And so was Caroline. If she had to marry Percy, she'd die. She didn't care how melodramatic she sounded. The only thing worse than the thought of seeing him every day for the rest of her life was having to listen to him every day for the rest of her life.

She was making her way through the hall toward the front door when she noticed Oliver's new candelabra sitting majestically on the side table. He'd been crowing about the piece all week. Sterling silver, he'd said. The finest craftsmanship. Caroline growled. Oliver hadn't been able to afford sterling silver candelabras before he'd been appointed her guardian.

It was ironic, really. She'd have been happy to share her fortune—give it away, even—if she'd found a home with a family who loved her and cared for her. Someone who saw in her something more than a workhorse with a bank account.

Impulsively, Caroline yanked the beeswax candles out of the candelabra and replaced them with the tallow ones in her bag. If she needed to light a candle on her travels, she wanted the sweet-smelling beeswax Oliver reserved for himself.

She ran outside, mumbling a short thanks for the warm weather. “It's a bloody good thing Percy didn't decide to attack me in the winter,” she muttered, striding down the drive. She would have preferred to ride—anything that would get her out of Hampshire faster—but Oliver kept only two horses, and they were currently attached to his carriage, which he'd taken with him to his weekly game of cards at the squire's house.

Caroline tried to look at the bright side and reminded herself that she could hide more easily on foot. She'd be slower, though, and if she ran into footpads …

She shuddered. A woman alone was very conspicuous. And her light brown hair seemed to catch all the moonlight, even with most of it stuffed into a bonnet. She'd have been smart to dress up like a boy, but she hadn't had enough time. Perhaps she should follow the coast to the nearest busy harbor. It wasn't that far. She'd be able to travel faster by sea, take herself far enough away so that Oliver couldn't find her within six weeks.

Yes, it would have to be the coast. But she couldn't travel via the main roads. Someone was bound to see her. She turned south and began to cut through a field. It was only fifteen miles to Portsmouth. If she walked quickly and through the night, she could be there by morning. Then she could book passage on a ship—something that would take her to another part of England. Caroline didn't want to leave the country, not when she needed to claim her inheritance in six short weeks.

But what was she supposed to do with herself during that time? She'd been cut off from society for so long she didn't even know if she was qualified for any type of gentle employment. She thought she might make a good governess, but it would probably take six weeks just to find a position. And then … Well, it just wasn't fair to take a position as a governess and then leave the post mere weeks later.

She did know how to cook, and her guardians had certainly made sure she knew how to clean. Maybe she could work for room and board at some little-known, very out-of-the-way inn.

She nodded to herself. Cleaning up after strangers wasn't terribly appealing, but it seemed to be her only hope of survival for the next few weeks. But no matter what, she had to get away from Hampshire and its neighboring counties. She could work at an inn, but it would have to be far away from Prewitt Hall.

And so she increased her pace toward Portsmouth. The grass under her shoes was soft and dry, and the trees shielded her from the view of the main road. There wasn't much traffic this time of night, but one couldn't be too careful. She moved swiftly, the only sound her footfall as her boots met the earth. Until …

What was that?

Caroline whirled around but saw nothing. Her heart raced. She could have sworn she'd heard something. “It was just a hedgehog,” she whispered to herself. “Or perhaps a hare.” But she didn't see any animals, and she didn't feel reassured.

“Just keep moving,” she told herself. “You must get to Portsmouth by morning.” She resumed her trek, walking so fast now that her breath began to come faster and faster. And then …

She whirled around again, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. This time she'd definitely heard something. “I know you're out there,” she said with a defiance she didn't quite feel. “Show your face or remain a coward.”

There was a rustling noise, and then a man emerged from the trees. He was dressed completely in black, from his shirt to his boots—even his hair was black. He was tall, and his shoulders were broad, and he was quite the most dangerous-looking man Caroline had ever seen.

And he had a gun pointed straight at her heart.

Chapter 2

pug.na.cious (adjective). Disposed to fight; given to fighting; quarrelsome.

I can be pugnacious when backed into a corner.

—From the personal dictionary of Caroline Trent

Blake Ravenscroft wasn't certain what he thought the woman would look like, but this certainly wasn't it. He'd thought she'd look soft, coy, manipulative. Instead, she stood tall, held her shoulders square, and stared him in the eye.

And she had the most intriguing mouth he'd ever seen. He was at a complete loss to describe it, except that her upper lip arched in the most delightful way and—

“Do you think you could possibly point that gun elsewhere?”

Blake snapped out of his reverie, appalled by his lack of concentration. “You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“Well, yes, actually, I would. I have this thing about guns, you see. I don't mind them, precisely. They're good for some purposes, I suppose—hunting and the like. But I don't particularly enjoy having them pointed at me, and—”