Page 13 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

“He won’t go all the ways to London,” said the little man. “His reach ain’t that far.”

“But you fear him here,” Prunella said.

“He wants you, lady,” said the bear.

“But why?”

His gaze flicked over her again, measuring. Her carriage dress was very smart, if she did say so herself, a muslin round gown beneath a pelisse of Merino cloth that fastened all the way from feet to throat with frogs set in puce embroidery. That, along with the Polish cap, gave her a vaguely military look, an impression of feminine strength. Not a woman to be treated as a sack of potatoes. Yet when his gaze lingered on her bosom, then climbed to study her face, tracing the soft line of her jaw and round cheeks, Prunella felt as solid as a jelly.

A sudden heat flashed through his eyes. And it wasn’t anger.

“Ask me again why a man would want you,” he said gruffly.

An answering warmth soared through her, those butterflies flitting about the hollow dome of her middle.

“You think this new Black Hound, who is trying to take up the reins where the old one left off, would come all the way to Wiltshire to kidnap me.”

The bear nodded to the man behind him. “Thas what he sent Morys to do.”

She gripped the sides of the whiskey on a sudden bite of fear. “So you meant to abduct me all along—”

“What we mean is for the Black Hound not to get his hands on ye.”

“And you think this Baronet Wilkes—”

“Wilkins. Of Easton, if ye want the name of the town. But the estate’s called Rowan Hill.”

“And you think he will consent to hide me.”

“He will,” the bear rumbled.

“For how long?” A giddiness was rising, and she feared hysteria. There was excitement, there was amusement, and then there was the business of being kidnapped, which was bound to be a strain on anyone’s nerves, even for a woman generally as placid of temperament as Prunella.

“You don’t think he’ll hurt Jenny?”

“The maid? If the girl’s wise and scuppers home as we told her, he won’t never know she was wit’ ye,” Morys said.

“I don’t have three thousand pounds,” Prunella said, humbled by the confession, She barely had three guineas in her reticule. Her pin money had been sadly depleted by the stay in Bath over the summer, which had been amusing thanks to the newly lively Miss Carruthers, much buoyed in her spirits by the prospect of marriage at last.

What would these men do if they knew Prunella’s life was worthless?

“We’re not going to hand ye over to him,” rumbled the bear.

“Why not? I don’t understand why you would take an interest in my welfare.”

His gaze lit on her. Then, as the horse reached its head to snap at a leafy bough overhanging the road, he turned to take his mount in hand, giving her a reprieve from the strange feelings he stirred in her. He was a ruffian, a bandit, practically a highwayman, and—being near him scraped at the undersides of her skin, as if she’d gone suddenly hollow.

Prunella looked around. They had passed from a country lane to a cluster of fine buildings, tall houses of stone with slate tiled roofs and prim sashed windows, like the cottage she’d imagined, but better.

“Mansion House,” said the bear, nodding to the tidy stone square on Prunella’s right. “A boarding school for ladies, at the moment.” A bit down the street, he pointed again. “The Grove. And across the street, that’s owned by Methuen. Think he’s planning to turn it back into an inn.”

“Where are we? This is lovely.”

“Corsham. That’s the High Street to our left, and ‘twill take you to Corsham Court, great Tudor mansion. Also Methuen’s, now. That tower you see, St. Bartholomew’s Church.” A garden wall sprang up to their left, enclosing a great sweep of greenery, and behind that rose the unmistakable roofline of a church, medieval in its outline.

Prunella hid her delight. She adored old things.

“And those.” Bear nodded to her right. “The almshouses. Over a hundred years old, they are.”