Chapter One
A slip sent stones skittering down the slope of the narrow country road.
“Watch your step,” cautioned Carolina Sloane, as the rough-edged echo faded into the shadows. “The way turns steeper here, and the ground is very uneven.”
She paused to glance up at the ominous gray clouds and then looked back at her companion, who was struggling to keep pace with her. “We can rest for a few minutes if you like, but we ought not linger longer than that.”
Thunder rumbled off in the distance.
“The light seems to be dying awfully fast,” she added.
“No, no, I—I shall manage,” answered Isobel Urquehart in between gasps for breath. “I’m so sorry to be lagging—”
“Oh, please, don’t apologize,” said Caro quickly. “It’s my fault—I should have paid more attention to the time.” She squinted into the gloom up ahead, hoping to see some flicker of light from the outskirts of town. But if anything the shadows seemed to deepen and darken as the road wended its way into a copse of trees.
A gust of wind, its bite already sharp with the chill of evening, suddenly rustled through the overhanging branches, stirring a prickling of unease at the back of her neck.
“We haven’t much farther to go.” Repressing an oath, Caro forced herself to sound more cheerful than she felt. “It can’t be more than a mile or so until we reach town.”
“Yes, yes, it must be close, given how long we’ve been walking.” Isobel hitched her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. Her cheeks looked unnaturally pale in the fading flickers of sunlight, but she managed a smile. “And if night falls before we get there, we shall just pretend we are having a marvelous adventure.”
Caro was relieved that her companion had such pluck and a sense of humor, for she hadn’t realized that Isobel’s health was so fragile.
That was because the two young ladies had only just met the previous afternoon. On discovering a shared interest in antiquities—as well as literature—they had made spur-of-the-moment plans for a walk out to see one of the Roman ruins that dotted the countryside around the spa town of Bath.
The day had dawned warm and sunny, so they had set out after nuncheon, thinking to be gone no more than several hours. But the setting had proved wildly romantic, and the two of them had lost track of the time as they chatted about books and history over a picnic of pastries among the weathered limestone columns.
But now, with dusk cloaking them in a swirl of shadows and stormclouds threatening rain, the decision did not seem so wise.
Impetuous. Caro gave an inward wince, knowing she did have a tendency to go off half-cocked—
“Why, just listen to the wind keening through the trees,” went on Isobel, interrupting Caro’s brooding. “If you use your imagination, you can almost picture yourself in the wild mountains of Sicily, evading a band of cutthroat brigands on your way to a midnight rendezvous with a swashbuckling count at the ancient ruins of Taormina.”
Caro picked her way over a patch of loose stones. “Yes, I can see what you mean.” A pause, and then she laughed. “So, you’ve read Escape from the Barbary Pirates as well as The Prince’s Evil Intentions?”
“I confess, I’ve read all of Sir Sharpe Quill’s novels.” Isobel gave a shy grin. “Although I daresay I shouldn’t admit it, I find them scathingly funny. Not to speak of intriguingly interesting when, um, Count Alessandro starts removing Emmalina’s clothing.”
“Oh, your secret is safe with me,” replied Caro.
“You’ve read them, too?” asked Isobel.
“Every word,” she assured her new friend.
And in truth, the statement was no exaggeration. That was because the reclusive author, considered by the ton to be the most intriguing gentleman in all of London, was not actually a he, but a she—more specifically, Caro’s older sister Anna.
But that was a secret she was not at liberty to share.
And at the moment, there were far more pressing concerns than clever noms de plumes or dangerous pen-and-paper plots. Perhaps it was merely the rising whoosh and crackle of the leaves overhead, but it seemed that Isobel’s breathing was becoming more labored.
Damn, damn, damn.
Caro bit her lip, wishing she dared quicken the pace. The prickling sensation at the back of her neck had turned sharper, like daggerpoints digging into her flesh. It was foolish, she knew, to let talk of ruthless villains and exotic dangers spook her. This dark stretch of road was a quiet country lane in England, and the black silhouettes were placid oak trees, not gnarled claws of doom stretching out to grab…
“And then, of course, the scene where Emmalina slithers down a cliff…” Behind her, Isobel had begun to recount the plot of the latest Sir Sharpe Quill novel. “… and pounces on the pirate leader, who is about to skewer Count Alessandro, is very exciting.”
“Indeed,” murmured Caro, trying not to be distracted by the jumpy black shadows flitting in and out of the surrounding trees.
“Of course, it’s not very realistic to expect that a young lady would know how to fight tooth and nail against a muscled villain…”
Ha! thought Caro wryly. Her late father, a noted explorer specializing in exotic tribal cultures, had taken his three young daughters on several expeditions to primitive places. Being a very practical man as well as a serious scholar, he had made sure that they knew how to defend themselves with some very unladylike tricks.
“But of course, fiction allows—”
A loud snap startled Isobel into silence.
Caro whirled around, trying to spot any movement within the glade, but the softly swaying tendrils of mist seemed to mock her fears.
“Wh-what was that?” whispered Isobel.
“It’s probably just a fox setting off on a hunt,” answered Caro quickly, her gaze still probing among the muddled trees.
Her friend let out a nervous laugh. “Then it is a good thing we are not mice.”
Or helpless little pigeons—the perfect prey for any hungry predator stalking through the shadows.
Shaking off such disturbing thoughts, she freed the ribbons of her bonnet from the folds of her shawl. “We had best keep moving.”
Isobel sucked in a lungful of air. “Yes, of course.”
They walked on in silence, which seemed to amplify the night sounds. The screech of an owl, the crack of a twig, the rustle of—
Another snap, this one even louder.
The echo reverberated through the woods like a gunshot.
Hurry, hurry.
As the road narrowed and turned sharply past a thicket of brambles, Caro slapped aside a twist of thorns, and in her haste to put the grove behind them, nearly slid into a puddle of brackish water. Before she could call out a warning, Isobel stumbled on the wet ground too and lost her footing.
“Oooh!”
Caro caught h
er just as she was about to take a nasty tumble. “Steady now,” she murmured, keeping hold of her friend’s trembling hand.
“Sorry to be such a ninnyhammer.”