The horse’s hooves beat a clamorous tattoo against the cobbled streets, stirring the low fog that had settled like a blanket. Julia dug her heels into the stallion’s taut flesh, urging him faster still. With a grunt and a sharp exhalation of breath, he picked up speed, mane tossing in the wind, droplets of water splashing in his wake. She had no concern for the scandalous picture she painted, streaking through the outskirts of London on the giant black stallion, legs straddling either side of the beast as a man would ride. Haste had been far more important than modesty, and she hoped the cloak of night’s darkness would hide the inconspicuous nature of her dress. Her maid had borrowed the trousers and plain linen shirt from one of the stable hands. Her hair had been pulled back in a simple tie at the nape of her neck, and now strands of it came free, wrapped around her arms in stringy tendrils.

A rush of exhilaration, relief, and gratitude passed through her as she finally broke free of the city, leaving the lights and the warmth behind in a blur. The countryside stretched out before her, and she slowed her mount to a walk, allowing the horse a chance to rest as much as she dared. She couldn’t stop, not until she’d made it to her destination. She wouldn’t be safe until she was there.

Time passed. Minutes? Hours? It was hard to tell. The rain stopped and started intermittently, the moon disappearing behind the clouds for longer and longer stretches. For the first time since her impromptu flight, she realized the folly of her decision. How was she to make it to her grandfather’s estate, all the way in Scotland, when she hadn’t a clue where she was? With no money, no change of clothes, and no sense of direction, she was certainly in over her head. She could hear her father’s voice in her head, This is just like you, Julia, to act so recklessly. You’ll bring ruin to this family.

But that was how terrified she’d been of her father’s decision; even now, lost somewhere on what she hoped was a road leading north with only an intermittent sliver of moon to guide her, she preferred her current predicament to how she should have spent her night – on the arm of her new fiancé, a man she feared and despised. Her stomach churned at the mere whisper of his name in her mind.

The Earl of Suffolk, despite his suave veneer and strikingly handsome visage, carried himself with an air of sinister cruelty, stained with a black reputation that even his newly acquired wealth and title could not wash away. The ton feared him, whispered of his exploits behind fluttering fans and tilted glasses. He was the only eligible bachelor on the market this Season that didn’t have endless hordes of young debutantes being shoved in his direction. It wasn’t that he was a rakehell – such indiscretions were easily forgiven by an earldom and a heavy purse. No, it was the rumors of violence and depravity that kept the ton away – brothel girls beaten and bloody in his wake, former mistresses so bruised they were unable to appear in public for weeks, men who had crossed him found dead the slums, if ever found at all. Then there was the young debutante who had taken her own life after he’d compromised her and refused to marry her. If you seek the devil, seek no farther than Thomas Howard, her aunt had said. And Julia’s father, desperate to marry his only daughter to a wealthy man who could pay off his gambling debts, had sacrificed her without a second thought. The daughter of a Viscount, she wasn’t the most sought after deb of the season, and her father had been unwilling to leave his fate – and hers – to chance.

The moment her engagement had been announced, she’d begun formulating a plan. When the Earl had caught her alone in the parlor and murmured lascivious promises of how he planned to delight in robbing her of her innocence, she’d known she had to flee. And as he’d blithely informed her that he saw no need to wait until their wedding night to pass the time in her bed, all thoughts of a well planned escape had mutated into a desperate urge to get away as quickly as she could. Her mother’s father was a Scottish Duke with a large castle just outside Edinburgh. Since the death of her mother seven years before, her grandfather had begged to have Julia come to stay with him in Scotland. If she could just make it to him, he would help her. He would not allow her to be bartered and sold to an English rakehell, to suffer the same fate Julia’s mother had. The Viscount had charmed her, seduced her, married her for her money to satisfy debts that, even then, were dangerously large. Once the money had run out, he’d cast her aside, sending her to live in his country estate, visiting only rarely. In truth, Julia had known very little of her father growing up. It was only when she reached marrying age that he had shown any interest, had brought her to London and had his sister begin to groom her for introduction to the ton.

A muffled noise startled her out of her reverie and Julia realized that she was not to be alone much longer. The sound of hoof beats behind her indicated that whoever they were, there was more than one, and they were moving fast. Highwaymen? Her heart lurched with sudden fear. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of being accosted on the road. She attempted to calm her racing heart by reasoning with herself. Perhaps it was simply another desperate traveler such as herself.

Or perhaps it’s your fiancé, her nearly hysterical mind screamed. It was no doubt well past the time, now, when she had been expected at Lady Winterton’s soirée. The Earl had promised to do many things to her this evening, and most of them could be accomplished just as easily here, if not more so.

Thinking quickly, she steered her mount off the road and into the dense covering of the forest just as the moon slid behind the clouds, leaving her cloaked in complete darkness. She slowed the horse to a walk, acutely aware of the crunch of leaves beneath its hooves, and for the first time that night, found herself grateful for the rain as it muffled the noise of her movement.

The tree branch caught her unawares, slamming against the side of her head with a force that jarred her teeth. With a moan she slumped forward against the stallion, and succumbed to unconsciousness.

* * *

Sebastian Cade had seen many things in his two and thirty years. A massive black stallion trotting through the gardens of his estate with an unconscious figure slung across its back was not something he’d ever expected to witness.

Sitting behind the large oak desk in his study, sipping brandy and attempting to chase away the headache that had formed after a seemingly endless day of reviewing accounts and answering correspondence, he had glanced up at the rush of movement in his peripheral vision, highlighted by the light pouring from the kitchen on the opposite side of the manor. He shook his head and looked a second time, expecting the strange vision to have disappeared. But no, there it was again; the horse slowed, lowering his head, and began to nibble with enthusiasm on the perfectly manicured bushes hedging the northernmost garden path. The rider, who had been slumped against the animal’s wide neck, slid forward at the loss of support and toppled, face first, unceremoniously to the ground. Though dressed as a man, he deduced the rider was female from the tangled mass of long black hair, blended almost seamlessly with the nighttime darkness. Her mount seemed unconcerned – after a brief shake of its head in her direction, he returned to his grazing.

“Bloody hell,” Sebastian muttered, rising to his feet and moving to the door of his study. He supposed the situation required investigation. He was exhausted, and in a rather foul mood after seeing how much money his younger brother had spent on gambling last month, but he couldn’t very well leave a comatose girl sprawled in the midst of his roses.

“Milord.” One of the maids met him in the hall. “Yer not going to believe this,” she said.

“There’s a girl in my garden.”

“Aye, milord. Did ye see ‘er too, then? I’d stepped out o’ the kitchen t’ fetch some wood an’ there she was. We couldn’t find William, so Mrs. Holland said to fetch ye post haste.”

“Tell Mrs. Holland not to fret, I’m going to investigate.”

“She also said to tell ye to be careful, Yer Grace.” The young girl handed him her lantern with a coy smile.

He grinned in spite of himself, rubbed a hand across his face, and took the lantern. His scar throbbed, as it often did when he was frustrated. “Do tell Mrs. Holland that I can take care of a small slip of a girl perfectly fine, especially one that is unconscious.” The older woman who served as his head of household had been his nurse maid as a child, and was the closest he’d had to a mother growing up, his own having died giving birth to Sebastian’s brother. She’d been wildly protective of him in his youth and little had changed now about her opinion of his ability to care for himself.

With a final nod to the serving girl, he turned and headed for the back door of the manor, then out into the gardens and towards the crumpled heap that was barely visible in the milky blackness. The large black stallion lifted its head and snorted at his approach. It was an impressive animal – ridiculously large for such a small girl, clearly bred for racing. He’d have it cared for, as soon as he saw to its rider.

“Well,” Sebastian murmured, crouching down to brush thick black hair from the girl’s – no, woman’s – face, “this makes things interesting.”

She was indeed a woman, he realized as he set down the lantern. Gripping her shoulders, he gently turned her onto her back and a pair of deliciously full breasts swayed into view beneath the torn fragments of her shirt, snared by the rose bush’s thorns. The rest of her figure was slender and girlish but the swell of enticing porcelain flesh which rose and fell with each ragged unsteady breath proved his damsel in distress was certainly not a child. Her clothing was crude, simple tan breeches and the now soiled, torn shirt, but on her feet were dainty women’s slippers embroidered with green and gold. It was almost humorous and had the circumstances been different he surely would have laughed. Her skin was pale and flawless, not the tone or texture of a servant or peasant girl. What the devil was a woman such as her doing face down in his garden dressed as a stable hand, let alone riding unaccompanied across the English countryside?

His eyes came to rest on her face, tilted to the side and resting against one slender shoulder. Fine, sculpted brows arched above eyes protected by lashes so long and full they brushed the apples of her cheeks in a graceful fan. He wondered what color her eyes were, and hoped, irrationally, they would be blue. High cheekbones and a tiny button nose gave way to a full pouty mouth and small chin which lent her face a heart—like shape. Turning her chin, he surveyed the left side of her face, and discovered the source of her unconsciousness. A vivid, purple bruise marred her pale skin, just above her left temple, and a jagged cut had leaked blood down her cheek, now crusted to a dull brown.

Skimming his hands along her form, Sebastian performed a cursory check for broken bones and was relieved to find none. He stood and lifted her into his arms, surprised at how light she felt cradled against his chest.

Mrs. Holland waited for him at the door, worrying her bottom lip and wringing her hands together.

“I need water and bandages,” he ordered. “And clothes. I believe my sister has some night gowns in her old room. Someone locate my wayward valet and have him tend to the horse.”

“Shall I send for the doctor, your Grace?”

“Not yet.” With a shake of his head he started for the back staircase. “Help me tend to the wound, and then we’ll decide how bad it is.”

“Who is she?”

Sebastian paused and again shook his head, glancing down at the bundle in his arms. In the warm light of the kitchen she looked even more beautiful than his initial assessment had deduced, lips slightly parted, the ugly mess on the left side of her face the only indication something was out of sorts. Her chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm, drawing his attention lower, back to her breasts once more. An angel? He bit back a laugh. Where had such an absurd thought come from? It reminded him of the things he’d once said to… Don’t. “I’ve no idea.”

He continued up the stairs to the sounds of Mrs. Holland scurrying about the kitchen gathering the items he’d requested. Carrying the girl down to the far end of the hallway, he shouldered open the last door on the right and moved to the large canopy bed that stood against the far wall.

He set her down as gingerly as possible, while the young maid bustled in behind him, lighting candles in his wake. The woman let out a tiny moan and stirred. One eye fluttered open briefly before drifting closed again.

“It’s alright,” he heard himself whisper, “you’re safe.”

He’d been right. Her eyes were blue.