Dear M—
A gift! How extravagant. School is certainly turning you
into a fine man; last year, you gave me a half-eaten piece of gingerbread. I
shall be very excited to see what you’ve planned.
I suppose this means I shall have to find a gift for you
as well.
Soonest—P
Needham Manor, November 1813
* * *
Dear P—
That was excellent gingerbread. I should have known that
you wouldn’t appreciate my generosity in the slightest. Whatever happened to
the thought and how well it counts?
It will be good to be home. I’ve missed Surrey. And you,
Sixpence (though it pains me to admit it).
—M
Eton College, November 1813
Flee!
Which was quite prickly.
“Oof!” She put out one hand to save herself from becoming
tangled in the vicious plant, only to be stabbed by a rogue branch. She bit her
lip and froze as the footsteps stopped.
She held her breath.
Perhaps he hadn’t seen her. After all, it was very dark.
If only she were not holding a lantern.
She shoved the light into the bush.
It did not help, as she was almost instantly flooded with a
different source of light.
His light.
He took a step toward her.
She pressed backward into the bush, sharp leaves preferable
to his shadowed bulk. “Hello.”
He stopped but did not reply, and they remained in long, unbearable
silence. Penelope’s heart was pounding, the only part of her that seemed to
remember how to move. When she could not bear the silence a moment longer, she
spoke from her position, unbalanced in a holly bush, trying for her most firm
of tones. “You are trespassing.”
“Am I?” For a pirate, he had a very nice voice. It rolled
out from deep in his chest, making her think of goose down and warm brandy. She
shook her head at the thought, obviously the product of the cold playing tricks
with her mind.
“Yes. You are. The house in the distance is Falconwell
Manor. Owned by the Marquess of Bourne.”
There was a beat. “Impressive,” the pirate said, and she had
the distinct feeling that he was not at all impressed.
She tried to rise with haughtiness. Failed. Twice. On the
third attempt, she brushed off her skirts, and said, “It is quite impressive.
And I assure you, the marquess will be very unhappy to know that you are”— she
waved her muffled hand in the air—“whatever you are doing . . . on his land.”
“Will he?” The pirate seemed unconcerned, lowering his
lantern, casting his upper half into shadow, continuing his advance.
“Indeed.” Penelope squared her shoulders. “And I shall give
you three pence worth of advice; he is not to be trifled with.”
“It sounds as though you and the marquess are very close.”
She lifted her lantern and began to edge away. “Oh, yes. We
are. Quite close. Very, even.”
It was not precisely a lie. They had been very close when he
was in short pants.
“I don’t think so,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “In
fact, I don’t think the marquess is anywhere near this place. I don’t think
anyone is near this place.”
She stopped at the threat in his words, a deer hesitating in
advance of a rifle’s report, and considered her options.
“I would not run if I were you,” he continued, reading her
mind. “It is dark, and the snow is thick. You would not get very far without .
. .”
He trailed off, but she knew the end of the sentence.
Without him catching and killing her.
She closed her eyes.When she’d said she wanted more, this
was not at all what she had been asking for. She was going to die here. In the
snow. And they would not find her until spring.
That was, if her corpse was not carried off by hungry
wolves.
She had to do something.She opened her eyes to find him much
much closer.
“Sirrah! Do not come any closer! I . . .” she flailed for a
decent threat. “I am armed!”
His response was unmoved. “Do you plan to smother me with
your muff?”
“You, sir, are not a gentleman.”
“Ah. Truth at last.”
She took another step back. “I am going home.”
“I don’t think so, Penelope.”
Her heart stopped at the sound of her name, then started
again, pounding so loudly in her chest that she was certain this . . . this . .
. scoundrel would hear it. “How do you know my name?”
“I know many things.”
“Who are you?” She lifted her lamp, as if it could ward off
danger, and he stepped into the pool of light.
He did not look like a pirate.
He looked . . . familiar.
There was something there, in the handsome angles and deep,
wicked shadows, the hollows of his cheeks, the straight line of his lips, the
sharp line of his jaw—in need of a shave.
Yes, there was something there—a whisper of recognition.
He wore a pin-striped cap dusted with snow, the brim of which
cast his eyes into darkness. They were a missing piece.
She would never know from where the instinct came—perhaps
from a desire to discover the identity of the man who would end her days—but
she could not stop herself from reaching up and pushing the hat back from his
face to see his eyes.
Only later would it occur to her that he did not try to stop
her.
His eyes were hazel, a mosaic of browns and greens and greys
framed by long, dark lashes, spiked with snow.
She would have known them anywhere, even if they were far
more serious now than she’d ever seen them before.Shock coursed through her,
followed by a thick current of happiness.
He was not a pirate.
“Michael?” He stiffened at the sound of his name, but she
did not take the time to wonder why.
She flattened her palm against his cold cheek—an action at
which she would later marvel—and laughed, the sound muffled by the snow falling
around them. “It is you, isn’t it?”
He reached up, pulling her hand from his face. He wasn’t
wearing gloves, and still, he was so warm.
And not at all clammy.
Before she could stop him, he pulled her to him, pushing
back the hood of her cloak, exposing her to the snow and the light. There was a
long moment while his gaze roamed her face, and she forgot to be uncomfortable.
“You’ve grown.”
She couldn’t help it. She laughed again. “It is you! You
beast! You scared me! You pretended not to know—! Where have you—? When did
you—?” She shook her head, her smile straining her cheeks. “I don’t even know
where to begin!”
She smiled up at him, taking him in. The last time she’d
seen him, he’d been a few inches taller than she, a gangly boy, arms and legs
too long for his body. No longer. This Michael was a man, tall and lean.
And very, very handsome.
She still did not quite believe that it was he. “Michael!”
He met her gaze head-on, and a bolt of pleasure shot through
her as though the look were a physical touch, warming her—catching her off
guard before the brim of his cap shielded his eyes once more, and she filled
his silence with her own words. “What are you doing here?”
His lips did not move from their perfect, straight line.
There was a long pause, during which she was consumed with the heat of him.
With the happiness of seeing him. It didn’t matter that it was late and it was
dark and he didn’t seem nearly as happy to see her.
“Why are you traipsing through the darkness in the dead of night
in the middle of nowhere?”
He’d avoided her question, yes, but Penelope didn’t care.
“It’s not the middle of nowhere. We’re no more than a half a mile from either
of our houses.”
“You could have been set upon by a highwayman, or a thief,
or a kidnapper, or—”
“A pirate. Or a bear. I’ve already considered all the
options.”
The Michael she had once known would have smiled. This one
did not. “There are no bears in Surrey.”
“Pirates would be rather a surprise, too, don’t you think?”
No answer.
She tried to rouse the old Michael. To coax him out. “I
would take an old friend over a pirate or a bear any day, Michael.”
Snow shifted beneath his feet. When he spoke, there was
steel in his tone. “Bourne.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Call me Bourne.”
Shock and embarrassment coursed through her. He was a
marquess, yes, but she’d never imagined he’d be so firm about his title . . .
they were childhood friends, after all. She cleared her throat. “Of course,
Lord Bourne.”
“Not the title. Just the name. Bourne.”
She swallowed back her confusion. “Bourne?”
He gave a slight nod, barely there before it was gone. “I’ll
ask you one more time. Why are you here?”
She did not think of ignoring the question. “I saw your
lantern; I came to investigate.”
“You came, in the middle of the night, to investigate a
strange light in the woods of a house that has been uninhabited for sixteen
years.”
“It’s only been uninhabited for nine years.”
He paused. “I don’t remember your being so exasperating.”
“Then you don’t remember me very well. I was a very
exasperating child.”
“You were not. You were very serious.”
She smiled. “So you do remember. You were always trying to
make me laugh. I’m simply returning the favor; is it working?”
“No.”
She lifted her lantern high, and he allowed her to free him
from the shadows, casting his face in warm, golden light. He had aged
marvelously, grown into his long limbs and angled face. Penelope had always
imagined that he’d become handsome, but he was more than handsome now . . . he
was nearly beautiful.
If not for the darkness that lingered despite the glow of
the lantern—something dangerous in the set of his jaw, in the tightness of his
brow, in eyes that seemed to have forgotten joy, in lips that seemed to have
lost their ability to smile.
He’d had a dimple as a child, one that showed itself often
and was almost always the precursor to adventure. She searched his left cheek,
looking for that telltale indentation. Did not find it.
Indeed, as much as Penelope searched this new, hard face,
she could not seem to find the boy she’d once known. If not for the eyes, she
would not have believed it was him at all.
“How sad,” she whispered to herself.
He heard it. “What?”She shook her head, meeting his gaze,
the only thing familiar about him. “He’s gone.”
“Who?”
“My friend.”
She hadn’t thought it possible, but his features hardened
even more, growing more stark, more dangerous, in the shadows. For one fleeting
moment, she thought perhaps she had pushed him too far. He remained still,
watching her with that dark gaze that seemed to see everything.
Every instinct told her to leave. Quickly. To never return.
And still she stayed. “How long will you remain in Surrey?” He did not reply.
She took a step toward him, knowing she shouldn’t. “There’s nothing inside the
house.”
He ignored her.
She pressed on. “Where are you sleeping?”
A wicked black brow rose. “Why? Are you inviting me into
your bed?”
The words stung with their rudeness. Penelope stiffened as
though she had received a physical blow. She waited a beat, sure he would
apologize.
Silence.
“You’ve changed.”
“Perhaps you should remember that the next time you decide
to go on a midnight adventure.”
He was nothing like the Michael she had once known.
She spun on her heel, heading into the blackness, toward the
place where Needham Manor stood. She’d gone only a few feet before she turned
back to face him. He had not moved.
“I really was happy to see you.” She turned and headed away,
back to her home, the cold seeping deep into her bones before she turned back,
unable to resist a final barb. Something to hurt him as he’d hurt her. “And
Michael?”
She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew undeniably that he
was watching her. Listening.
“You’re on my land.”
She regretted the words the instant she spoke them, the
product of frustration and irritation, laced with an edge of teasing that
better suited a mean-spirited child than a woman of eight-and-twenty.
Regretted them even more when he shot toward her, a wolf
from the night. “Your land?”
The words were dark and menacing. She stepped back
instantly. “Y-yes.”
She should never have left the house.
“You and your father think to catch you a husband with my
land?”
He knew.
She ignored the pang of sadness that came with the
realization that he was there for Falconwell. And not for her.
He kept coming, closer and closer, and Penelope’s breath
caught in her throat as she backed away from him, trying to keep pace with his
strides. Failing. She shook her head. She should deny the words. Should rush to
comfort him. To settle this great beast who stalked her through the snow.
But she didn’t.
She was too angry. “It’s not yours. You lost it. And I’ve
already caught myself a husband.” He needn’t know she hadn’t accepted the
offer.
He paused. “You are married?”
She shook her head, moving away quickly, taking the chance
to put distance between them as she slung her words at him. “No, but we will be
. . . in no time. And we shall live quite happily here, on our land.”
What was wrong with her? The words were out, quick
and impetuous and they could not be taken back.
He advanced again, this time with complete focus. “Every man
in London wants Falconwell, if not for the land, then to hold it over my head.”
If she moved any more quickly, she would topple into the
snow, but it was worth the attempt, for she was suddenly very nervous about
what would happen if he caught her.
She stumbled, a hidden tree root sending her falling
backward with a little screech, and she threw her arms wide, dropping her
lantern in an awkward attempt to catch herself.
He beat her to it, his large, strong hands coming around her
arms, catching her, lifting her, pressing her back against a large oak tree
and, before she could regain her footing and escape, bracing against the wood
to cage her in his arms.
The boy she remembered was gone.
The man in his place was not to be trifled with.
He was very close. Too close, leaning in, lowering his voice
to a whisper, the breath of his words against the arch of her cheek heightening
her nervousness. She did not breathe, too focused on the heat of him, on what
he would say next. “They’ll even marry an aging spinster to get it.”
She hated him then. Hated the words, the way he spoke them
with such simple cruelty. Tears threatened.
No. No. She would not cry.
Not for this beast of a man who was nothing like the boy
she’d once known. The one she’d dreamed would one day return.
Not like this.
She struggled against him once more, irritated now,
desperate to be free. He was stronger than her by half and refused to release
her, pressing her back to the oak, leaning in until he was close—too close.
Fear lanced through her, followed by quick, blessed anger. “Let me go.”
He did not move. In fact, for a long moment, Penelope
thought he had not heard her.
“No.”
The refusal was emotionless.
She struggled again, kicking out, one booted foot connecting
with his shin, hard enough to spur a very satisfying grunt. “Dammit!” she
cried, knowing that ladies didn’t curse, knowing that she would likely spend an
eternity in purgatory for the transgression but not knowing how else to
communicate with this brutish stranger. “What are you going to do, leave me
here in the snow to freeze to death?”
“No.” The word was low and dark at her ear as he held her,
easily.
She did not give up. “Kidnap me then? Hold me for ransom for
Falconwell?”
“No, though it wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He was so
close, she could smell him, bergamot and cedar, and she paused at the sensation
of his breath brushing over the skin of her cheek. “But I’ve got something much
worse in mind.”
She stilled. He wouldn’t kill her.
After all, they’d been friends once. Long ago, before he’d
become handsome as the devil and twice as cold.
He wouldn’t kill her.
Would he?“
Wh—what is it?”
He stroked the tip of one finger down the long column of her
neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her breath caught in her throat at
the touch . . . all wicked warmth and nearly unbearable sensation.
“You have my land, Penelope,” he whispered at her ear, the
sound low and liquid and altogether too distracting even as it sent tremors of
anxiety spiraling through her, “and I want it back.”
She should not have left the house that evening.
If she survived this, she would never leave the house
again.She shook her head, eyes closed as he wreaked havoc on her senses. “I
can’t give it to you.”
He stroked one hand down her arm in a long, lovely caress,
taking her wrist in his firm, warm clasp. “No, but I can take it.”
She opened her eyes, met his, black in the darkness. “What
does that mean?”
“It means, my darling”—the endearment was mocking—“that we
are to be married.”
Shock coursed through her as he lifted her arm, tossed her
over his shoulder, and headed into the trees toward Falconwell Manor.
* * *
Dear M—
I cannot believe that you did not tell me that you were
named head of class and I had to hear it from your mother (who is very proud
indeed). I’m shocked and appalled that you would not share with me . . . and not
a little bit impressed that you managed not to brag about it.
There must be masses that you haven’t told me about
school. I am waiting.
Ever patient—P
Needham Manor, February 1814
* * *
Dear P—
I’m afraid head of class isn’t much of a title when
you’re a first-year; I’m still subject to the whims of the older boys when I am
not at study. Fear not—when I am named head of class next year, I shall brag
shamelessly.
There are masses to tell . . . but not to girls.
—M
Eton College, February 1814
Bourne had imagined a half dozen scenarios that ended in his
ferreting Penelope away from her father and her family and marrying her to
reclaim his land. He’d planned for seduction, and for coercion, and even—in the
extreme—for abduction.
But not one of those scenarios had involved a snow-covered
woman with a penchant for danger and less than the recommended allotment of
sense approaching him in the bitter cold of a Surrey January in the dead of
night.
She’d saved him quite a bit of work.Naturally, it would have
been wrong of him to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.
And so he’d taken her.
“You brute!”
He winced as she pounded her fists against his shoulders,
her legs flailing about, their awkward angle the only thing that kept him from
losing critical parts of his anatomy to a single well-placed kick.“
Put me down!”
He ignored her, instead capturing her legs with one arm,
tilting her up until she squeaked and grasped the back of his coat for balance,
then resettling her on his shoulder, taking no small amount of pleasure in her
grunted “Oof!” as his shoulder found purchase in the soft swell of her stomach.
It seemed that the lady was not pleased with the direction
of her evening.
“Is there a problem with your ability to hear?” she said
archly, or, as archly as one could sound while tossed over a man’s shoulder.
He did not reply.
He did not have to. She was filling the silence quite well
with her muttering. “I should never have left the house . . . Lord knows if I’d
known you would be out here, I would have locked the doors and windows and sent
for the constable . . . To think . . . I was actually happy to see you!”
She had been happy to see him, her laughter like sunshine
and her excitement palpable. He stopped himself from thinking about the last
time someone had been so happy to see him.
From questioning if anyone had ever been so happy to see
him. Anyone but Penelope.
He’d stripped the happiness from her, coolly, efficiently,
with skill, expecting her to be cowed by it, to be weakened.
And she’d spoken, soft and simple, the words echoing across
the lake, punctuated by the falling snow, the rushing of blood in his ears, and
the biting knowledge of the truth.
You’re on my land.
It’s not yours.
You lost it.
There was nothing weak about this woman. She was strong as
steel.
With a handful of words, she’d reminded him that she was the
last thing standing in the way of the one thing he’d wanted for his entire
adult life. Of the only thing that gave him purpose.
Falconwell.
The land from whence he had come, and his father before him,
and his father’s father before that, back generations—too many to count.
The land he had lost and vowed to regain.
At any cost.
Even marriage.
“You cannot simply carry me off like . . . like . . . a
sheep!”
His stride broke for a split second. “A sheep?”
She paused, obviously rethinking the comparison. “Don’t
farmers carry sheep over their shoulders?”
“I have never seen such a thing, but you’ve lived in the
country longer than I, so . . . if you say I am treating you like a sheep, so
be it.”
“You evidently do not care that I feel as though I have been
ill-treated.”
“If it is any comfort, I do not plan to shear you.”
“It’s no comfort at all, in fact,” she said tartly. “I will
tell you once more! Put. Me. Down!” She squirmed again, nearly slithering out
of his grasp, one foot coming dangerously close to connecting with a valuable
portion of his anatomy.
He grunted and tightened his grasp. “Stop it.” He lifted one
hand and spanked her once, firmly, on her bottom.
She went board stiff at the action.
“You did not . . . I cannot . . . You hit me!”
He flung open the rear door to the Falconwell kitchens and
marched her inside. Placing his lantern on a nearby table, he set her down at
the center of the dark room. “You’re wearing half a dozen layers of clothing
and a winter cloak. I’m surprised you felt it at all.
”Penelope’s eyes flashed with fury. “Nevertheless, a
gentleman would never dream of . . . of . . .”
He watched her flounder for the word, enjoying her
discomfort, finally offering, “I believe the word you are looking for is
‘spanking.’ ”
Her eyes went wide at the word. “Yes. That. Gentlemen don’t
. . .”
“First, I thought we’d already established that I am not a
gentleman. That ship sailed long ago. And second, you’d be surprised what
gentlemen do . . . and what ladies enjoy.”
“Not this lady. You owe me an apology.”
“I would not hold my breath waiting for it.” He heard her
little gasp as he moved across the kitchen to the place where he’d left a
bottle of scotch earlier in the evening. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“So polite.”
“One of us should be, don’t you think?”
He turned to face her, half-amused and half-surprised by her
smart mouth.
She was not tall, barely the height of his shoulder, but at
the moment she looked like an Amazon.
The hood of her cloak had fallen away, and her hair was in
disarray, tumbling around her shoulders, gleaming pale blond in the dim light.
Her chin was thrust forward in a universal sign of defiance, her shoulders were
stiff and straight, and her chest rose and fell with harsh anger, swelling
beneath her cloak.
She looked as though she’d like to do him no small amount of
bodily harm.
“This is kidnapping.”
He took a long pull on the bottle, enjoying her look of
shock at his behavior as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips and met
her gaze. He remained quiet, enjoying the way his silence set her on edge.
After a long moment, she announced, “You cannot kidnap me!”
“As I said outside, I have no intention of kidnapping you.”
He leaned forward until his face was on a level with hers. “I intend to marry
you, darling.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “I am leaving.”
“No, you are not.”
“I’m not restrained. I could leave if I tried.”
“Restraints are for amateurs.” He leaned back against the
sideboard. “I encourage you to try.”
She cast an uncertain look at him before shrugging one
shoulder and heading for the door. He blocked her exit. She stopped. “I realize
you’ve been out of society for quite some time, but you cannot simply abduct
your neighbors.”
“As I said, this is not an abduction.”
“Well, whatever it is,” she said peevishly, “it isn’t done.”
“I should think you would have noticed by now that I care
very little for what is done.”
She considered the words for a moment. “You should.”
There was a hazy familiarity in the way she stood, stick
straight, instructing him in proper behavior. “There she is.”
“Who?”
“The Penelope from my childhood. So concerned with
propriety. You haven’t changed at all.”
She lifted her chin. “That’s not true.”
“No?”
“Not at all. I’m quite changed. Entirely different.”
“How?”
“I—” she started, then stopped, and he wondered what she was
about to say. “I just am. Now let me go.” She moved to push past him. When he
did not move, she stopped, unwilling to touch him.A pity. The memory of the
warmth of her gloved hand on his cold cheek flashed. Apparently her behavior
outside had been the product of surprise.
And pleasure.
He wondered what else she might do instinctively in response
to pleasure. An image flashed—blond hair spread wide across dark, silken
sheets, ice blue eyes alight with surprise as he gave prim, proper Penelope a
glimpse of dark and heady pleasure.
He’d nearly kissed her in the darkness. It had started out
as a way to intimidate her, to begin the systematic compromising of quiet,
unassuming, Penelope Marbury. But he did not deny that as they stood in his
barren kitchen, he wondered what she would taste like. How her breath would sound
fluttering across his skin. How she would feel against him. Around him.
“This is foolish.”
The words snapped him back to the present. “Are you sure you
would not like a drink?”
Her eyes went wide.
“I—no!”
She was so easy to frustrate. She always had been. “It is
still polite to offer one’s guests refreshment, is it not?”
“Not whiskey! And certainly not straight from the bottle!”
“I suppose I’ve made a hash of it, then. Perhaps you could
remind me of what I should be offering my guests in such a situation?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “I don’t know, considering
I’m not in the habit of being abducted in the middle of the night to barren
country houses.” Her lips pressed into an irritated straight line. “I should
like to return home. To bed.”
“That can be arranged without your having to return home,
you know.”
She made a little noise of frustration. “Michael . . .”
He hated the name on her lips.No, he didn’t. “Bourne.”
She met his eyes. “Bourne . . . you’ve proven your point.”
He stayed quiet, curious, and she pressed on. “I understand that it was bad judgment
to wander out into the woods in the middle of the night. I see now that I could
have been overcome. Or abducted. Or worse, and I am prepared to admit that you
have taught me a well-needed lesson.”
“How very gracious of you.”
She pressed on, as though he had not spoken, edging around
him. He moved to block her exit. She stopped and met his gaze, her blue eyes
flashing with what he imagined was frustration. “I am also prepared to ignore
the fact that you have committed an egregious breach of etiquette by moving
me—bodily—from a public location to an entirely inappropriate . . . altogether
too private one.”
“And don’t forget spanking you.”
“That, too. Utterly . . . completely . . . beyond
inappropriate.”
“Appropriateness seems not to have got you very far.”
She stilled, and he knew immediately that he had struck a
nerve. Something unpleasant flared deep within him. He resisted it.
He might be planning to marry her, but he was not planning
to care for her.
“I’m afraid I’ve plans for you, Penelope, and you’re not
going anywhere tonight.” He extended the bottle of whiskey toward her and
spoke, all seriousness. “Have a drink. It will take the edge off until
tomorrow.”
“What happens tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, we marry.”
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