Page 27 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

“Well, the lady already knows what ye are,” Morys pointed out. “She saw ye in yer last life, din’ she? Afore you became the Bartonet Wilkins.”

“It’s baronet.” Pete glared. “Maybe I should start insisting you call me sir.”

“Oh, that’ll do.” Morys snickered. “Ye can come over with the airs and the titles to those ’ere as don’t know ye. But the lady did. She knows ye were on the leash o’ the Black Hound, same as me.”

“We weren’t on anyone’s leash,” Pete growled.

“All the same, I’m glad the bore carried that’un away,” Morys reflected. “And I don’t think much o’ this new mort, ’e’s a fat blond tabby and no Hound, but that ain’t to say he can’t cause a deal of ruckus for you and yer lady.”

That was Pete’s fear, too.

“How long?” Pete wondered aloud. “How long do I need to hide her?”

“Well, I’s to be bringing ’er to ’im in the next day or so.” Morys calculated on his fingers. “Give ’im one day to allow I might have some difficulty, though we all know Morys Morgan is a man of his word. Two days to follow if he thinks aught went awry, one day if he rides like devil, though I’d say he’s a spawn and not Old Scratch himself.” Morys held up his hand, fingers splayed.

“Five days,” Pete said. “Until he finds I foiled his plans and hunts me down.”

“Then you sends the lady off to London, a nice plump package wrapped in silk ribbon, and if fortune favors, she’ll leave you a kiss afore she goes.”

A few days with her. That was all he had.

Unless he could somehow convince her to stay. But how could he ask such a thing of her, when she’d clearly expressed her views on marriage, and moreover, it might be risking her life to remain with him? The Black Hound could easily trace her to Rowan Hill. Pete hadn’t exactly attempted to disguise himself when he took her, and moreover, he’d done so in plain sight of the tollkeeper, oncoming traffic, and anyone at the Hare and Hound who happened to be looking out the window.

At the time, the plan had seemed fairly straightforward: interrupt her journey and take her somewhere else for a while in case the Hound had sent other men besides Morys to intercept her along the way. But, in his defense, Pete hadn’t been given complicated assignments in the past, so he wasn’t accustomed to thinking through ramifications.

He saw them clearly now, though. The Black Hound’s villains, or the Hound himself, would come here to Rowan Hill to try to collect his bounty. Pete had simply put Prunella in a different kind of danger, and possibly exposed his grandmother and their staff to harm as well, depending on whether this Hound had the same rages as the last one.

Pete drove the blade of his shovel into the ground, screwed loose a chunk of soil, and heaved it into the air. One of the nearby sheep—ram or ewe, he couldn’t tell which, as both had horns—snorted and shied away. He would have to learn about the animals, their keeping and care, as they were part of his inheritance and the source of his fortune. One more way this new life would override everything he’d known of himself in his old.

“Would you look at this braf thing.” Morys’s tone softened. “Ye’d best not wait to put the shackle on this’un, Pedr. Another’ll be takin’ a crack at ’er soon enough.”

Prunella walked toward them over the turf, a large straw basket over one arm and a dainty parasol with dangling tassels held above her head. She looked like a delicious shepherdess, a gentlewoman at play, the way the old French queen had been said to frolic on her lawn with her ladies.

A tiny checked bodice covered her breasts with white ruffles, and a long apron draped to her feet, swishing with her legs as she moved. A long, filmy piece of fabric waved from her capote bonnet, giving the impression she was an airy creature that might be borne away on the wind.

Yet Pete knew how sturdy she was—how she filled his arms—and as he watched her approach, every part of him ached to take her into his arms again. Hold her, keep her, and never let her go.

She paused some distance away, regarding him, the trench of the ha-ha, then Morys, and then the white sheep, who stared back with frank curiosity.

“Are the sheep friendly?”

“They won’t charge or bite. I can’t say the same for Morys.”

Morys, who had doffed his hat for her, clutched it to his chest and shot Pete a doleful look. “And I’ll be off, then. I can tell when I’m not wanted.”

“Not on my account, I hope, Mr. Morgan,” Prunella said.

Morys, greatly mollified by her mild tone, slithered down the rock and planted his hands on his hips, appraising her. “You’ve a salmagundy in that basket?”

“I’m afraid not,” Prunella said. “Just a pigeon pie and some trifle.”

Morys shook his head sadly. “Hardly a proper picnic.”

“I know, but I didn’t wish to make a pest of myself with the housekeeper. She doesn’t…seem to have found her feet in the kitchen.”

“She is new,” Pete said by way of apology. “My grandmother turned off the housekeeper she’d had for ages. Around the time my cousin died, I think.” He was babbling. Prunella would not care to hear about his household woes.

“I asked her to pack something simple.” Prunella lifted the basket shyly, as if unsure how her offering might be received. “You are welcome to stay, Mr. Morgan.”