highwayman. Jem says he works
the Great West Road.”
    Two men at the next table were coming to blows over a game of
shove ha’penny. One planted a punch on the other; the table rocked and
overturned and then they were locked in grunting combat. A knife flashed.
    “Time to go, I think,” Henry said. He stood up, drawing Margery
to her feet, one arm about her waist as she stumbled a little. “You may have a
taste for dangerous company,” he said, “but I have more care for
self-preservation.”
    “I’ll protect you,” Margery said, smiling up into his eyes. She
felt happy and a little dizzy and more than a little drunk. Fortunately, Henry’s
arm felt exceedingly strong and reliable about her. It felt perilously right, as though she belonged in his arms, a foolish,
whimsical notion that nevertheless she could not dislodge.
    She turned toward the door—and found herself face-to-face with
her brother Jem.
    “Moll!” Jem’s voice snapped like a whip and the sweet, heady
atmosphere that had held Margery in its spell died like a flame doused with
water.
    “Hello, Jem,” she said, disentangling herself from Henry, who
seemed inordinately and provocatively slow to release her.
    “Who’s the swell?” Jem said, cocking his head at Henry. There
was an edge to his voice and an ugly look in his eyes.
    “Henry Ward,” Henry said, stepping between them. He offered his
hand. Jem studiously ignored it. Henry looked amused.
    “Jem,” Margery said reproachfully.
    Her brother flicked her look. “You should be careful, Moll,” he
said. His gaze returned to Henry. “You can pick up all sorts of riffraff in
here.”
    “And you should mind your own business,” Margery said, furious
now. She felt Henry shift beside her. She could sense the sudden tension in him,
an antagonism that matched Jem’s except that Henry was watchful and controlled,
appraising her brother with coolly assessing eyes. She remembered that Henry had
been in the war and felt a shiver of alarm. Jem was hotheaded, a street fighter,
but he was no match for a trained soldier.
    The atmosphere was as thick as smoke now. The music had died
away; everyone was watching, apart from the highwayman who was fumbling with the
barmaid’s bodice, his face buried in her cleavage. Even the men from the next
table had abandoned their fight in anticipation of one that promised to be more
deadly.
    Jem put his hand on Margery’s arm. “I’ll take you home,” he
said. “Come on.” He nodded toward the door. “I’ll not have my sister treated
like a fancy piece.”
    “No,” Margery said stubbornly. “I’m not going with you.” She
shook him off. She felt humiliated and upset; she wanted to cry because Jem had
taken all the fun and excitement from her evening and torn it to shreds.
Everything looked tawdry now and Jem was making her feel like naive fool and
worse, like a whore whose favors were up for sale for the price of a