She remained unconvinced, and she did not linger to discover if that black shadow was, in fact, a bear. She had things to do back at home. First among them, accepting Tommy’s proposal.
And spending some careful time with her needlepoint.
Except, at the precise moment that she’d decided to turn tail and head back, a man came through the trees, lantern in hand.
Chapter Three
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!
The word echoed through her as though it had been shouted through the night, but Penelope’s limbs seemed unable to follow the command. Instead, she crouched low, hiding behind the bushes and hoping wildly that the man would not see her. Hearing his footsteps in the snow nearby, she crept along the hedge toward the lake, preparing to make a mad dash away from him when she stepped on the edge of her cloak, toppled off-balance, and landed, squarely, in the holly bush.
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!”