Surely by the time they reached Northumberland, Callista would be safe from pursuit. Victor Corey was hardly likely to spend so much energy chasing after a reluctant bride. And that pudgy brother of hers couldn’t be much danger.

A small niggling voice whispered that she trusted him to see her safely to her aunt. That he’d made a promise. That she needed him.

That he might need her.

It was a voice he squashed ruthlessly and efficiently.

Rage was his armor, apathy his shield, and drink his balm. Take any of the three away and he was left with nothing but despair and desolation.

He bent to retrieve the wine bottle. Eyed the contents. Sweet oblivion for an hour . . . perhaps two if he was lucky.

“Should you be drinking?”

He closed his eyes, remembering her solemn stare as she said the words; the concern in her tone. He gripped the neck of the bottle. Smashed it against the wall, glass and wine exploding over his clothes, the heavy aroma burning his nostrils. Ducking into the stable, he pulled off his boots. Shirt and breeches followed. The night breeze cooled his naked body. Trailed like a lover’s fingers over his skin. The moon was a narrow crescent low in the sky. The period of Berenth, when shifting grew more difficult and dangerous, was well advanced. But he needed to escape this form before he went mad . . . before absent thoughts became painful regrets. Before dark memories tore his mind apart.

Rolling his clothes in a ball, he shoved them behind the grain bins. None to notice until the grooms appeared to feed and water in the morning. By then, he’d have long since returned.

He smiled as he left the guttering lamplight to wrap himself in shadows, the magic moving within him like fire in his blood, transforming him, freeing him, returning him to the night where he belonged. Hunter, not hunted.

Back arched, the bony cat hissed in panic before racing for the safety of the darkest corner of the barn, but the wolf, eyes cutting the darkness like two flames, never looked back. And he smiled, knowing that those indoors huddled closer to their fires when they heard him lift his voice to the wind in a lonely call to a family who would never answer.

7

Callista’s heart lurched. Her eyes flew open. She tried to scream—or breathe—but a hand clamped tight over her mouth. A harsh voice sounded low in her ear, breath hot on her cheek. “Don’t make a sound.”

She nodded, her heart galloping like a runaway horse.

The hand retreated, but the figure remained poised above her, silhouetted in the gray predawn light seeping round the edges of her bedchamber curtain. She sat up, drawing the sheet close around her neck. A threadbare piece of linen was the only barrier between herself and humiliation. “Are you mad?” she hissed. “You scared me to death.”

He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. They’ve found us.” David’s words hit her like a punch to the stomach. “I didn’t expect Corey’s thugs to be so skilled, but even a rabid hound can track a scent once in a while.”

“You saw them?”

“Four men. London accents. Weapons out of sight, but close to hand. They just rode in. There’s few people awake yet. It’s early. But soon the tap will be full and the maids up and about. It won’t take these chaps long to find someone willing to trade our whereabouts for a purse full of coins.”

“I thought you’d left me.”

“I should have. It seems I really am a gentleman. Who knew?”

Gentleman was hardly the sobriquet she would have used. His shirt was wrinkled and smelled like horse, his breeches were the same, and his boots bore a bog’s worth of thick black mud. She gave a surreptitious sniff. No smell of alcohol on him, and his eyes shone clear and bright, without a drunkard’s stare. In fact, not just clear and bright but glittering with wide-eyed excitement.

“Prove your gallantry.” She swung her feet onto the floor, dragging the sheet with her. “Turn your back.”

“Excuse me?”

“Turn your back while I dress. I can’t very well escape in nothing but a chemise.”

“Is that all you have on under that sheet? I’m not that much of a gentleman.”

Under his scrutiny and with the sheet wrapped tight around her, she sidled over to the chair where her gown and petticoats lay draped. “Please, turn around.”

“You have a delightful waddle,” he commented.

“Thank you. Please?” She made circling motions with one hand.

He offered her a rogue’s smile before he swung his back to her, arms folded, eyes trained on the opposite wall. “Like a goose on her way to the pond.”

With shaking fingers, she dropped the sheet to fasten her corset before slithering into her petticoats. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“What?” he said without turning around. “Staring at this horrid painting of a field full of sad cows? Not particularly.”

“I mean being one step ahead of the chase . . . the trap closing . . . the thrill of outsmarting an adversary . . . you like the excitement, don’t you?”

“No, I just dislike being dead. Are you done? We need to move now if we’re to outdistance them before the sun rises.”

One more layer complete. One less chance for him to see the trembling in her knees or notice the flush of her skin. He’d think it was on his account and he was vain enough already. “Have you arranged for the coach—”

“No coach. Ordering the horses harnessed would give us away. They’re not fools. It’s shank’s mare for now.”

“We can’t walk to Scotland.”

“Not if you keep chattering on, we can’t.” He swung back around as she struggled with her gown. Crossed the room in three ground-eating strides to take the collar of her dress in his hands.

“You said you were a gentleman,” she gasped.

“This isn’t a ravishment, Miss Hawthorne. I’m fastening your buttons.”

“Oh,” she muttered, her face growing as hot as the rest of her body.

“Unless . . .” He drew out the word, leaning forward. He was so close she could smell the scent of him and feel the tension smoldering just under his skin.

She jumped and spun, nearly knocking him in the face with the top of her head. “What of Corey’s henchmen?”

“They can get their own women.”

“You’re mad.”

He grinned, the gleam of it positively fiendish. “You’re only now realizing that?” He shrugged. “Perhaps when the dogs aren’t howling at the door and we can take our time.”

Her gaze swept up to his face, but he’d already turned to swing his saddlebag over his shoulder, his face lost in shadow, and she couldn’t read his expression nor tell from his tone whether he was joking.

The passage was dark, save for a shuttered lamp at the top of the stairs, though every second the light increased. Soon it would be dawn and impossible to slip away unnoticed. She hoisted her satchel more firmly on her shoulder and started for the stairs, but David restrained her. “Not that way. We use the kitchen stairs and the gate leading into the alley. Once we reach the road, we’ll cut into the wood and travel east and south a bit. That should throw them off.”

The wood. The road south. It was a risk, but an acceptable risk. “We’re not walking to Scotland.”

“So it would seem. You do realize we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“No, I mean we don’t need to walk anywhere. We can hide from Branston and travel to Scotland at the same time.”

He cocked a head, his eyes sharp and bright as knives. “Do tell.”

She took his hand. It was warm and felt far too perfect fitted against her own. That scared her and she would have pulled away, but he tightened his grip, trapping her beside him.

She swallowed down the flutters in her chest, gave a deep breath, and said, “Follow me.”

* * *

Sam Oakham was enormous. He towered over David, muscles bulging, fists like hammers. He scowled out from behind a thick, wiry beard and lowered bushy brows and stood with legs wide and shoulders braced in a pose meant to intimidate. No doubt, most people cowered before this shambling mountain. David stood his ground, stepping closer to Callista and spreading his fingers to touch the small of her back, as if marking her as his own.

The man’s eyes narrowed in understanding, and his scowl deepened. “Why should I? What’s in it for me?”

David felt a shiver race up Callista’s spine before she stiffened, her sharp chin lifting. “I can pay my way. You don’t have a fortune-teller, do you?”

Oakham tugged at his beard. “We had Old Polly and her crystals, but she died winter before last.”