She opened her eyes.

  Drat.

  She trudged down the rise toward the icy lake.

  She would marry Tommy.

  For her own good.

  For the good of her sisters.

  Except, it didn’t seem at all good. Not really.

  Nevertheless. It was what eldest daughters of good breeding did.

  They did as they were told.

  Even if they absolutely didn’t want to.

  Even if they wanted more.

  And that was when she saw the light in the distance, in the copse of trees at the far edge of the lake.

  She stopped, squinting into the darkness, ignoring the biting wind on her cheeks. Perhaps she’d imagined it. Perhaps it had been the moon glinting off the snow.

  A reasonable possibility, if not for the falling snow blocking the moon from view.

  The light flickered again, and Penelope gasped, taking one step back, eyes going wide as it moved quickly through the trees.

  She squinted into the darkness leaning forward without moving her feet, fixated on the place where a faint yellow light flickered in the woods, as though the inch or two would make it easier to see the source of the light.

  “There’s someone . . .” she whispered, the words trailing off in the cold silence.

  Someone was there.

  It could have been a servant, but it seemed unlikely. Needham servants had no reason to be by the lake in the dead of night, and it had been years since the last of the servants had left Falconwell. After they’d gone, the contents of the estate had been collected and the enormous stone structure had been left empty and unloved. No one had been to the house in years.

  She had to do something.

  It could be anything. A fire. A trespasser. A ghost.

  Well, likely not the latter.

  But it was quite possible that it was a trespasser—soon to be intruder—ready to lay siege to Falconwell. If it was, someone had to do something. After all, intruders simply could not be allowed to take up residence inside the estate of the Marquess of Bourne.

  If the man himself was not going to secure his estate, it seemed the task fell to Penelope. She had an equal investment in Falconwell at this point, did she not? If the manor house was taken over by pirates or brigands, that would certainly impact the value of her dowry, would it not?

  Not that she had been excited about the prospect of using her dowry.

  Nonetheless, it was a matter of principle.

  The light flickered again.

  It did not seem that there were very many brigands out there, unless they had come ill equipped with light sources.

  Come to think of it, it was unlikely that either pirates or brigands were planning to take up residence in Falconwell, what with the ocean being rather far away.

  Nevertheless.

  Someone was there.

  The question remained as to who.

  And why.

  But there was one thing of which Penelope was certain. Eldest daughters of good breeding did not inspect strange lights in the middle of the night.

  That would be decidedly too adventurous.

  It would be more.

  And that made the decision for her, really.

  She’d said she wanted more, and more had come.

  The universe worked in marvelous ways, did it not?

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and moved forward, excitement propelling her to a large cluster of holly bushes at the edge of the lake before she registered the stupidity of her actions.

  She was outside.

  In the middle of the night.

  In the bitter cold.

  Headed toward any number of nefarious, questionable creatures.

  And no one knew where she was.

  Suddenly, marriage to Tommy did not seem so very bad.

  Not when it was very possible that she was about to be murdered by inland pirates.

  She heard the crunch of snow nearby, and she stopped short, lifting her lantern high and peering into the darkness beyond the holly, toward the woods where she’d seen the earlier light.

  Now, she saw nothing.

  Nothing but falling snow and a shadow that could easily have been that of a rabid bear.

  “What nonsense,” she whispered to herself, the sound of her voice in the darkness a comfort. “There are no bears in Surrey.”

  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!”

  She smiled up at him, taking him in. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been a few inches taller than she, a gangly boy, arms and legs too long for his body. No longer. This Michael was a man, tall and lean.

  And very, very handsome.

  She still did not quite believe that it was he. “Michael!”

  He met her gaze head-on, and a bolt of pleasure shot through her as though the look were a physical touch, warming her—catching her off guard before the brim of his cap shielded his eyes once more, and she filled his silence with her own words. “What are you doing here?”

  His lips did not move from their perfect, straight line. There was a long pause, during which she was consumed with the heat of him. With the happiness of seeing him. It didn’t matter that it was late and it was dark and he didn’t seem nearly as happy to see her.

  “Why are you traipsing through the darkness in the dead of night in the middle of nowhere?”

  He’d avoided her question, yes, but Penelope didn’t care. “It’s not the middle of nowhere. We’re no more than a half a mile from either of our houses.”

  “You could have been set upon by a highwayman, or a thief, or a kidnapper, or—”

  “A pirate. Or a bear. I’ve already considered all the options.”

  The Michael she had once known would have smiled. This one did not. “There are no bears in Surrey.”

  “Pirates would be rather a surprise, too, don’t you think?”

  No answer.

  She tried to rouse the old Michael. To coax him out. “I would take an old friend over a pirate or a bear any day, Michael.”

  Snow shifted beneath his feet. When he spoke, there was steel in his tone. “Bourne.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Call me Bourne.”

  Shock and embarrassment coursed through her. He was a marquess, yes, but she’d never imagined he’d be so firm about his title . . . they were childhood friends, after all. She cleared her throat. “Of course, Lord Bourne.”

  “Not the title. Just the name. Bourne.”

  She swallowed back her confusion. “Bourne?”

  He gave a slight nod, barely there before it was gone. “I’ll ask you one more time. Why are you here?”

  She did not think of ignoring the question. “I saw your lantern; I came to investigate.”

  “You came, in the middle of the night, to investigate a strange light in the woods of a house that has been uninhabited for sixteen years.”

  “It’s only been uninhabited for nine years.”

  He paused. “I don’t remember your being so exasperating.”

  “Then you don’t remember me very well. I was a very exasperating child.”

  “You were not. You were very serious.”

  She smiled. “So you do remember. You were always trying to make me laugh. I’m simply returning the favor; is it working?”

  “No.”

  She lifted her lantern high, and he allowed her to free him from the shadows, casting his face in warm, golden light. He had aged marvelously, grown into his long limbs and angled face. Penelope had always imagined that he’d become handsome, but he was more than handsome now . . . he was nearly beautiful.

  If not for the darkness that lingered despite the glow of the lantern—something dangerous in the set of his jaw, in the tightness of his brow, in eyes that seemed to have forgotten joy, in lips that seemed to have lost their ability to smile.

  He’d had a dimple as a child, one that showed itself often and was almost always the precursor to adventure. She searched his left cheek, looking for that telltale indentation. Did not find it.

  Indeed, as much as Penelope searched this new, hard face, she could not seem to find the boy she’d once known. If not for the eyes, she would not have believed it was him at all.

  “How sad,” she whispered to herself.

  He heard it. “What?”

  She shook her head, meeting his gaze, the only thing familiar about him. “He’s gone.”

  “Who?”

  “My friend.”

  She hadn’t thought it possible, but his features hardened even more, growing more stark, more dangerous, in the shadows. For one fleeting moment, she thought perhaps she had pushed him too far. He remained still, watching her with that dark gaze that seemed to see everything.

  Every instinct told her to leave. Quickly. To never return. And still she stayed. “How long will you remain in Surrey?” He did not reply. She took a step toward him, knowing she shouldn’t. “There’s nothing inside the house.”

  He ignored her.

  She pressed on. “Where are you sleeping?”

  A wicked black brow rose. “Why? Are you inviting me into your bed?”

  The words stung with their rudeness. Penelope stiffened as though she had received a physical blow. She waited a beat, sure he would apologize.

  Silence.

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Perhaps you should remember that the next time you decide to go on a midnight adventure.”

  He was nothing like the Michael she had once known.

  She spun on her heel, heading into the blackness, toward the place where Needham Manor stood. She’d gone only a few feet before she turned back to face him. He had not moved.

  “I really was happy to see you.” She turned and headed away, back to her home, the cold seeping deep into her bones before she turned back, unable to resist a final barb. Something to hurt him as he’d hurt her. “And Michael?”

  She couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew undeniably that he was watching her. Listening.

  “You’re on my land.”

  She regretted the words the instant she spoke them, the product of frustration and irritation, laced with an edge of teasing that better suited a mean-spirited child than a woman of eight-and-twenty.

  Regretted them even more when he shot toward her, a wolf from the night. “Your land?”

  The words were dark and menacing. She stepped back instantly. “Y-yes.”