The sound of paper rustling awoke her. Hannah glanced around her darkened room, confused by the sound. The thin shaft of moonlight shining through the narrow opening between the window’s drapes barely provided sufficient light to see. She rolled over to face the door. A small, white square on the floor caught her attention.

A note? She propped herself up on one elbow. Sleep had deserted her—she felt wide awake. The fire had burned down to a few glowing coals in the fireplace. She padded over, picked up a spill from a small box sitting near the neatly stacked firewood, and lit it from a coal. Her bare feet already growing cold, she crept back and lit the candle on her bedside table.

Another glance revealed that it was indeed a small square of paper on her floor. The noise that had awakened her must have occurred when the note was shoved under her door. She looked at the clock on the mantle. Two-thirty in the morning. She picked up the note and unfolded it, holding it near the flickering candle.

Three—time for the truth. Meet me at the bottom of the garden path.

No signature. She frowned and then shook her head. Three in the morning was Blackwold’s favored time for conversation, but why outside? Why didn’t he just come to her room as he usually did?

Because his betrothed is in the room next to mine. Apparently, he did have some sense of discretion.

Mumbling very unpleasant comments about Blackwold, Hannah hurriedly threw on her warmest flannel petticoat and an old but serviceable wool traveling gown. Hardly an inspiring costume for a private rendezvous at the edge of the garden, but she wasn’t feeling particularly inspired. She stifled a yawn as she grabbed a thick shawl.

The hallway was deserted when she gently opened her door. She waited a moment, listening, and then crept through the quiet house to the terrace door in the library.

As she unlocked it, she grimaced. It would be just her luck if some servant found the door unlocked and relocked it, leaving her outside with Blackwold all night.

That would be almost as difficult to explain as Lady Alice discovering him in Hannah’s room at three in the morning.

Thick clouds obscured the moon and the stars, making the garden path appear dark, despite the lack of leaves on the low shrubs. Hannah shivered and drew her shawl more closely as she descended the terrace steps to the gravel path. The wind whipped around her, making her heavy skirts flap and twist around her limbs and tearing at her heavy braid which hung down her back.

Regretting her failure to put on a bonnet, she strode forward. There was no sign of Blackwold in the gardens proper, so she continued to the rough area between the gardens and the cliff. She smiled, thinking of Gina and the curate, bottoms in the air, examining the ground.

A cold drop of rain hit her nose. She wiped it off on her sleeve and cursed Blackwold. It seemed increasingly likely that he’d sent her out to get drenched by the coming storm while he’d stayed—warm and dry—inside, toasting his toes next to the fire and chuckling.

She was just about to turn back when something sharp pricked her back.

The silly wind must have whipped a rose branch against her. Now, she was going to have to waste time untangling her shawl from the vicious bush’s thorns. Scowling, she caught up her shawl and half-turned.

Instead of a rose bush, she found herself staring at the muffled face of a man, tall and shadowed in the bulky darkness of his greatcoat. He held a sharp dagger in his left hand, its point aimed at her.

“Go on, Miss Cowles. No need to stop here.”

When she didn’t move, he made a short, stabbing motion with the fifteen-inch blade. It pricked through her shawl and her sleeve.

“What are you doing? Who are you?” she asked sharply as she moved to face him more fully.

“You know who I am—I saw it in your face. Now walk.” He stabbed at her again with a sharp, jerking motion.

She instinctively stepped back, clutching her arms. The wind picked up, pulling fine hairs out of her braid and whipping them across her face. Inching back another step, she stared at him. Her heart pounded against her ribs, and her palms grew damp and icy.

Who—earlier? Her thoughts jumbled together, fear making it difficult to think. Then it clicked into place like a stiff door latch. Her dread coalesced into a cold, clear block of terror.

Carter Hodges.

“Mr. Hodges,” she whispered. “Why—what do you want?”

“You represent a risk I am unprepared to accept. You saw me.”

“No.” She shook her head as he forced her to back up another step.

“Lying is a sin, Miss Cowles. I suggest you avoid such low behavior in your last few minutes.”

“Last minutes?”

“Walk!”

“Where? Where do you want to go?” Another heavy drop of rain hit her on the forehead, cascading down over her right brow into her eye. She blinked furiously. “It is raining—I’m returning to the house.”

“No, Miss Cowles. You are walking to the cliff.”

“I will not.” She straightened and crossed her arms over her shawl. “If you stab me, they will recognize the wound, even if you throw my body over the cliff. I will not go.”

Her brief moment of defiance ended abruptly when he hit her savagely on the left shoulder with a cane—a weapon she hadn’t seen him holding in his right hand.

Pain exploded in her arm. She stumbled and nearly went down on her knees. Her right hand flew to her shoulder. Shock and the freezing wind kept some of the agony at bay, but in the back of her mind, she knew it would grow unbearable soon.

She forced the thought, and her growing fear, aside.

“Now, Miss Cowles. Walk. Or I will beat you to death where you stand and drag you.” He shrugged, holding the dagger in one hand and the cane in the other. “It matters not to me.”

Staggering and cradling her left arm against her waist, she moved toward the cliff.

Think! There has to be a way to escape.

The rising storm howled in a burst of energy, tearing at her as if to force her away from the danger ahead. Her face stung under a sharp splattering of icy rain. Even the heavens seemed to rage and wail against them, trying to push them back to the safety of the house, but the vicar pressed on. He hit her again on the left side.

This time, she felt the pain clearly. A sob broke from her, and she stumbled, falling to her knees. Her entire arm and shoulder burned, throbbing with each heartbeat. Still, she couldn’t give up, couldn’t let him win. There had to be something she could do.

Once again, she staggered to her feet, looking around. They were closer, now. The edge was only twenty feet away. Crossing her right arm over her chest to protect her left side, she edged sideways.

“Why now? Why at three in the morning?” She had to yell to be heard over the increasing tumult of the storm.

Carter’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Three is the most honest time of the day. Did Blackwold not tell you? It is well known. Amongst the Hodges, at least. We are all poor sleepers, and three has always been the time for confidences. The truth.” He shrugged, his greatcoat flapping around his legs. “It seemed appropriate. And I knew you would come if you thought he’d summoned you.”

She shook her head.

“I felt sure he would have enlightened you.”

“Just what are you suggesting?” She tried to sound insulted instead of simply terrified. If she could maneuver him closer to the cliff, perhaps… She took another step to his left, courting the dagger rather than the brutal cane.

“Exactly what you believe.” His mechanical voice was clear above the wind. He sounded bored.

What she thought, any questions she had, were unimportant to him. Their conversation, brief as it was, was finished. She flinched further to his left.

The vicar raised his cane again, a monstrous black figure against the swirling gray clouds above.

Then something dark barreled out of the night. It slammed into the vicar. His dagger flew one way and his cane the other as he landed on the ground. Hannah dashed around the writhing figures and picked up the dagger in her good hand.

Low grunting revealed the presence of another man. The two rolled through the mud, locked together. Glancing around, Hannah ran to the cane—it had more reach than the dagger—she couldn’t let Carter get it. But her left arm was useless, and she couldn’t hold both the dagger and the stick. Without thinking, she threw the dagger over the edge of the cliff and picked up the cane.

If Carter managed to free himself… She was not going to let him force her—or anyone else—over the cliff.

The rain was pouring down in heavy sheets, and she blinked, trying to clear the water out of her eyes.

First one man and then the other got to his feet. They faced each other, hunched like two animals preparing to fight.

“Stop!” she yelled. “There is no need…”

One of them—Carter—she recognized his white face—glanced at her and then back at his opponent. He seemed to straighten. Standing at the edge of the cliff, he appeared immensely tall against the chiaroscuro background of the storm clouds. His hat was gone, and he raised his face to the rain.

Washing his sins away. The thought rushed through Hannah as she impulsively took a step forward. Don’t…

Then he was gone.

“No!” she screamed, horrified. Burning tears mingled with the cold rain sluicing down her cheeks.

“He chose his own way. As usual.” Blackwold’s deep voice carried over the sounds of the storm. “Are you injured?” He moved closer to her, but didn’t touch her.

The rain made it difficult to see him clearly, but she had the notion that his cravat was missing, his waistcoat undone, and his jacket was rumpled and clotted with mud.

She’d never seen anyone so dear to her in her life. Laughter—partly hysterical, partly relief, and mostly just the sheer joy of being alive and in love—bubbled out of her.

“Are you well?” he asked, sounding very unsure.

“Yes—no. I’m just so glad to see you.” The words gushed out of her.

When he moved to put an arm around her, she backed away.

“My arm—” she stammered.

“Is it broken?” He stopped a foot away, his arms bent as if he wanted to hold her but was afraid of breaking her into tiny pieces.

“Yes—I don’t know—perhaps.” Now that she had the luxury of experiencing every little ache and pain, she found it hurt even to talk. Every breath, every small movement, sent another hot stab of agony through her shoulder and radiating down her arm.

He moved around to her right side, slipped a gentle arm around her waist, and urged her toward the house.

“Carter—”

“Do you truly want to discuss him now?” Blackwold asked.

“It is better than thinking about my arm.”

Blackwold chuckled and then sobered. “Sorry—didn’t mean to laugh. You are in pain.”

“I’d rather laugh than cry,” Hannah remarked, doing her best not to moan, be sick, or fall to her knees with hysterical sobs.

“Precisely.” He held the door for her and ushered her inside. “Can you make it to your room?”

She gritted her teeth. “It’s my arm, not my lower limbs.”

“Oh? I didn’t know ladies had lower limbs.”

A laugh escaped her, followed closely by a moan. “Stop it,” she gasped. “You’re just tormenting me for your own foul purposes.”

“Fowl?” He glanced around. “Oh, you must have heard the gardener’s rooster. Crowing a bit early—the storm must have roused him. Is that what awakened you?”

She tied her shawl to support her left arm and clutched the banister with her good hand. “Go away.”

“Mary will attend you shortly.” He leaned over the handrail, caught her chin in one hand, and pressed a kiss on her lips. “Followed by Dr. Burland.”

Despite the unexpected pleasure of his kiss, she groaned again and shook her head, hoping he wouldn’t notice her flushed cheeks.

“Be of good cheer. Even though you lack a fever, I’m sure he’ll be happy to bleed you. Just ask him.”

She sighed and tried not to roll her eyes.

He grinned and stood back. “And I will check on our supply of linen bandages.” One of his brows flew up. “You are awfully prone to accidents, you know. Are all Americans so careless?”

Caught between a fresh burst of laughter, agony, and complete aggravation, Hannah gripped the banister and moved as gently as she could to avoid jarring her aching arm. “I refuse to respond to that ridiculous question,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Is that not a response?”

“Go away! Fetch the doctor. I can only hope he manages to drain every last drop of my blood this time so you will all leave me in peace.”

“Hope does seem to spring eternal,” he called before slipping away into the shadows.