“But . . .”
“No.”
“It’s just—”
“No.”
“It’s my father!”
The words coursed through him, remaining hazy for longer than he would care to admit.
She couldn’t be right.
“I came for my daughter, ruffian! And I shall leave with her!”
“How did he know the room at which to shoot?”
“I—I was standing at the window. He must have seen the movement.”
Another bullet sent glass splintering across the room, and Bourne pressed closer to her, shielding her with his body. “Do you think he is aware that he could shoot you?”
“It does not appear to have occurred to him.”
He swore again. “He deserves to be hit in the head with his rifle.”
“I think he might be overcome with the fact that he’s hit his target. Thrice. Of course, considering the target was a house, it would have been something of a surprise if he hadn’t hit it.”
Was she amused?
She couldn’t be. Another shot rang out, and Bourne felt the final thread of his temper snap. He strode to the window, not caring that he might get shot in the process. “Dammit, Needham! You could kill her!”
The Marquess of Needham and Dolby did not look up from where he was aiming a second rifle, a nearby footman reloading the first. “I could also kill you. I like my odds!”
Penelope came up behind him. “If it’s any consolation, I sincerely doubt that he could kill you. He’s a terrible shot.”
Michael leveled her with a look. “Get away from this window. Now.”
Miracle of miracles, she did.
“I should have known you’d come for her, you ruffian. I should have known you’d do something worthy of your foul reputation.”
Bourne forced himself to appear calm. “Come now, Needham, is that any way to speak to your future son-in-law?”
“Over my dead body!” Fury made the other man’s voice crack.
“It can be arranged,” Bourne called out.
“You send the girl down here. Immediately. She won’t marry you.”
“After last night, there’s little question she will, Needham.”
The rifle cocked below, and Bourne ducked away from the window, pressing Penelope back into the corner as the bullet flew through another pane of glass.
“Scoundrel!”
He wanted to rail at her father for the lack of caution he exhibited for his daughter. Instead, he turned to the window, affected a tone of utter disinterest, and called out, “I found her. I’m keeping her.”
There was a long pause, so long that Michael could not help but lift his head around the window frame to see if the marquess had left.
He had not.
A bullet lodged itself in the exterior wall, several inches from Michael’s head. “You’re not getting Falconwell, Bourne. Nor are you getting my daughter!”
“Well, I’ll be honest, Needham . . . I’ve already had your daughter—”
The words were cut off by Needham’s bellow. “Blighter!”
Penelope gasped. “You did not just tell my father you’ve had me.”
He should have seen this potential outcome. Should have known that it would not be so easy. The whole morning was spiraling out of control, and Bourne did not like being out of control. He took a long, slow breath, trying for patience. “Penelope, we are holed up inside a house as your irate father fires numerous rifles at my head. I should think you’d forgive me for doing what I can to ensure we both survive this event.”
“And our reputations? Were they to survive as well?”
“My reputation is rather shot to hell,” he said, pressing his back to the wall.
“Well, mine isn’t!” she cried. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” She paused. “And your language is atrocious.”
“You’ll have to get used to my language, darling. As for the rest, when we marry, your reputation will be shot to hell, as well. Your father may as well know it now.”
He couldn’t stop himself from turning to face her, to watch the way the words affected her . . . the way the light went out of her eyes . . . the way she stiffened as though he’d struck her. “You’re horrible,” she said, simply. Honestly.
In that moment, as she looked at him, all calm accusation, he hated himself enough for both of them. But he was a master at hiding his emotions. “It seems that way.” The words were flippant. Forced.
Her distaste showed. “Why would you do this?”
There was only one reason—only one thing that had ever guided his actions. Only one thing that had turned him into this cold, calculating man.
“Does Falconwell mean so much?”
Silence fell outside, and something dark and unpleasant settled in the pit of his stomach, the feeling all too familiar. For nine years, he’d taken every measure to regain his land. To restore his history. To secure his future. And he was not about to stop now.
“Of course it does,” she said with a little self-deprecating laugh. “I am a means to an end.”
In the hours that had passed since he’d stumbled upon Penelope at the lake, he’d heard her irritated and surprised and affronted and impassioned . . . but he had not heard her like this.
He’d not heard her resigned.
He did not like it.
For the first time in a very long time—in nine years—Bourne felt the urge to apologize to someone he’d used. He steeled himself against the inclination.
He turned his head toward her—not enough to meet her gaze—just enough to watch her from the corner of his eye. Enough to see her head bowed, her hands holding his greatcoat closed around her. “Come here,” he said, and a small part of him was surprised when she did.