Page 1 of Princess of Thieves

Chapter One

I’ve always been weirdly proud of the fact that I never get carsick, but I might be breaking my perfect record today. The man at the wheel isn’t a bad driver—far from it. In fact, he navigates the Range Rover with a fluid grace you rarely see outside of Formula One drivers. The long wheelbase and cushy leather seats mean I’m riding in comfort, barely feeling any of the bumps in the rural Virginia road. But my pulse is pounding, my knuckles white as I grip the seat beneath me, and my mouth is as dry as the Sahara.

Because this man is a stranger.

All I know is that his name is Guy Gisbourne, he drives a car I hate, and he can’t have anything good in store for me.

He glances back at me from the driver’s seat. “You look uncomfortable.” It’s a statement, not a question. I swallow, even though my mouth is dry, and do my best to fix him with an intense glare in the rearview mirror.

I say nothing. I have nothing to say. Adrenaline is shooting through my veins like I’ve just chugged a quadruple espresso. A brief flutter of panic stirs in my chest, because what if I’m about to have—I would say a seizure, but I know now that’s not what they are—a spell, an incident. God, I wish I knew more about what’s wrong with me. Or not wrong with me, I guess. But up with me. I shake my head, the world careening around me as I do.

“Are you?” he prompts again. I can see that orthodontist-perfected smile gleaming in the rearview mirror.

“Huh?” I ask, too startled to stay silent. It’s been a long day, maybe the longest day of my life, or at least the longest sinceMama and Daddy died. I don’t even know what time it is. I slide my smartphone out from my back pocket and look at the screen. It’s been hours since I left Sherwood County, but I wasn’t taking a direct route. I wasn’t driving anywhere in particular, except away from that house, from those men, from—I can’t even think about it. It’s too painful.

“I asked,” the driver says with impeccable diction, just the hint of a Southern accent coloring his words, “if you were uncomfortable.”

Shit, I’ve engaged with him. There’s no way I can stay silent anymore.

I purse my lips, tuck my arms tight around me, glance left and right at the different windows of the car, as if there’s someone there who will back me up, and then decide to stare at my feet. “I’m fine,” I bite out.

“You really should be thanking me,” he says. After a moment, the only sound in the car is the whooshing of the air conditioning and the faint whispering sounds of the air outside skating over the sleek surface of the car. “You could have been in a lot of trouble back there.”

“I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” The words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them.

An amused expression flickers over his face. “Oh, I’m sure you weren’t. And that’s why the State Police pulled you over. They’re known for harassing drivers for no good reason, after all.”

A feisty retort, something about how, in fact, they do tend to do that—although admittedly not to nice, innocent-looking girls like me—but I have the good sense to hold back, to say nothing in fact, and just look out the window. I don’t know where we are. I didn’t know where I was when that state trooper pulled me over in the Mustang and almost hauled me in before this guy pulled up and hustled me into the back seat of this car. This car—RangeRover, long wheelbase, UVA alumnus license plate. Something pings in the recesses of my memory. That first night—the night I went back to the garage to find the documents that John had about me to trap me in that conservatorship. The night I ran away in the Mustang, pursued by... well, I don’t know who, but they were driving this kind of car.

Terror clutches at my chest. It was him. It was whoever he is.

Outside, through the tinted windows and the cool evenness of the air conditioning, we turn from rolling golden hills to trees and woodlands, lands like Sherwood, like home, like the house, where...

No, I can’t think about it.

“Where are you taking me?” I blurt out.

Again, amusement flickers over his face. I study him as best I can without giving myself away, flicking sideways glances to the rearview mirror. Before that night at the Fox Hunt Club, when I’d shown up as essentially an accomplice with the four of them.

Rob, Tuck, LJ, and Will.

My heart squeezes just thinking of them.

I’d never seen this guy before in my life. And yet, he knows me, or can pretend to know me. I gave him a fake name, but he knew who I really was.

My mind spins with possibilities: a drug lord my dad owed money to—that’s painful to admit, hard to reconcile, but a real possibility, so I have to acknowledge it; some rich asshole in cahoots with the sheriff; a total random who spotted me and somehow managed to track me down and has some in with the police to take me off their hands.

“Don’t you worry about it, Maren,” he says to me. The sound of my name in his mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle, like I’ve spotted a predator and need to run.

“Where are you taking me?” I demand again.

Behind his sunglasses, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror and stare at me. The smile that curls over his lips is condescending, almost pitying, yet I can tell he thinks he’s being kind. “Somewhere safe,” he says softly. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”

“I wasn’t worried until you kidnapped me from the side of the road,” I snap back. Too late, I realize that I probably shouldn’t unload the sass onto him. Who knows what he’s capable of? Between this car and his slick demeanor, he has the makings of a high-dollar hitman, and, glancing at his fit form and strong hands on the wheel, he could totally throttle the life out of me without a second thought, ditch my body somewhere in Sherwood Forest, and no one would be the wiser—or even care—until I was rotted away to nothing.

Except the four of them, my mind insists. Wouldn’t they care? Wouldn’t they miss me?

No, I command myself. It doesn’t matter. They lied. They manipulated me. They used me like a pawn. Like a stupid silly girl. Like everything that Uncle John said I was.

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