My Favorite Bride (2 page)

“The children?” This got worse and worse. Samantha tried to read the letter upside-down. “What's wrong with the children?”

“Colonel Gregory says there's nothing wrong with them.”

“If he says there's nothing wrong with them, then there most certainly is something wrong with them.”

“True. I thought that myself. There are certainly an abundance of the little dears.”

“An abundance?” Alarmed, Samantha asked, “What constitutes an abundance of children?”

Adorna consulted the letter. “Six, ranging in ages from four to twelve.”

“Colonel Gregory's been a busy lad!” And he was just what Samantha didn't need. A curmudgeonly chap who wanted a governess to care for his abundance of children so he could go chasing around the countryside after vicious bandits. “My lady . . .” Samantha spread her hands, palm up, in appeal.

Adorna took off her glasses, folded them, and placed them on the table with a precision that boded ill for Samantha. “I am resolute that you shall take this position.”

Oh, no. Adorna seldom spoke with such determination. She almost always got what she wanted, true, but normally she did so with tact and guile. When she spoke so directly, the intended victim had no chance of appeal. “My lady?”

“You struck at Mr. Wordlaw's income, his status, and his masculine pride—and that pride will find no satisfaction with anything but the complete
annihilation of your reputation. I cannot find you another position here in London.”

“But . . . but I've never left London.”

“You've made your bed. Now you must lie in it.” Adorna stared at Samantha. “You
are
going to the Lake District.”

Heart sinking, Samantha stared back at her.

Briskly, Adorna said, “I've already sent a letter to Colonel Gregory telling him to look for you within the fortnight. And Samantha?”

Adorna's serious tone made Samantha pay particular attention. “Aye, my lady?”

“Do not, under any circumstances, tell Colonel Gregory about your past.” Adorna folded her hands before her on the desk. “I have investigated him, and I'm told he is a good man, a fair man, but intolerant.”

“A thief is a thief until the day she dies?” Samantha could scarcely swallow around the lump of resentment in her throat. “There's nothing new in that. I could make of myself a saint and still the bastards would judge me.”

“Don't be vulgar,” Adorna rebuked. “And promise me you'll be discreet.”

Samantha smiled bitterly. “I promise, my lady. I will tell this righteous curmudgeon nothing.”

Chapter Two

Slack-jawed, Samantha stood in the grass next to her trunk and stared as, in a cloud of dust, the cart raced back down the dirt road toward the village of Hawksmouth. “What did I say?” she yelled after the youthful driver, who ignored her with steadfast disregard.

All she'd done was inquire if wolves still ate the villagers. Whether she would have to rescue the children from bears. And if Colonel Gregory kept his livestock in the house. They were all questions that needed to be raised, but the groom from the Hawksmouth Inn had taken offense and dumped her here.

The scenery proved as terrifying as she had feared. Trees lined the road and extended back into a dark forest where, she was sure, bears lurked with long claws and blood-flecked teeth. Bears
which now stalked her while slobbering with hunger, waiting only till dark to leap on her and rend her to pieces. And just ahead, she could see an open area. One of those meadows, she supposed, like so many the coach had passed on its trip up here. A meadow, vast and green, rising and falling, etched by lines of white drystone fences that extended as far as the eye could see. Sheep strolled the meadows, large-eyed, chewing grass, watching constantly for . . . wolves.

Yes, wolves. She would wager there were wolves here. She could imagine wolves slinking along, their red eyes fixed on a meal of fresh mutton, when suddenly they veered away, for they spotted a larger, more tender meal.
Her.

She shuddered and slowly lowered herself onto the trunk. Adorna must have felt sorry for her protégé, for she had taken care that Samantha should be well dressed for her exile, gifting her with an extravagance of gowns, shawls, petticoats, hats, and boots. Unfortunate that they would be left to rot on the side of this lane; for night would descend, Samantha would still be sitting out here, every fanged creature would take its chance to eat her, and no one would hear her screams.

She came to her feet and started toward Silvermere. Her skirts swished in the dirt. She glanced behind her, and all around. The shadows were deepening in the trees. The sun dropped toward the horizon, toward the maw of the mountains, where it would be devoured. If she were wise, she would go back to the trunk and spend her last precious moments with her garments, but the will to
survive was too strong. Even though she knew it was useless, she had to try to get to Silvermere.

She adjusted her reticule on her arm. She only hoped the decaying castle waited at the end of the road.

She passed beside a lake, a still, blue, frightening depth, cold and deep.
Things
inhabited it. She knew they did, because occasionally something plopped on the surface. It might be a fish. On the other hand, it could be a monster, lurking in the depths. She'd heard about lake monsters. She'd just read a novel about one in Scotland.

As she began to trot, she remembered the gothic novels she had so lovingly packed in that trunk. If she lived through this, she was going to toss them . . . well, not in the lake. That might disturb the monster. But away.

She looked ahead, hoping to see a building. Any building. There was nothing. Nothing but the road, twisting and turning, rising and falling. The trees, a relentless green. And above everything towered those mountains, austere, rocky, uncaring. The young driver had pointed them out and had told her they called them “fells” here in Cumbria. She had asked whether they were called that because people fell down them, or because they fell down on people. It seemed a logical question, but he'd begun to get surly right then.

The sun sank too rapidly, touching the peaks with red. Mist boiled out from the trees in puffs, then slid away as if sucked in by the breath of a hidden giant. Dusk gathered in the pockets of the forest and the dips in the road.

A stitch grew in her side, and she slowed down and pressed her hand to her corset.

Actually, any self-respecting wolf would refuse to eat her. She'd been traveling for four solid days—two days on the train, a brief night in an inn in York, then two days on the coach. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, her gown of sturdy brown worsted looked much the worse for wear, and her feet . . . she stopped and leaned against a tree. “My feet hurt.”

Which didn't matter at all when she heard a crashing in the underbrush. She didn't even try to see what or where it was. She took off in a sprint.

A beast galloped onto the road right in front of her, forcing her to a stop.

“Ruddy ‘ell!” Before she could turn and dash the other direction, a man's hand reached down and snagged her by her collar, and his deep voice thundered, “Halt! What are you doing here?”

A horse. A horse and rider.

She could scarcely speak for relief. “I'm trying to get to Silvermere.”

“Silvermere? What for?”

Which was when she realized he had her by the collar. This man clutched her by the collar as if she were a puppy. Grabbing his wrist, she twisted around to look up at him. “Who are you to question me so rudely?”

She filled in her own answer.
A big, tall, good-looking man.
She couldn't make out the details, the dusk had grown too thick, but what she could see looked quite marvelous. A healthy head of dark hair, cut neatly around his face and ears. Stark
cheekbones with shadowy hollows beneath them. A square jaw, thrust forward and tight with determination. A thin nose. A long nose. Some might say a big nose, but one that sat well on that face of crags and valleys.

And better still, a lovely set of broad shoulders with a narrow waist and obviously strong arms. Beneath her hand, his wrist was taut and corded, and so wide her fingers didn't span it.

She couldn't see his eyes, though, and without them she couldn't read his mind. Well, except for his hostility.

She would have thought, when he saw her, a slender young woman, he would release her, but instead he tightened his grip. “Answer me. Who are you, and why are you going to Silvermere?”

Her initial relief at seeing a man, not a wolf or a monster, faded. He held her so close she could feel his horse's warmth and smell its sweat. The proximity of its crushing hooves, so close to her own feet, made her try to back away, and when he simply moved the creature closer, she gave a shriek. “Would you stop? That beast is going to step on me.”

“Stand still and all will be well.”

She precisely remembered the tone of a constable's voice when he collared a thief, and this fellow had that tone. Gritty. Disdainful. Implacable.

“I'm Miss Samantha Prendregast and I'm the new governess.” She did
not
ask him if they kept livestock in the houses hereabout. No one could say she didn't learn from her mistakes.

The fellow let go of her collar.

She gave a sigh of relief and straightened her gown. “That's better. Now—who are
you
and what are you doing riding the roads and grabbing young women by the—”

Leaning over, he removed her reticule from her arm.

She grabbed for it.

He held it away from her.

“What are you doing?” she shouted. She
knew
what he was doing; she just couldn't believe it. What an irony, for her to have her purse nicked as soon as she left the City.

He felt the outside of the soft black velvet, then brought forth the contents. A handkerchief. The key to her trunk. The stub of her train ticket. And a modest, very modest, sum of money.

She never made the mistake of carrying any but the least of her funds in her reticule. She kept most of her money strapped beneath her garter. Tonight, if her bad luck held, he would realize that and be under her skirts at once.

But he put the contents of her reticule back in and handed it to her.

She snatched the purse and wondered if madmen and bullies always roamed the countryside.

“Why are you afoot? Was there an accident?” For all that he had let her go, that commanding tone had not dissipated. If anything, it had sharpened, grown more insistent.

“Of sorts. The groom from the Hawksmouth Inn dumped me and my trunk on the side of the road and went back to town.”

“Why?”

“Apparently he took offense at something I said.”

Looking her up and down, he said, “I can imagine.” The brute swung out of the saddle.

She was tall, but he was taller. He must have been six foot two in his stocking feet, and he had that kind of massive, bulky build that some men worked hard for and some men were born with, and she was willing to wager he'd been born with his. She hadn't felt threatened before. Not really. But now thoughts of rape and murder rampaged through her mind, and for the second time in as many weeks, she wished she had learned a few more tricks to discourage a forceful suitor. She'd poked Mr. Wordlaw's Adam's apple with her fingernail, and he'd backed off in a hurry. She didn't think that would work with this chap. “Who are you?” she asked again.

She might not even have spoken. “Have you got papers to prove who you are?”

“I have a letter from Lady Bucknell.”

“Show it to me.”

“It's in my trunk.” And she was glad, too. Even if it made trouble, even if he tortured her because he didn't believe her, she wanted to thwart this man who threatened and frightened a defenseless woman on the road to nowhere.

He hovered over her and stared as if he could decipher her thoughts.

Which she knew very well he couldn't. Every second the darkness thickened, the kind of dark she'd never seen before, untouched by city lights.
Stars popped out like tiny embers on a vast black hearth, and he loomed like a shadow. Nothing could stop her shudder.

“Where are you from, Miss Prendregast?” His rich voice taunted her.

She fingered the straps of her reticule. “London.”

“You've never been outside of London, have you?”

“Never.” Tensely she waited for him to proclaim some kind of atrocious initiation for country newcomers.

He only laughed, a laugh that mocked her ignorance. “You'd better be a first-rate governess.”

She stiffened. “I am.”

“Good.” He strode back to his horse, mounted, and rode into the woods.

She stared after him, relieved, amazed . . . alone. “Wait!” she shouted. “You're supposed to rescue me!”

No reply, only the fading sound of a horse crashing through the brush.

“Something might eat me! How far is it to Silvermere?” she yelled. “Could you tell someone I'm out here?” In a quieter voice, she said, “Ye black-hearted lout, at least leave me a stick so I can fight off the bears.”

Not likely. She was still stuck out in the middle of the wilderness, walking toward a house miles away, where cows slept in the bedchambers and the people slept on the dirt floor. With a sob, she rubbed her knuckles into her burning eyes. Then she squared her shoulders and marched on.

In London it was never quiet. Carriages always rumbled by, or children cried, or music and brawling spilled from the taverns.

Here, the hush pressed in, broken only by the occasional flap of wings overhead or a rustle in the brush, and she thought she would give anything for some kind of sound to break this dreadful, unnatural silence. Then, far in the distance, she saw the muted flash of lightning and heard the first growl of thunder. “Be careful what you wish for, my girl,” she muttered to herself. “You're in for it now.”

Tiredness dragged at her limbs, making each step an ordeal. She tripped on the ruts, tripped on the rocks, but not even exhaustion could convince her to walk in the grass beside the road. Snakes. She knew there must be snakes. And the lightning got closer and closer, shocking her eyes with each flash, and threatening with each rumble.

At first, she mistook the sound on the road for thunder. Then she realized . . . she thought . . . it almost sounded like . . . She stiffened. She squinted into the darkness.