Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex Page B

from Strathcairn’s silver buttons and Fergus McElmore’s snuffbox—wasn’t enough. And the plain truth of the matter was that she would never have enough if she kept on the way she was going—pocketing small items that lost half of their value the moment they were melted down for safety’s sake.  
    But certainly she could not do more. For all her bravado and enthusiasm, she was only an opportunistic thief—an amateur. And she could not even do that effectively with Strathcairn snooping around, mucking everything up.
    Which he did at that very moment, looming up behind the reverend like the ghost of sins past. Which was a feat—the looming—as she had thought the reverend so tall. But Strathcairn was taller. And far more flinty-eyed behind his black mask.
    “Clever Diana.” Strathcairn’s voice was as cool and polished and London-ish as it had been that first night. “Does this clergyman importune you, or are you shielded by the armor of chastity?”
    Quince bit her lip to keep from making any sort of expression—only Strathcairn could manage to woo and insult all at the same time—but his tone made her put up her chin. “It is a very good thing I ken my Shakespeare, sir. And the answer is nay. The vicar was just leaving.” She didn’t want anyone, least of all Strathcairn, associating her with Reverend Talent. It would never do for anyone to think her religious—it would absolutely ruin her reputation as a flibbertigibbet.  
    She shifted her gaze back to the clergyman. “I’m sorry for your troubles, Reverend. Good evening.”
    Poor Reverend Talent took his cue, and with an awkward bow in her direction—oak trees didn’t bend easily, did they?—he took his leave of them.
    Which left her with a wildly attractive, but wary cavalier. No, not a cavalier.
    Oh, holy burning bonfires.
    Strathcairn was dressed as a highwayman , with a brace of pistols bristling from his belt.
    It was as if a beacon had been lit in her brain, lighting her way, heating her blood. There it was—the brilliant idea that would solve all her problems, salve her conscience, and please the vicar to no end—the way to infinitely more money.
    “Who was that mon?” Strathcairn’s green eyes probed from behind his mask, making him look hard and dangerous. Just as she liked.
    But she could not attend properly to his attractiveness for all the shouting in her head—a highwayman. “A vicar,” she answered at last.
    “A friend?”
    A highwayman. A masked thief who stole outright from the rich. In the dead of the night.
    “An acquaintance.” She could feel her heart thumping against her throat. “Jealous?”  
    “Appalled.” His glittering eyes softened behind that severe mask. “Flirting with a vicar.”
    “Aye.” What was appalling was that she had never thought of it before, that she had gone on so long thinking herself competent, satisfied with the pittance from her little bits and bobs. “You’re a highwayman.”
    “Aye.” He dashed his cape off one shoulder, and set his fists onto his hips, showing off a smashing pair of flintlocks, matched and well balanced and perfectly lethal from the wicked look of them. Then he pulled them from his waist, holding the barrels up, giving her the full brazen stand-and-deliver effect.  
    Oh, holy highway robbery. That was the way to do it. A gun in each hand—one for the coach, and one for the driver—and the reins between her teeth.  
    She could picture it all in her mind’s eye, from the way she would sneak her dark mare out of the stable, down to the set of pistols her father kept tucked away with his court sword in his book room, and the black leather gauntlets she would wear to protect and disguise her small hands.
    “And what do you think?” Strathcairn was asking. “Not exactly a thief, but more dashing.”
    “Very dashing. I think it’s brilliant.” Her heart was beating so fast it was a wonder it didn’t jump right out of her bodice, and run amok about the