A Rogue by Any Other Name by Sarah MacLean Read Free Book Online Page B

darkness beyond the holly, toward the woods where she’d seen the earlier light.
    Now, she saw nothing.
    Nothing but falling snow and a shadow that could easily have been that of a rabid bear.
    “What nonsense,” she whispered to herself, the sound of her voice in the darkness a comfort. “There are no bears in Surrey.”
    She remained unconvinced, and she did not linger to discover if that black shadow was, in fact, a bear. She had things to do back at home. First among them, accepting Tommy’s proposal.
    And spending some careful time with her needlepoint.
    Except, at the precise moment that she’d decided to turn tail and head back, a man came through the trees, lantern in hand.

Chapter Three
Dear M—
A gift! How extravagant. School is certainly turning you into a fine man; last year, you gave me a half-eaten piece of gingerbread. I shall be very excited to see what you’ve planned.
I suppose this means I shall have to find a gift for you as well.
Soonest—P
Needham Manor, November 1813
    * * *
Dear P—
That was excellent gingerbread. I should have known that you wouldn’t appreciate my generosity in the slightest. Whatever happened to the thought and how well it counts?
It will be good to be home. I’ve missed Surrey. And you, Sixpence (though it pains me to admit it).
—M
Eton College, November 1813
    Flee!
    The word echoed through her as though it had been shouted through the night, but Penelope’s limbs seemed unable to follow the command. Instead, she crouched low, hiding behind the bushes and hoping wildly that the man would not see her. Hearing his footsteps in the snow nearby, she crept along the hedge toward the lake, preparing to make a mad dash away from him when she stepped on the edge of her cloak, toppled off-balance, and landed, squarely, in the holly bush.
    Which was quite prickly.
    “Oof!” She put out one hand to save herself from becoming tangled in the vicious plant, only to be stabbed by a rogue branch. She bit her lip and froze as the footsteps stopped.
    She held her breath.
    Perhaps he hadn’t seen her. After all, it was very dark.
    If only she were not holding a lantern.
    She shoved the light into the bush.
    It did not help, as she was almost instantly flooded with a different source of light.
    His light.
    He took a step toward her.
    She pressed backward into the bush, sharp leaves preferable to his shadowed bulk. “Hello.”
    He stopped but did not reply, and they remained in long, unbearable silence. Penelope’s heart was pounding, the only part of her that seemed to remember how to move. When she could not bear the silence a moment longer, she spoke from her position, unbalanced in a holly bush, trying for her most firm of tones. “You are trespassing.”
    “Am I?” For a pirate, he had a very nice voice. It rolled out from deep in his chest, making her think of goose down and warm brandy. She shook her head at the thought, obviously the product of the cold playing tricks with her mind.
    “Yes. You are. The house in the distance is Falconwell Manor. Owned by the Marquess of Bourne.”
    There was a beat. “Impressive,” the pirate said, and she had the distinct feeling that he was not at all impressed.
    She tried to rise with haughtiness. Failed. Twice. On the third attempt, she brushed off her skirts, and said, “It is quite impressive. And I assure you, the marquess will be very unhappy to know that you are”— she waved her muffled hand in the air—“whatever you are doing . . . on his land.”
    “Will he?” The pirate seemed unconcerned, lowering his lantern, casting his upper half into shadow, continuing his advance.
    “Indeed.” Penelope squared her shoulders. “And I shall give you three pence worth of advice; he is not to be trifled with.”
    “It sounds as though you and the marquess are very close.”
    She lifted her lantern and began to edge away. “Oh, yes. We are. Quite close. Very, even.”
    It was not precisely a lie. They had been very close