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—”

“Quiet!”

She shut her mouth.

Blake studied her for several moments. Something about her wasn't right. Carlotta De Leon was Spanish … well, half-Spanish at least, and this girl looked English through and through. Her hair couldn't be called blond, but it was definitely a light shade of brown, and even in the dark night he could see that her eyes were a clear bluish-green.