Page 12 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

Something like, she ought not be kidnapped by two ruffians where her coach had merely stopped to pay the required toll, and Lydia was waiting in London.

“Do you intend to hold me for a ransom? Are you going to demand Lydia, or Rhydian, give you money?” That would be a problem. Lydia’s money was disbursed from the Penrydd estate, and the whole business with Edwin’s gambling debts had left the Penrydd coffers in a doubtful state. Rhydian had promised Prunella he would see to her welfare, but what were the odds of a man keeping his promise to two dowagers when he had a lovely new wife and had just remembered he was an English lord and peer of the realm?

“Ye offend us, lady. We’re taking ye to save yer life.” The smaller man gave her a hurt look, the innocence incongruous on his craggy face.

Prunella realized that he sat upon her trunk, lashed firmly to the luggage platform. Somehow, in the time she’d been dazedly hauled about like a sack of potatoes, they’d had time to transfer her luggage.

“So I am being kidnapped.”

“Hidden,” the bear man said.

She slanted her body to glare at him. He sat very close. He was so very large. Prunella was not accustomed to being looked down upon. Even the Price men, who ran big—though not nearly the size of this man—held an advantage of mere inches over her.

“By this baronet, supposedly.” Prunella did what she could to inject a tone of freezing disdain into her voice. She’d not had as much practice as Lydia. “What will he say about the matter?”

This threat, meant to daunt him, simply made the bear man chuckle. “The baronet’ll say whatever I say, by God.”

The smaller man laughed and slapped his knee. Perhaps they were holding this baronet for ransom, too. Perhaps they had an entire house full of people they’d stolen from the road, a brisk traffic in people, like highwaymen gone mad.

“You can’t imprison me in his house. Someone will notice. And I’ll—I’ll simply walk away.”

The bear man nodded as if he were considering her words. The sun gleamed on the brass buttons of his coat, and the breeze tousled his hair. He smelled of oaken casks and tilled earth.

“How much did yer husband owe the Black Hound? D’ye know?”

“Do you know?” she challenged him, for how could he?

He flicked a glance her way. His eyes were nearly golden when they caught the light. His gaze snagged and held on her face, roaming over her features as if he were taking her in for the first time, but also reminding himself of something.

Her breath came shallow. She felt light-headed. This man was dangerous—he had kidnapped her beneath the nose of her maid and hired post boy, on the busiest road in town, across the street from the coaching inn—and he was taking her, where, she didn’t know.

She ought to be afraid. She told herself, sternly, to show her native good sense and harbor at least a hint of concern for her well-being. She should be frightened. She’d been weak with terror on board the Black Hound’s ship.

Yet somehow, she was utterly convinced this man would not harm her. The exact opposite, in fact.

Her own contrariness exasperated her, in this instance. “I’m sure I don’t know about any of my husband’s obligations,” she said, channeling Lydia once more. That much was true. Edwin had kept a great deal from her.

“A lady doesn’t concern herself with vulgar concerns like money,” she added, which was patently untrue. A lady concerned herself with the finances that would keep a roof over her head, if she had any sense at all, and particularly if she possessed a husband likely to go drown himself in a lake for a stupid bet.

“Three thousand pounds,” said the bear.

Prunella bit back a shriek. She couldn’t discern if the emotion pressing at her was outrage, or surprise, or a sudden wish to exhume her dead husband and throttle his corpse.

Three thousand pounds. It was enough to impress a baronet, perhaps. It was a decent income for a gentleman, nothing to scoff at. It was a respectable dowry for a gentleman’s daughter, a bit more than her own had been.

But for a lord’s estate—for a viscount—it was a sadly small sum.

Edwin had drowned because he needed money to pay off the Black Hound. He’d feared the man enough to risk his life.

For a measly three thousand pounds.

A cold fear crawled up Prunella’s arms. If the Black Hound were bent on her, a hapless widow, for such a comparatively tiny amount, then the men beside her might well be in danger, and—

“Lydia,” she croaked.

He frowned. “Who?”

“The other Dowager Lady Penrydd. She’s in London. She’s alone. If this Hound—”