She should never have left the house.

  “You and your father think to catch you a husband with my land?”

  He knew.

  She ignored the pang of sadness that came with the realization that he was there for Falconwell. And not for her.

  He kept coming, closer and closer, and Penelope’s breath caught in her throat as she backed away from him, trying to keep pace with his strides. Failing. She shook her head. She should deny the words. Should rush to comfort him. To settle this great beast who stalked her through the snow.

  But she didn’t.

  She was too angry. “It’s not yours. You lost it. And I’ve already caught myself a husband.” He needn’t know she hadn’t accepted the offer.

  He paused. “You are married?”

  She shook her head, moving away quickly, taking the chance to put distance between them as she slung her words at him. “No, but we will be . . . in no time. And we shall live quite happily here, on our land.”

  What was wrong with her? The words were out, quick and impetuous and they could not be taken back.

  He advanced again, this time with complete focus. “Every man in London wants Falconwell, if not for the land, then to hold it over my head.”

  If she moved any more quickly, she would topple into the snow, but it was worth the attempt, for she was suddenly very nervous about what would happen if he caught her.

  She stumbled, a hidden tree root sending her falling backward with a little screech, and she threw her arms wide, dropping her lantern in an awkward attempt to catch herself.

  He beat her to it, his large, strong hands coming around her arms, catching her, lifting her, pressing her back against a large oak tree and, before she could regain her footing and escape, bracing against the wood to cage her in his arms.

  The boy she remembered was gone.

  The man in his place was not to be trifled with.

  He was very close. Too close, leaning in, lowering his voice to a whisper, the breath of his words against the arch of her cheek heightening her nervousness. She did not breathe, too focused on the heat of him, on what he would say next. “They’ll even marry an aging spinster to get it.”

  She hated him then. Hated the words, the way he spoke them with such simple cruelty. Tears threatened.

  No. No. She would not cry.

  Not for this beast of a man who was nothing like the boy she’d once known. The one she’d dreamed would one day return.

  Not like this.

  She struggled against him once more, irritated now, desperate to be free. He was stronger than her by half and refused to release her, pressing her back to the oak, leaning in until he was close—too close. Fear lanced through her, followed by quick, blessed anger. “Let me go.”

  He did not move. In fact, for a long moment, Penelope thought he had not heard her.

  “No.”

  The refusal was emotionless.

  She struggled again, kicking out, one booted foot connecting with his shin, hard enough to spur a very satisfying grunt. “Dammit!” she cried, knowing that ladies didn’t curse, knowing that she would likely spend an eternity in purgatory for the transgression but not knowing how else to communicate with this brutish stranger. “What are you going to do, leave me here in the snow to freeze to death?”

  “No.” The word was low and dark at her ear as he held her, easily.

  She did not give up. “Kidnap me then? Hold me for ransom for Falconwell?”

  “No, though it wouldn’t be a terrible idea.” He was so close, she could smell him, bergamot and cedar, and she paused at the sensation of his breath brushing over the skin of her cheek. “But I’ve got something much worse in mind.”

  She stilled. He wouldn’t kill her.

  After all, they’d been friends once. Long ago, before he’d become handsome as the devil and twice as cold.

  He wouldn’t kill her.

  Would he?

  “Wh—what is it?”

  He stroked the tip of one finger down the long column of her neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Her breath caught in her throat at the touch . . . all wicked warmth and nearly unbearable sensation.

  “You have my land, Penelope,” he whispered at her ear, the sound low and liquid and altogether too distracting even as it sent tremors of anxiety spiraling through her, “and I want it back.”

  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.”

  Penelope’s eyes flashed with fury. “Nevertheless, a gentleman would never dream of . . . of . . .”

  He watched her flounder for the word, enjoying her discomfort, finally offering, “I believe the word you are looking for is ‘spanking.’ ”

  Her eyes went wide at the word. “Yes. That. Gentlemen don’t . . .”

  “First, I thought we’d already established that I am not a gentleman. That ship sailed long ago. And second, you’d be surprised what gentlemen do . . . and what ladies enjoy.”

  “Not this lady. You owe me an apology.”

  “I would not hold my breath waiting for it.” He heard her little gasp as he moved across the kitchen to the place where he’d left a bottle of scotch earlier in the evening. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “So polite.”

  “One of us should be, don’t you think?”

  He turned to face her, half-amused and half-surprised by her smart mouth.

  She was not tall, barely the height of his shoulder, but at the moment she looked like an Amazon.

  The hood of her cloak had fallen away, and her hair was in disarray, tumbling around her shoulders, gleaming pale blond in the dim light. Her chin was thrust forward in a universal sign of defiance, her shoulders were stiff and straight, and her chest rose and fell with harsh anger, swelling beneath her cloak.

  She looked as though she’d like to do him no small amount of bodily harm.

  “This is kidnapping.”

  He took a long pull on the bottle, enjoying her look of shock at his behavior as he wiped the back of his hand across his lips and met her gaze. He remained quiet, enjoying the way his silence set her on edge.

  After a long moment, she announced, “You cannot kidnap me!”

  “As I said outside, I have no intention of kidnapping you.” He leaned forward until his face was on a level with hers. “I intend to marry you, darling.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “I am leaving.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “I’m not restrained. I could leave if I tried.”

  “Restraints are for amateurs.” He leaned back against the sideboard. “I encourage you to try.”

  She cast an uncertain look at him before shrugging one shoulder and heading for the door. He blocked her exit. She stopped. “I realize you’ve been out of society for quite some time, but you cannot simply abduct your neighbors.”

  “As I said, this is not an abduction.”

  “Well, whatever it is,” she said peevishly, “it isn’t done.”

  “I should think you would have noticed by now that I care very little for what is done.”

  She considered the words for a moment. “You should.”

  There was a hazy familiarity in the way she stood, stick straight, instructing him in proper behavior. “There she is.”

  “Who?”

  “The Penelope from my childhood. So concerned with propriety. You haven’t changed at all.”

  She lifted her chin. “That’s not true.”

  “No?”

  “Not at all. I’m quite changed. Entirely different.”

  “How?”

  “I—” she started, then stopped, and he wondered what she was about to say. “I just am. Now let me go.” She moved to push past him. When he did not move, she stopped, unwilling to touch him.

  A pity. The memory of the warmth of her gloved hand on his cold cheek flashed. Apparently her behavior outside had been the product of surprise.

  And pleasure.

  He wondered what else she might do instinctively in response to pleasure. An image flashed—blond hair spread wide across dark, silken sheets, ice blue eyes alight with surprise as he gave prim, proper Penelope a glimpse of dark and heady pleasure.

  He’d nearly kissed her in the darkness. It had started out as a way to intimidate her, to begin the systematic compromising of quiet, unassuming, Penelope Marbury. But he did not deny that as they stood in his barren kitchen, he wondered what she would taste like. How her breath would sound fluttering across his skin. How she would feel against him. Around him.

  “This is foolish.”

  The words snapped him back to the present. “Are you sure you would not like a drink?”

  Her eyes went wide. “I—no!”

  She was so easy to frustrate. She always had been. “It is still polite to offer one’s guests refreshment, is it not?”

  “Not whiskey! And certainly not straight from the bottle!”

  “I suppose I’ve made a hash of it, then. Perhaps you could remind me of what I should be offering my guests in such a situation?”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. “I don’t know, considering I’m not in the habit of being abducted in the middle of the night to barren country houses.” Her lips pressed into an irritated straight line. “I should like to return home. To bed.”

  “That can be arranged without your having to return home, you know.”

  She made a little noise of frustration. “Michael . . .”

  He hated the name on her lips.

  No, he didn’t. “Bourne.”

  She met his eyes. “Bourne . . . you’ve proven your point.” He stayed quiet, curious, and she pressed on. “I understand that it was bad judgment to wander out into the woods in the middle of the night. I see now that I could have been overcome. Or abducted. Or worse, and I am prepared to admit that you have taught me a well-needed lesson.”

  “How very gracious of you.”

  She pressed on, as though he had not spoken, edging around him. He moved to block her exit. She stopped and met his gaze, her blue eyes flashing with what he imagined was frustration. “I am also prepared to ignore the fact that you have committed an egregious breach of etiquette by moving me—bodily—from a public location to an entirely inappropriate . . . altogether too private one.”

  “And don’t forget spanking you.”

  “That, too. Utterly . . . completely . . . beyond inappropriate.”

  “Appropriateness seems not to have got you very far.”

  She stilled, and he knew immediately that he had struck a nerve. Something unpleasant flared deep within him. He resisted it.

  He might be planning to marry her, but he was not planning to care for her.

  “I’m afraid I’ve plans for you, Penelope, and you’re not going anywhere tonight.” He extended the bottle of whiskey toward her and spoke, all seriousness. “Have a drink. It will take the edge off until tomorrow.”

  “What happens tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, we marry.”

  Chapter Four

  Penelope reached out and took hold of the whiskey, snatching it from Michael’s hand and considering, for a fleeting moment, drinking deep, for surely there was no better time than this to begin a life of drink.

  “I will not marry you!”

  “I’m afraid it’s done.”

  Indignation flared. “It is most certainly not done!” She clutched the bottle to her chest and began to push past him toward the door. When he did not move, she stopped, a hairsbreadth away, her cloak brushing against him. She stared directly into his serious, hazel gaze, refusing to bend to his ridiculous will. “Step aside, Lord Bourne. I am returning home. You are a madman.”

  One irritating dark brow rose. “Such tone,” he mocked. “I find I am not in a mood to move. You shall have to find another way.”

  “Do not make me do something I shall regret.”

  “Why regret it?” He lifted one hand, a single, warm finger tilting her chin up. “Poor Penelope,” he said, “so afraid of risk.”

  Poor Penelope.

  Her gaze narrowed at the hated name. “I am not afraid of risk. Nor am I afraid of you.”