Page 11 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

“My family must know where I am.”

Though her family was Lydia, who would be waiting impatiently in London for Prunella to arrive. Prunella managed the unpleasant tasks of conferring with servants and tradesmen so Lydia did not have to be bothered, and Prunella wrote out all the cards saying which social invitations they would accept and which they must regretfully decline.

And that was the only person who would miss her when she didn’t arrive.

“Best that they don’t know, for a time. So’s he can’t find ye.”

“They’ll worry.”

“They’ll have more to worry for if he gets his hands on ye.”

“Who is he?” Prunella snapped.

“The Black Hound.”

Her heart skipped a beat, and not because her bear man steered them sharply around a cart that suddenly stopped in the center of the road. They were moving away from the turnpike on another road that looked almost as well-traveled, and yet the houses and buildings gave way all at once to a country lane lined with pasture and farmland. There was an odd lack of traffic, as if the other people had been spirited away, too.

“Where is everyone?”

“Market day,” he rumbled.

Oh. That made sense.

“The Black Hound is dead. Penrydd did away with him. If you suppose you are trying to rescue me once more, I must beg leave to correct you.”

“There’s a new Black Hound taking up the old one’s business. Calling in all his debts.”

Prunella moaned. “And the Black Hound—the first one—he believed Edwin owed him money.” That was the reason for all of it. The attack on Rhydian. The kidnapping of Lydia and Prunella and Gwen.

“Damn you and your gambling, Edwin,” she muttered, and it was not the first time she had thought that curse, but the first time she said it aloud. “You cannot simply kidnap me in the open street in the middle of the day.”

“Kidnap? ‘Tis a visit. Ye’ve kindly consented to call on the new Baronet Wilkins of Rowan Hill.” He puffed out his chest, or he might have; his chest was overly large to begin with.

“Only don’t write anyone where ye be,” he added upon reflection, “until it’s all blown over and we know yer safe.”

Safe. What an absurd word. A widow in the world who did not have control over her own jointure was never safe. She was at the mercy of her mother-in-law, her brother-in-law, whatever cold wind that took and shook her.

Whatever ruffian might pull her from her carriage in the street and take her away to God knows where.

A little thrill darted through her midsection, still hollow with the print of his shoulder, just as her rump still burned with the imprint of his hand. Kidnapped. Again.

This time, she didn’t have quite the same fear that her captor might kill her. Her bear man didn’t have the cold, dead look in his eye that the first Black Hound had possessed.

Prunella snuck a sidewise peek. His eyes were brown, like his hair, and the look in them was warm and alive.

Just as she felt when he touched her.

“Why do you suppose I’ll go anywhere with you?”

“Listen here, lady.” The other voice came from the luggage platform behind her. Prunella twisted to see the second man, half the size of the bear, giving her a look of reproach. “Who got ye off the boat afore his lordship blew it to bits?”

“Gwen did,” Prunella said. “Lady Penrydd.”

The little man cocked his head to the side. “I thought t’other was Lady Penrydd.”

“The old crow,” the bear clarified.

“That’s Lydia. But I am Lady Penrydd also.” She kept forgetting that. Dowager Lady Penrydd, now that Rhydian had married, but as Anne said, the title meant something.