She would gain access to his money, his freedoms, and anything else she wished.
He would gain Falconwell.
That was that. They were not the first to marry for land, nor would they be the last. It was a remarkable offer, the one he’d made her. He was rich and well connected, and he was offering her a chance to trade her future as a spinster for one as a marchioness. She could have anything she wanted. He’d give it to her with pleasure.
After all, she was giving him the only thing he’d ever really wanted.
Not quite. No one gave Bourne anything. He was taking it.
Taking her.
A vision flashed, large blue eyes set wide in her plain face, pleasure and something more blazing there. Something too close to emotion. Too close to caring.
That was why he’d left her, strategically. Coolly. Calculatingly.
To prove the marriage would be a business arrangement.
Not because he had wanted to stay.
Not because removing his mouth and hands from her had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Not because he’d been tempted to do just the opposite—to sink into her and revel in her, soft where women were meant to be soft and sweet where they were meant to be sweet. Not because those little sighs that came from the back of her throat while he kissed her were the most erotic things he’d ever heard, or that she tasted like innocence.
He forced himself to move away from her door. There was no reason to knock. He’d be back before she woke, ready to take her to the nearest vicar, present the special license for which he’d paid a handsome sum, and get her married.
Then, they would return to London and live their separate lives.
He took a deep breath, enjoying the sting of the crisp morning air in his lungs, satisfied with his plan.
That was when she screamed, the heart-stopping sound punctuated with the sound of shattering glass.
He responded instinctively, unlocking the door and nearly tearing it from its hinges to get it open. He pulled up short just inside the room, heart pounding.
She stood unharmed at the side of the broken window, back against the wall, barefoot, wrapped in his greatcoat, which hung open to reveal her ruined gown, gaping wide, baring an expanse of peach-colored skin.
For one fleeting moment, Bourne was arrested by that skin, by the way a single blond curl cut across it, drawing his attention to the place where a lovely rose-colored nipple stood peaked and proud in the cold room.
His mouth went dry, and he forced himself to return his gaze to her face, where her wide eyes blinked in shock and disbelief as she stared at the great glass window next to her, now missing a pane, shattered by . . .
A bullet.
He was across the tiny room in seconds, shielding her with his body and pushing her from the room into the hallway beyond. “Stay here.”
She nodded, shock apparently making her more agreeable than he would have expected. He returned to the room and the window, but before he could inspect the damage, a second gunshot shattered another pane of glass, missing Bourne by a distance with which he was not at all comfortable.
What in hell?
He swore once, harshly, and pressed himself against the wall of the room, next to the window.
Someone was shooting at him.
The question was, Who?
“Be careful—”
Penelope stuck her head back into the room, and Bourne was already moving toward her, sending her a look that had sent the worst of London’s underground into retreat. “Get out.”
She did not move. “It is not safe for you to stay in there. You could be—” Another shot sounded from outside, interrupting, and he leapt for her, praying he could get to her before a bullet did. He barreled into her, pushing her back out the door until they were both pressed up against the opposite wall.
They were still for a long minute before she continued, her words muffled by his bulk. “You could be hurt!”
Was she out of her mind?
He grasped her shoulders, not caring that his ordinarily tightly reined temper was beginning to fray. “Idiot woman! What did I say?” He waited for her to answer the question. When she didn’t, he couldn’t help himself. Shaking her once by the shoulders, he repeated, “What did I say?”
Her eyes went wide.
Good. She should fear him.
“Answer me, Penelope.” He heard the growl in his voice. Didn’t care.
“You—” The words caught in her throat. “You said I should stay here.”
“And are you somehow unable to understand such a simple direction?”
Her gaze narrowed. “No.”
He’d insulted her. Again, he did not care. “Stay. The bloody hell. Here.” He ignored her wince and returned to the room, inching around toward the window.
He was just about to risk looking out onto the grounds to attempt a glimpse at his would-be assassin when words floated up from below. “Do you surrender?”
Surrender?
Perhaps Penelope had been right. Perhaps there were indeed pirates in Surrey.
He didn’t have much time to consider the question, as Penelope cried out, “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” from the hallway and rushed back into the room, clutching his coat around her and heading straight for the window.
“Stop!” Bourne lunged to block her progress, catching her around the waist and hauling her back. “If you get anywhere near that window, I’ll paddle you. Do you hear me?”
“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?”