A Rogue by Any Other Name (7 page)

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.”

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.