The reluctant cavalier Read Online Free PDF Page B

soon.
    "Need to catch up with your sister, eh?" Lord Laughton said. At Parsifal's nod, his lordship waved at him to go. "Take any of the horses—or no, not Thunder. Strained his hock the other day. Dancer's good, or Lightfoot."
    "You are very good, sir."
    Lord Laughton smiled widely. "Not at all. I've been meaning to try that new bay of yours for a sen'night now. I might just stop by tomorrow to take a look at him."
    Parsifal grinned in return and gave a low bow. "By all means, my lord." He heard a last crack of laughter from Laughton as he left the room and donned his mask again.
    His grin faded as he strode down to the stables. Dependable, Lord Laughton had called him. Dependable—and dull. Oh, his old friend would never say that, and probably did not think it, but Parsifal knew that dullness was only the other side of dependability. He need only look at his older brother to see that. His mother called Geoffrey a scapegrace, but Parsifal thought it an understatement. Perhaps it would have been different had their father been alive to guide him, but then Parsifal had heard his father's youth had not been much different. Geoffrey had more than one bastard child living near their estate, a well-known fact, but he was still considered a choice matrimonial prize, and invited to all social functions in Bath and in London.
    Parsifal had not cared one way or another, for he'd been content with his duties, his gardening, and roaming about the estate. Yet now there was Annabella Smith, and he had kissed her. Really, it would be best if he tried to put her from his mind, but he could still feel the kiss he had taken from her on his lips, as if he'd done it only moments ago.
    He grimaced. What an idiot he was to wish for something he'd not likely get.
    He entered the stable and went up to Dancer, a gray mare, who nickered softly and nibbled at his pockets. He laughed and pushed her nose away. "Later, girl. I have no treats for you right now."
    He saddled the mare himself, not wanting to waste time waking the undergroom to do it for him. Dancer chomped at the bit and moved her feet impatiently, and Parsifal smiled. The mare was as lively as her name, and though he knew Lord Laughton kept his cattle well exercised, she was always eager for more.
    The night was clear, the moon full, and despite the late hour, Parsifal did not feel like catching up with his sister's carriage. He was sure she'd be safe, for his mother always insisted on an armed outrider even on short trips, and even though the roads around their home were fairly free of vagabonds and highwaymen. He'd arrive home in about an hour, he was sure, perhaps sooner, for Dancer was eager to go faster than the mere trot at which they were traveling.
    Other than the crickets and one or two coaches, the night was silent, and it calmed him. Parsifal supposed it had been a rather upsetting evening—not upsetting, actually, but unsettling. He wondered again what made him act so impulsively tonight. Perhaps the problems he'd been having trying to drain the west field had put him in an irritable humor. He sighed. More likely, it was his preoccupation with Miss Smith. Certainly she had been on his mind—
    A loud shot exploded from just around the bend in the road, and he heard shouts and the neighing of horses. Parsifal's hand tensed on the reins, and his throat tightened.
    "Stand and deliver!"
    For one moment Parsifal sat, frozen, as an odd calm came over him. He took in a long breath.
    His hands dropped the reins, he dug his heels into the Dancer's flanks, and the mare plunged into a thunderous gallop. As he came around the road's curve, he could see a coach and four in front of him, and a dark figure upon a horse. Moonlight glinted off the barrel of a gun in the highwayman's hand. Shouts and loud sobbing came from inside the coach.
    Hot exhilaration burst in Parsifal's chest, and he laughed aloud. The highwayman's head jerked up. The wind whipped the hair from Parsifal's face, and he