Beautiful Viscount, Beastly Bride (Hidden Hearts #3)

1. Chapter 1

Perched atop Buttercup, the gentle bay she’d hired from the Pilgrim’s Rest Inn, Lady Annabelle Montrose huddled deeper into her velvet-lined cloak and squinted against the icy January wind.

A gust carrying invisible sleet bit into her cheeks like tiny shards of glass and she tugged the cashmere scarf she’d wrapped around her head higher.

She flicked a glance behind her, wanting to ask her ridiculously overpriced guide how much longer before they’d reach the Pilgrim’s Way, but he’d fallen back—again—to ride beside Lucy, and she feared he might not hear her over the howling wind lest she shout. She would not lower herself to that.

Before they set out on the return portion of this journey she would have a small chat with Lucy—Miss Dunn for this particular occasion—and remind her that despite the role she was playing, acting as Annabelle’s chaperone, she was not free to lollygag at will.

So much for time being of the essence, as her guide had insisted with his annoying lecture concerning the inclement weather and the inadvisability of crossing to Holy Island until a later date.

A later date would never do. She had no intention of tarrying in the frigid North any longer than necessary. No, indeed. If her hunch proved correct, and she had no reason to think otherwise, she would soon unearth the conveniently vanished Lord Sterling Randall, Viscount of Stoneford.

She smiled inwardly, congratulating herself on the clever bargaining she’d employed for this day’s work.

She might have agreed to the guide’s exorbitant fee—and that only because he was the sole conductor who’d agreed to see her and her so-called companion safely across the marshy causeway to Holy Island and back—but she’d had the foresight not to pay him a farthing until the journey was complete.

She knew how his sort operated. Once he had her money in his meaty, grasping fist, he would have no reason not to simply take her a short distance along the path and then pronounce the crossing too dangerous. He’d disappear—along with her money.

She crested the hill and awaited her guide with mounting impatience.

Eventually Mr. Blackwell halted his horse beside hers. Lucy, thanks to her plodding pace, still lagged behind.

Annabelle turned her gaze on Holy Island.

In the waning light of dusk, the island’s vast expanse of grasslands, its ruins of a long-abandoned priory, and a lone, stately castle standing tall and proud against a backdrop of sea and sky seemed both desolate and beautiful. The latter she hadn’t foreseen.

Her brother would laugh at her reaction, were he here to witness it. But he wasn’t here, and that was precisely the point.

Her gaze flicked over the surrounding dunes and expanse of silt leading to the island as snow flurries alighted atop the glimmering mud only to vanish in an instant. Intermittent poles lined the causeway from one end to the other, marking the sole land access from the mainland.

Supposedly this crossing could only be utilized for a few hours each day. In another few hours, this same path would become impassable, taken by the sea.

She squelched the shudder of fear trying to roll through her, imagining the scene.

“You wish to proceed?” Mr. Blackwell asked her, raising his voice to be heard above the din of waves and wind.

“Of course,” she said, no hesitation. “The sooner we get there, the sooner we get back, and you receive your fee.”

He issued a solemn nod which she suspected held more than a trace of sarcasm, and urged his horse onward.

They’d no sooner reached the marsh than two riders appeared from the east, their approach obscured by the dunes.

Annabelle arched a brow at the nay-saying guide. “You see? Safe as houses. These two men appear ready and willing to make the crossing. Let us get on with it.”

Her guide ignored her in favor of eyeing the riders.

Annabelle’s patience reached its limit. She had traveled the entire day, boarding the train in London at sunrise, hiring a post chaise in Berwick-on-Tweed for a miserable journey over rutted roads to Fenwick, only to encounter undue resistance in her simple request for someone to take her across the flats, and now this insubordination.

“Lady Woodville, I suggest we make a run for it.”

She had to have heard him wrong. “I beg your pardon?”

Her words cut off when the newcomers sidled directly into their paths—or hers, at any rate. Her guide had turned his mount and was barreling back the way they’d come. Lucy, too, suddenly had the wherewithal to speed her horse along and rode neck and neck with the guide.

One of the two riders took off after them. The other man, all of his face save for his beady brown eyes concealed under the brim of his large hat and behind a wrapped scarf, held what appeared to be a pistol, aimed at her.

Outrage filled her. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Dismount, deliver your valuables, and no one gets hurt,” came his gritty demand.

She lifted her chin and, at the same time, concentrated her efforts on steadying her horse who had begun dancing uneasily, as if sensing danger.

“Dismount? Out of the question, and how dare you ask it of me, sir. Do you know who I am? Move aside.”

His huff of laughter proclaimed him entirely unimpressed. Then, very deliberately, he cocked the pistol.

She glared at him.

He glared right back, and she was forced to admit she was in no position to refuse him. But, if she relinquished her mount, she stood every chance of being a victim of this god-awful weather. As if to punctuate her concern, the snow began to fall in earnest.

Snow and sleet? Whoever heard of such a thing? Her brother had been right about this Godforsaken place.

Without warning, the man urged his horse—a very fine-looking animal, easily sixteen hands, with good muscle tone and a sleek chocolate-colored coat—too close for the comfort of the mare on which she rode.

“I’ll just help myself, shall I?” the man said, his scarf slipping enough to reveal a bold nose and the upper half of a sneer. He reached one large, gloved hand beneath the fold of her cloak to snatch a handful of her gown. He yanked, hard.

She teetered, nearly toppling her from saddle.

This had gone far enough. Annabelle reacted on instinct. She pulled her reticule from her muff and tossed it with all her might. The wind caught it and sent it sailing.

The man grunted in surprise and strove to catch the small, ornate bag—one of her favorites, damn the villain—but luck was with her and it catapulted toward the dunes.

With his attention averted, Annabelle shifted her weight forward, pressed her heel into Buttercup’s side, and the two surged onto the causeway. She did not look back.

Minutes later, huddling over her horse’s neck as snow fell in a thick curtain as far as the eye could see, effectively blinding her, she concluded two things: One, the villains had not pursued her.

And, two, making it across the tidal flat without breaking her or her horse’s neck would be a miracle.

The far-from-even surface was not exactly solid earth. One minute slush, the next ice.

If not for the posts, this would be an effort in futility—and a death trap.

She slowed Buttercup’s pace to a crawl and silenced the niggling fear that her decision to venture forth at any cost might just end in disaster for the poor creature. She would not let that happen.

She craned around to gauge the distance she’d come. As far as she could tell, peering through the blanket of white, she was equidistant from the mainland behind and the island ahead.

That settled it. No sense going back and risking delivering herself into the hands of the blackguards who had robbed her at gunpoint. She and Buttercup would have to soldier on. But not like this.

She swung her right leg over the pommel, tightening her thighs to better direct her mount, then, with no choice, removed her cloak.

After all, she had her fur-lined gloves and heavy scarf.

The horse had no protection from the elements.

She laid the expensive garment over the mare’s neck and shoulders, then leaned forward into the damp cloak and urged her mare forward.

Buttercup obeyed, her breathing growing more normal, her gait steadying.

“I’ll get us across, I vow,” she murmured, and focused on keeping the next pole in her sights.

***

“You’re certain? A lone rider, crossing in this mess?” Sterling Randall, Viscount of Stoneford, demanded of his footman, Chip.

“See for yourself, milord,” Chip replied.

Sterling waved the man aside and pressed his eye to the looking glass—not that he actually doubted the footman. It simply made no sense that someone would risk the path in this wretched storm.

He spotted the slow-moving horse and rider at once. The crimson cloak helped. But if he wasn’t mistaken, the horse, and not the rider had the benefit of the garment.

Damnation. A crimson cloak. A woman, then. His sister, Caroline? Doubtful. She’d know she’d earn a stern lecture for doing something so foolhardy, not to mention, rather than indicating any intent to visit in her last correspondence, she’d demanded to know when he meant to return to London.

He straightened away from the scope and considered his next move. Whoever she was, she must have good reason for venturing forth during a blizzard.

Or else, she might simply be a fool. Or lost. Or any number of things.

He cursed under his breath. “I’ll have to ride out and meet her. Whoever she is, much longer in this exposure, and she’ll be in trouble. Mount up Zeus. I’m ready to go in five.”

***

They’d made it over the passage, no panic nor any broken bones to speak of.

Annabelle would smile if her face weren’t frozen. She managed a low murmur in the mare’s ear. “There now, steady on girl. That’s it. That’s a good lass.”

It occurred to her that she’d been shivering, but was no longer.

Although a nuisance to endure, not shivering meant her body had given up the fight, and that was not a good thing.

She might, even now, be in process of freezing to death.

They did say freezing was a painless way to go, though no one who had ever frozen to death had returned to confirm this supposition.

She wondered if her brother’s death had been painless. Gaston had died in his sleep, the fools at the Yard said. Natural causes, they said. Made no sense.

Oblivion, sweet and dreamy, threatened to pull her under.

No.

She couldn’t die. Not now. Not when she’d finally come up with a way to salvage her future. She squeezed her thighs, fisted and unfisted her hands, and ordered her blood to flow through her veins.

A pounding sounded in her ears. Rhythmic. Powerful. Her heart, responding to her demands?

Horse hooves. She lifted her head and peered forward. A rider. A rider on a large black beast thundering toward her.

The horseman might be another brigand. She lowered her head. At this point, she didn’t care who he was, so long as he didn’t startle her horse whom she’d finally managed to settle.

The rider reached her, reined in his mount beside hers, and bent his head to search her face.

Their eyes met.

A burst of warmth, swift and fierce, flooded her chest. Lord Sterling Randall, the viscount himself. Though half his face was hidden beneath a mound of cashmere, she’d recognize those obsidian eyes anywhere.

They narrowed on her face in a suspicious glare.

So he recognized her, as well. Probably he’d guessed why she’d come.

She’d laugh in triumph if she could move her lips. Because she’d unearthed Lord Sterling Randall, the Viscount of Stoneford, and the man whom she was almost certain had killed her brother, then fled the city to this horrid place. Holy Island, indeed. More like hell that had frozen over.

In the next instant, a heavy blanket draped over her. Then, without a word, he turned his mount, took her reins from her grasp and started forward.

She didn’t bother to try and wrest them from him. He wanted to take her to his lair? Perfect.