“That beggar O’Mara grabbed the highwayman outfit,” he said as I flailed out at him. “But this worked out rather well, as it happens. I bagged his scarf.”

I struggled to bite at his fingers, as the scarf came around my throat. I tried to thrash out at him, kick him, scratch his hands, but he had the advantage of being behind me. And he was much stronger than I had expected. Slowly and surely he was dragging me backward, away from the lights and safety, one hand still clamped over my mouth.

“When you’re found floating in the lake, O’Mara’s scarf will give him away,” he whispered into my ear. “And nobody will ever suspect me.” He gave the scarf a savage twist. I fought to breathe as he yanked me backward.

Blood was singing in my ears and spots were dancing in front of my eyes. If I didn’t do something soon, it would be too late. What would be the last thing he’d expect of me? He’d expect me to try to pull away to break free of him. Instead, I mustered all of my failing strength and rammed my head backward into his face. It must have hurt him a lot because it certainly hurt me. He let out a yell of pain. He might have been stronger than I had expected, but he still didn’t weigh much. He went down hard, with me on top of him.

“Damn you,” he gasped and tightened his grip on the scarf again.

As I tried to get to my feet he yanked me down, growling like an animal as he twisted the scarf. With the last of my strength I raised myself up then rammed myself down onto him. My aim must have been good. He let out a yowl and for a second the scarf went limp. This time I scrambled off him and tried to get to my feet. He grabbed at me. I opened my mouth to yell for help but no sound would come out of my throat.

“And you pretended to play the innocent virgin,” said a voice above us. “This is the wildest sex I’ve witnessed in years. You must teach me some of those moves next time we’re together.” And the masked highwayman stood there, holding out a hand to me. I staggered to my feet and stood gasping and coughing as he supported me.

“Tristram,” I whispered. “Tried to kill me. Don’t let him get away.”

Tristram was also struggling to his feet. He started to run. Darcy brought him down in a flying rugby tackle. “You never were any good at rugger, were you, Hautbois?” he said, kneeling on Tristram’s back and bringing his arm up behind him. “I always thought you were rotten. Lying, cheating, stealing, getting other fellows into trouble at school—that was you, wasn’t it, Hautbois?”