My Favorite Bride

  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 coul
d 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.

  Two lanterns appeared in the distance, swaying on . . . a coach! Lightning flashed—and she was right! It was a coach. If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she would have shouted with joy. Now if she could get the coachman’s attention.

  The conveyance moved toward her, dipping and swaying. As it closed on her, she moved to the side of the road and yelled and waved her arms. And in the first piece of luck she’d had since her horrendous encounter with Mr. Wordlaw, the coach stopped. A footman jumped down and opened the door. She gave him her hand and he helped her into the luxurious interior. “I’m going to—”

  “Silvermere. Yes, Miss Prendregast, we know.” He shut the door.

  She sat blinking in the darkness. Her hand caressed the rolled upholstery, and she wondered what . . . how . . .

  That man. He’d been too lazy to rescue her himself, but he must have sent these fellows.

  The coach turned around, then set off with such speed Samantha fell back against the seat. And was too exhausted to do more than rest there. She wondered if she should worry that she was being kidnapped, and decided kidnapping was a small price to pay for the chance to sit down.

  They rode for long enough that she drifted into sleep. Then the coach slowed to a stop, and she jerked awake. The door opened, the footman thrust his hand in, she took it and stepped out onto the step.

  And looked up, up, up at the magnificent mansion that rose like a monolith before her.

  Chapter Three

  Samantha woke to the clatter of dishes at her bedside. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and watched as the plump young maid drew the olive and gold brocade curtains. Morning sunlight poured in, and Samantha blinked.

  “Good morning, miss,” stated a black-and-white–uniformed maid cheerfully before curtsying briskly. She couldn’t be more than fifteen, a child of nature who reeked of health, fresh air, and starch. “I’m Clarinda. I’ve brought yer breakfast.”

  “Thank you.” Samantha pulled herself into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

  “Gone past seven, but ye were tired after yer walk last night.”

  Samantha looked around the room she’d so briefly glimpsed the evening before. Her second floor bedchamber was large and spacious, surely a guest room. As did everything in this house, it glowed with prosperity. The dark oak furniture was carved and heavy, and her bed was wide, with a down comforter atop her and a feather mattress beneath. Most important, she had a separate dressing room with running water, drawn from a cistern on the roof.

  This was the hovel that she feared would house livestock as well as six children and a hulking colonel?

  “Here ye are, miss.” Clarinda placed the tray across Samantha’s lap and lifted the domed, silver cover. Steam rose from the golden fresh eggs, the spicy sausage, the buttery crumpets, the bowl of oatmeal, thick with honey, and a poached pear sprinkled with cinnamon. “Cook didn’t know what ye like, so ye’ve got a smidgin o’ everything.”

  “It looks wonderful.” Samantha took a deep breath and realized that, for the first time since she’d left London, she was hungry.

  Clarinda poured the tea. “Ah, it’s a beautiful day, miss.”

  Outside, Samantha saw, the day was bright with sunshine. Great trees swept her windows with green, and through the branches she could see the sky, so blue it almost hurt her eyes. Nary a cloud dimmed the brilliance.

  Going to the old-fashioned fireplace, Clarinda added logs to the flames. “The men picked up yer trunk off the road last night.” Clarinda patted the black painted wooden box with its leather straps and heavy lock. Under her mob cap, her light brown hair sparked with liveliness, and her brown eyes snapped with interest. “Shall I unpack it?”

  “Yes. If you would. The key is . . .” Where was her reticule?

  “Here, miss?” Clarinda picked up the black velvet bag from the dressing table.

  “Yes, thank you.” Samantha extended her hand, grateful that she hadn’t lost it in her exhaustion.

  She wondered if she had hallucinated the whole episode the night before. The walk into the darkness. That man, crashing through the bushes. Then, just when she was relieved to be rescued, and by a gentleman, he barked questions at her like a barrister and took her purse.

  All right. So he hadn’t kept it. But he’d ridden away without offering a crumb of assistance. What a blighter!

  Although . . . well, how had the coach arrived so propitiously?

  It had all seemed too fantastic to be real, except that her feet hurt, and she would never forget the shock of stepping out of that coach and seeing the mansion that was Silvermere. The broad, four-story building rose into the darkness above the carriage portico. Light shined from every window on every level. The wide double doors stood open, and Mrs. Shelbourn, the dignified, elderly housekeeper, had gestured her in. “Hurry, my dear, we have a hot meal waiting for you.”

  Samantha hadn’t been able to eat much of that meal, but this one filled the empty corners nicely. Finished, she poured the rest of her tea into her cup and slipped out of bed. She walked across the rug and, when she came to the fringed edge, tiptoed across the chilly wood to the window.

  She looked out into a park composed of great sweeps of lawn, grand old trees whose tops reached higher than her eyes, and here and there a gazebo or a garden of blooming flowers. A topiary, with bushes cut into the shapes of lions and birds, was off to one side. The grounds were beautiful, and more important . . . “I can’t see the mountains from
here.”

  “No, miss, but they’re out there. The mountains embrace Silvermere like great arms. Beautiful, they are.”

  “Humph.” Samantha turned her back to the view. “Did that storm bring rain?”

  “ ‘Twas a grand thunderstorm with lightning flashing from peak t’ peak and rain t’ wash the brooks.” Clarinda smiled at her, and deep dimples popped into the smooth, rosy cheeks. “You must have been dreadful tired t’ have slept through it. When you’re dressed, Colonel Gregory would like t’ speak with ye.”

  “Yes. Of course. As he wishes.” Would Colonel Gregory be as surprising as his home? Certainly Samantha no longer imagined a grizzled, hardened warrior. Whoever lived here must have some idea of comportment, for all that he spent years in India ratcheting about in the wilds and repeatedly impregnating his wife.

  She handed Clarinda her key. “What is the colonel like?”

  “Ah, miss, he’s a good man.” Clarinda knelt before the trunk and wrestled it open.

  Samantha waited, but nothing else was forthcoming. “Is he very old?”

  “Not very old. Not as old as me grandfather.”

  “Oh.” Samantha was back to thinking him grizzled.

  “But handsome, me mum says.”

  Very grizzled. Probably gray and steely-eyed.

  “And too strict with the children by half, not that ye heard me say so.” Clarinda pulled out the first of the gowns, a froth of pale pink chintz, and flung it on the chair. Next came the flowered lawn, and the sapphire poplin. Finally, she reached the dark green serge. “Miss, shall I have this ironed?”

  Samantha considered her mental image of the uniformed soldier awaiting her. Crusty older men responded well to an appearance of charm and youth. “No, I think not. A better choice might be the pink.”

  Clarinda considered the gown, then considered Samantha. “We’ll see.” Gathering up the gown, she disappeared.

  By the time she had returned, Samantha had finished her tea, washed in the sink in the dressing room, and donned her undergarments. As Clarinda slipped the gown over Samantha’s head, Samantha asked, “Why is Colonel Gregory so strict with the children?”