The last thing he remembered was driving the shipment. Crossing Oxford Street. A gunshot. A boy wounded. A blow to the head.

Insistent tapping against his cheek returned him to consciousness, too soft for pain, but firm enough to be irritating. He didn’t open his eyes, years of training allowing him to feign sleep as he got his bearings. His feet were bound. His hands as well, behind his back. He resisted the urge to stiffen. To rage.

Beast didn’t rage.

He punished, quick and devastating and without emotion.

More became clear; he was on the floor of a moving carriage. Well-appointed, if the soft cushion at his cheek was any indication, and in a decent neighborhood for the smooth rhythm of the cobblestones beneath the wheels.

Whit considered his next move—envisioning how he would incapacitate his captor despite his bindings. He imagined breaking a nose with his head. Using his bound legs to knock a man out.

The tapping at his cheek began again, followed by a whispered, “Sir.”

His captor wasn’t a man.

His eyes flew open, the wash of golden light in the carriage playing tricks with him—seeming to come not from the lantern swaying gently in the corner, but from the woman leaning over him.

She was seated on the bench above him, looking nothing like the kind of enemy who would knock a man out and tie him up in a carriage. Indeed, she looked like she was on her way to a ball. Perfectly done, perfectly coiffed, perfectly colored—skin like porcelain, eyes kohled, lips full and stained just enough to make a man pay attention. And that was before he got a look at the dress—the turquoise blue of a summer sky, perfectly fitted to her full figure.

Not that he should be noticing anything about that, considering she had him tied him up in a carriage. She wasn’t a woman. She was the enemy.

He narrowed his gaze on her, and her eyes—was it possible they were violet? What kind of a person had violet eyes?—went wide. “Well. If that look is any indication of your temperament, it’s no wonder they’ve tied you up.” She tilted her head. “Why have they tied you up?”

Whit did not reply.

“Who tied you up?”

Again, silence.

She shrugged one shoulder and said, “Fair enough. I suppose it’s not my business. Unfortunately for both of us, however, you’re very inconvenient, as I have need of this carriage tonight.”

“Inconvenient.” He didn’t mean to reply, and the word surprised them both.

She nodded. “Indeed. You see, it is my birthday. And, frankly, I have plans for it that don’t include . . .” she waved a hand, “. . . whatever is going on here.”

He did not reply.

She blinked. “Most people would wish me a happy birthday at this juncture.”

Whit said nothing.

She nodded. “And here I was, ready to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.”

Her brows rose. “You’re quite rude, you know.”

He resisted the instinct to gape. “I’ve been knocked out and tied up in a strange carriage.”

“Yes, but you must admit the company is diverting, no?” When he raised a brow, she said, “Fine then. But it strikes me that you’re in a bind.” She paused, then added, “You see how diverting I can be? In a bind?”

“I see how reckless you can be.”

“Some might find me charming.”

“I’ve never found anything charming,” he replied, wondering what possessed him to spar with this chatterbox.

“How sad for you,” she said, and it sounded like she meant it. “No matter. Even if you won’t admit it, you do need help, and as you are quite well bound and I am your travel companion, I’m afraid you are stuck with me.”

And then she was crouching by his feet, as though it were all perfectly ordinary, untying the ropes with a soft, deft touch. “Whoever tied these knots did not want you getting free,” she said, as though they were discussing the weather. “You’re lucky I am quite good with knots.”

He grunted his approval as she set him free. “And you have other plans for your birthday.”

She hesitated, her cheeks pinkening at the words before she gave a curt nod. “Yes.”

Whit would never understand what made him press further. “What plans?”

She looked up at him then, her eyes too big for her face, and said, “I’m not sure I should tell you, though I suppose it would be fine, as we clearly don’t run in the same circles.”

He raised a brow. “We run in them tonight.”

She smiled at that, warm and full and natural enough to make Whit linger on it. The carriage began to slow, and she peeked out the curtain. “We’re nearly there,” she said quietly. “It’s time for you to go, sir. I’m sure you’ll agree that neither of us have any interest in you being discovered.”

“My hands,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can’t risk you taking revenge.”

He met her gaze without hesitation. “My revenge is not a risk. It’s a certainty.”

She did not look away. “I’ve no doubt of that. But I can’t risk you taking it via me. Not tonight.” She reached past him for the door handle, speaking at his ear, above the rattle of wheels and horses from the street beyond. “As I’ve said, I have plans.”

He turned toward her, unable to resist the scent of almonds coming off her. She was still leaning over him, tempting as hell. “Tell me the plan, and I’ll let you go.”

That warm smile flashed again. “You’re very arrogant, sir. Need I remind you that I’m the one letting you go?”

“Tell me the plan,” he said again, suddenly desperate to hear it.

He saw the change in her. Watched hesitation turn to bravery. “Perhaps I should show you, instead.”

Christ, yes.

And then, as though he’d said it aloud, she kissed him, pressing her lips to his, soft and sweet and inexperienced and tempting as hell, and Whit would have done anything to have his hands untied at that moment, so he might take control and show her just how well he could help see her plans through.

But before he could suggest doing just that, she ended the kiss, opened the door at his back and, with a whispered “Goodbye,” pushed him from the moving carriage.