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.”