A scream built in Vivian’s throat as Rhys came at her with the knife. But before she was able to let it out, he already withdrew. Her gaze lit on the blade, its sharp steel surface reflecting the light of the lanterns.

No blood.

Still, she tentatively reached up to touch her neck and feel for the cut she’d anticipated.

Rhys held up a lock of her hair. “I will include this in my next missive.”

Madame Renarde snorted in derision. “Now you prove that you are so ruthless that you will damage her coiffure. So terrifying! What shall you do then? Tell His Lordship that next time it will be a finger?”

Vivian turned to her companion in horror. “Jeanette! Do not give him ideas!”

Rhys laughed. “I think your wise companion was calling my bluff and pointing out that I lack the stomach for such brutality. Jeanette, is it? A lovely name.”

“You will address me as Madame Renarde.” Her companion’s stern gaze swept between Vivian and Rhys. “Both of you.”

Vivian bowed her head in contrition. Madame Renarde may be her dearest friend, but she was old-fashioned and a stickler for formality. Then the implications of her companion’s exchange with their captor sank in. Though she was greatly relieved that he didn’t wish to inflict any violence upon them, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of fool would admit to his own hostages that he lacked the nerve to pose a threat? He must be a poor kidnapper indeed.

But she kept that sentiment to herself. “And when will you deliver this letter to my uncle?”

“I will send it with tomorrow’s post, which will unfortunately take a few days to reach your uncle, so that means that you will be enjoying my hospitality longer than I anticipated.” Rhys shrugged as if in apology.

Madame Renarde sniffed in disgust. “Hospitality is not at all the word I’d use to describe the dreadful conditions you are subjecting us to.” Her righteous indignation was ruined with an indelicate sneeze.

“Bless you,” Rhys and Vivian echoed in tandem.

Vivian found that she did not share her companion’s outrage at this awkward state of affairs. Instead, she’d somehow come to regard her time in this cave as a sort of adventure, though she’d never dare admit to something that had to be morally wrong. To atone for her traitorous thoughts, she forced a defiant tone. “And what will you do if my uncle still refuses to pay the ransom?”

Rhys leaned forward and curled his long fingers around her shoulders. “You had better pray that he sees reason. Just because I do not wish to sever your finger does not mean that I am incapable of doing other things that would horrify your uncle and that you would doubtless find unpleasant.”

Vivian shivered under his piercing gaze. And yet, not out of fear. He wouldn’t hurt her. He’d already made that clear.

Madame Renarde coughed. “And I suppose you’ll start by driving us mad from boredom.”

Rhys laughed. “Actually, I intended to keep you occupied. For example, I will permit one of you at a time to ride one of the horses along the beach, so you may have fresh air and exercise.”

“That could be dangerous in the dark,” Madame Renarde said. “What if the horse turns an ankle?”

“That is a risk you may choose to take or decline,” Rhys admitted. “But that is your only option, for you cannot go out during the day.”

“Why not?” Vivian asked.

“I don’t want you to be seen.” Rhys avoided her gaze, as if there was more to it that he didn’t wish to divulge. “You are hostages, after all. I do not think you could refrain from calling for help, and then I would be forced to dispatch some poor, hapless fisherman as a result.”

Vivian sighed. She couldn’t picture him killing anyone, much less a fisherman, but thought it wise not to point that out. “Very well. I would like to ride now.”

Rhys grinned and replaced his slouch hat on his head and extended his arm to escort her. He locked Madame Renarde inside the cave when the companion tried to follow.

“That wasn’t very kind of you,” Vivian admonished him. “Surely Madame Renarde could at least walk along the beach while we ride.”

“And risk her wandering off to the nearest village?” Rhys shook his head as he led her up a narrow trail that seemed to be carved into the cliff face. “I think not. She is as eccentric as she is wily. Was her birth name Jean?”

Vivian nodded, taken aback by the abrupt inquiry. “Yes, but don’t you dare address her by that name. When she became Jeanette, her peers mocked her by insisting on calling her Jean, and they lived to regret it. She is one of the finest fencers I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah, so she taught you swordplay?” Rhys took her hand to help her up a particularly steep incline.

“Yes.” They reached the top of the cliff and saw the horses, both of which were tied to a squat pine tree and cropping the grass. Vivian was pleased that they were positioned in the lee of the stone face, so they weren’t battered by the wind.

Then a surprising realization struck her. Rhys didn’t have a horse of his own.

And if he didn’t have a horse, that meant that he robbed carriages afoot. Vivian thought back to the night they’d met. He had indeed been on foot when he’d robbed her carriage. Reflecting on it, that seemed very strange to her. How was he able to get away so fast? Furthermore, how did he travel the countryside and return to his home so swiftly?

It was yet another mystery about this infuriating man.

Her thoughts broke off as Rhys’s hands encircled her waist and he lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She sucked in a surprised breath, momentarily wondering if he’d lured her outside to ravage her. But then he set her on the horse. The heat of his palms remained even after he released her.

It took an endless moment for her to recover from his touch. Only then did she realize that he seemed remarkably unaffected for one who’d been shot in the arm.

With no sidesaddle, Vivian had to adjust her skirts and throw her leg on the other side of the horse. Rhys regarded her with a nod of approval. “Did Madame Renarde teach you to ride astride?”

Vivian nodded. “It is of her opinion that all ladies should learn, and that riding side saddle is foolish and dangerous.”

“I quite agree,” Rhys said as he mounted the other horse. “I wonder what possessed society to require women to ride in such a silly manner in the first place.”

“I suspect that it is to make it more difficult for us to best a man in a race,” Vivian said. “But Madame Renarde told me the reason is even more ludicrous.”

“And what reason is that?” he inquired as they cantered along.

Vivian blushed. She’d nearly blurted something so indecent it was unthinkable. What magic did he weave that made her so comfortable talking to him? “I... ah, shouldn’t speak of such things.”

Rhys drew his horse closer to hers and regarded her with a smile that was sin incarnate. “I wager I can guess. Some people believe that the rocking of the horse against your cunny will make you aroused.”

Flames seemed to engulf her face as that dreadfully naughty word repeated itself in her mind. Worst of all, even though she’d never experienced any sort of carnal sensations on horseback, she certainly had felt something in that place when Rhys had kissed her. Vivian lifted her chin, fighting for composure. “You really shouldn’t speak in such a crude manner in a lady’s presence.”

“Pish-tosh.” Rhys used the mocking inflection of an aristocrat. “Madame Renarde taught you to fence and how to ride astride. You cannot tell me she didn’t teach you vulgar words.”

Vivian huffed in outrage. “She most certainly did not!”

“Then I shall be happy to be of service in that regard.” Rhys favored her with a rakish smile. “I have accumulated quite a salty vocabulary from my many travels.”

“And who is to say I have any wish to learn how to curse?” Vivian retorted, though in truth, she could not help but be curious.

Rhys shrugged. “You’ll never know when it could come in handy. Besides, at the least, it could alleviate your boredom since I lack embroidery hoops and thread.”

“I dislike needlework anyway,” Vivian admitted, drawing her horse to a canter.

For the rest of the ride, Rhys taught her countless new words for various parts of human anatomy, making her blush deepen with each one.

By the time they returned to the cliffside and tied up the horses, Vivian realized she’d been too engaged in the lessons to take note of her surroundings. Perhaps that was his intent all along.

Yet Rhys didn’t possess the smug look of a man who’d outwitted a helpless woman. Instead, his eyes glittered with boyish humor. “Go on, say it.”

Vivian was overcome with helpless giggles. “I can’t.”

“Of course, you can. Imagine you’re saying it to one of those stuff-shirt nobs who seem to think the world should lick their boots.” Rhys dismounted from his horse and tied it to the tree before helping Vivian down.

Vivian remembered Lord Summerly’s lecherous stare and the feel of his fat fingers pinching her bodice. Because she’d dared to challenge him and defend her honor, she was ruined, while he was free to corner other innocent young women and compromise them. That old fury boiled in her heart as she snarled, “Go fuck yourself in the arse with your own pizzle.”

“Very good.” Rhys beamed at her with pride. “We’ll make a sailor out of you yet.”

When they returned to the cave, Madame Renarde cast Vivian an anxious look that was easily read. Did Rhys try to force himself on her? Vivian answered with a minute shake of her head and raised her arms slightly to demonstrate that she was still in one piece.

Rhys addressed Madame Renarde. “Would you care to ride for a spell?”

The companion nodded primly and turned to Vivian. “I found a shelf of books and magazines and newspapers over in that part of the cave.” She pointed.

Vivian’s heart lifted. Until now she hadn’t realized how much she’d dreaded being cooped up in the cave with nothing to do. Reading a good story would transport her from the prison. Then she grasped the significance of something Madame Renarde had said. Newspapers. That meant that she may be able to discern where they were.

The scheme quickly came to nothing, as she realized that the papers were from various places that were too far from each other to indicate a locale, along with others she’d never heard of. Where in heaven’s name was Much Hoole?

Reading through the paper didn’t give any clues, aside from the fact that Much Hoole was a small village and likely isolated from any large towns. Most of the news consisted of dull topics such as the weather and state of local farmers’ crops, but she found a serial story that was quite eccentric and entertaining.

The main character was a chipper constable trying to solve a murder in a secluded village called “Two Hills.” Constable Cooper Daleson took his tea “black as a smugglers moon” and stopped into Norman’s Inn for a cherry tart every morning. The denizens of the Two Hills were equally queer. An old woman who carried a tree limb everywhere and claimed it spoke to her, and another woman who constantly disguised herself and made mischief quickly became Vivian’s favorites.

By the time Rhys and Madame Renarde returned, she’d found every issue of the Much-Hoole papers and sorted them in order so she could read the story from the beginning.

“Ah,” Rhys said. “You’ve found the ‘Two Hills’ serial. I am still flummoxed as to where the tale is going, but I cannot stop reading it.”

Vivian nodded. “It’s utterly bizarre, yet completely fascinating.”

Madame Renarde covered a cough with her handkerchief. “Although I am intrigued, perhaps we should have something to eat.”

Rhys obliged them with cheese bread and fruit. “I have some errands to complete. I apologize, but I must leave you locked inside.” He took the envelope containing the lock of Vivian’s hair and his reply to her uncle and left the cave.

The moment he departed, Madame Renarde blew her nose and fixed Vivian with a probing stare. “He didn’t do anything inappropriate while you were alone with him, did he?”

Vivian shook her head. “The only time he touched me was to help me on and off the horse.”

“He helped me as well,” Madame Renarde said. “Very gentlemanly of him. Also, he’s incredibly strong. I am not a slender woman, yet he didn’t even strain.”

At first Vivian was only surprised that Rhys had assisted Madame Renarde. At both her father’s townhouse and her uncle’s estate, the footmen usually hesitated to offer her assistance in mounting a horse or even a hand to a carriage, and Madame Renarde simply ignored their reluctance and went without. Such was common for ladies’ maids and companions who were on the stout side, and Madame Renarde had the double inconvenience of being...different. Though her secret remained intact, Vivian wondered if they could sense that Madame Renarde was not an average woman. For Rhys to know and be so gallant was unbearably touching.

Then Vivian’s musing ceased as she thought of another implication within her companion’s statement. “He is indeed strong. Did you see that he doesn’t have his own horse?”

Madame Renarde nodded. “I’d wondered how he was able to rob carriages and get away without one. And how he took those trunks.” She muttered something in French too low for Vivian to hear and then suppressed another cough with her handkerchief. “Perhaps he steals the horses from all of the people he robs and just releases them when they’ve served their purpose.”

“That must be the explanation,” Vivian said, and rose from her cot to fill the tea kettle with one of the jugs of water Rhys kept. Nothing else would make any sense. Yes, she did picture the highwayman running with heavy trunks on his shoulders as easily as if they were loaves of bread, but that had to be because she was going mad from being imprisoned by an outlaw. A handsome, charming outlaw, but a criminal all the same. Just because they were his prisoners and under his control did not mean she needed to give him more power in her imagination. “Do you suppose we should look for a way to escape while he is gone?”

Madame Renarde shook her head. “I’ve already looked. The cave has no other exit and the door is impenetrable. He has this cave sealed better than some prisons I’ve seen.”

At any other time, Vivian would have asked her to elaborate on said prisons, but current circumstances captivated her attention. She set the kettle on the grate above the fire. “Then where does that occasional breeze come from?”

“I’ll show you.” Madame Renarde took one of the lanterns and led her to the back of the cave. She then turned a corner into a space Vivian hadn’t noticed when she’d been in this section looking at newspapers.

“My goodness,” Vivian breathed as they walked into a narrow shaft. Unlike the slate gray rock of what she’d been referring to as the “living area,” this part of the cave was infused with veins of quartz and some other glittering crystal. Long pointed columns of rock hung from the ceiling like deadly icicles. Despite the danger, the sight was beautiful.

Madame Renarde lifted the lantern and pointed. “There is an opening in the top of the cave. Can you see the stars? That’s why the cave doesn’t fill with smoke from the fire.”

Vivian nodded. The hole was too high up for them to climb, and even then, it appeared to be too narrow for a person to fit through. She rubbed the back of her neck. It had gotten sore from craning it. She saw that cunning little shelves had been carved into the walls of this part of the cave as well. Little wooden figures lined the stone surfaces, gathering dust.

“Look at these,” she said and lifted a wooden cat that was so expertly carved that it looked like it could nuzzle her and purr at any moment. “Do you think he carved these?”

Madame Renarde inspected an owl, humming in appreciation. “He should sell them.”

“He truly should.” Vivian agreed. “Since we can’t escape, perhaps we should persuade him to turn to honest work.”

“That’s a lovely thought, but this man is too stubborn to see reason.” The companion smiled sadly. “He is hell-bent on coercing that money from your uncle.”

“I cannot believe that Uncle refused to pay him.” A fresh hurt pierced her heart. “Do you suppose he does not care for me?”

Madame Renarde shook her head. “No, Cherie. He adores you. It is only that he suffers from the same unyielding pride as Rhys. He is used to having his way and thinks that this highwayman is a feeble enemy, easily defeated.”

The tea kettle whistled, and they returned to the living area of the cave. While the tea steeped, Vivian cursed this male pride that caused her to be held like a bone before slavering hounds. “And do you think Uncle will find us?”

Madame Renarde frowned as she poured their tea into heavy clay mugs that were more fitting for ale. “No, Cherie, I do not. This Rhys is as clever as he is determined. From the look of these shelves and figures he’s carved, and the door he built for this cave, I can see that he has been here for a long time and survived in comfort while countless authorities are already doubtless hunting for him. Your uncle is cunning, but he is still an aristocrat, accustomed to a life of comfort and ease. That hinders his imagination.”

Vivian blew on her tea to cool it. “I have a feeling we shall be here a long while then.”

“As do I.” Madame Renarde said. “We may as well make the best of it. At least he has sugar.”

They sipped their tea in pensive silence.

She wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. His noble reason for abducting them, coupled with the fact that he truly did not want to hurt them wore away at any animosity she could muster. He was like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor, only even more endearing since he stole to keep his own family from being thrown out of their home.

What was Rhys’s family like? Vivian couldn’t help pondering the question. Did they know he was a highwayman? Did they worry when he was away from them? Was that where he was now?

As if summoned by her thoughts, the round oak door swung open and Rhys strode in, bearing a large stuffed sack over one shoulder and a bundle of firewood on the other. Heavens, he was strong indeed. Vivian became possessed by a mad urge to grasp his bicep and feel those muscles capable of bearing such weight.

She looked down at her tea to hide her blush.

Rhys set down the firewood and sat on the cot opposite her. “I come bearing victuals,” he said merrily and opened the sack.

As he brought out bread, crocks of butter, cream, cheese, and small barrels of salt meat, fish, honey, and even some sweets, Vivian looked at him in wonder. Villains in novels did not keep their victims in cozy places and provide them every comfort possible. They threw their prisoners in dark, damp dungeons and fed them gruel. Villains did not joke with their captives and take them riding, or teach them how to swear like a dockworker. They did not reveal that they were too soft to be cruel.

Rhys grinned at her and reached into the sack like someone presenting a gift on Christmas morning. “And finally, I was able to procure the latest issues of the Much Hoole paper, so we can read more ‘Two Hills’ stories.”

Vivian couldn’t fight an answering smile. Villains were not kind.

But if Rhys was not a villain, what was he?