Chapter 1
D igging sharp heels against his mount's flank, Mr. Harrow ground his teeth. That damnable sooty streak still outdistanced him, the shrieking interloper marring his land like a blight. Such shouts would cost so low a trespasser... for had the intruder been silent, they might have gone unnoticed in thick mist.
He knew why they raced with such vigor to cross the marshes—they had need to fear the man who might pursue. And based on their mangled path, it was clear he knew the terrain far better than they.
Another kick to urge on his steed’s vigorous pace, and he cut through marshy wetlands, the thicker east fog hiding his approach.
No local would have dared encroach so deep into his land. No farmer, no merchant, no soul familiar with the name Gregory Harrow. None were welcome here. None endured his unhappy attention—none who wanted to thrive, at least.
Should he not like what he found, that bandit would lie with the others—a forgotten mass sunk to the bottom of a bog.
Harrow checked his beast, slowing so no clop of hooves betrayed their approach. In the fog, all that waited between him and the rocks was a fine stallion. The black giant stood without tack—no doubt stolen—the horse’s ears pinned back, nostrils flared.
Wary his true prey hid out of sight, Mr. Harrow chose to work quickly. Abandoning a fool in the marshes with no steed to see them out was simpler than overtaking one. If all went well, the vagrant would be less a horse, while he one the richer.
Gathering a length of rope from his saddle, the gentleman dismounted. His target grew hostile, chuffed loudly, and stomped to the point Mr. Harrow’s own gelding shied.
Despite the horse’s agitated neigh, there were no sounds of its missing rider. There was nothing. No footfalls, no slick scratch of a blade pulled from sheath. Even the wind was oddly still.
Eager to take the horse while the opportunity stood, Harrow clicked his tongue and prepared to throw the lead.
The Arabian was having none of it. The monster reared, hooves tearing at the air.
When braced forelegs landed and the stallion stood ready to charge, a voice came from above. “He is a killer. You would be wise to step away while you still can.”
Snapping his head upward, Mr. Harrow saw nothing... at least at first. It was the wind that betrayed her—one solitary breeze flapped worn edges of a cloak the same drab grey of her surroundings.
Perched like a gargoyle above him, the intruder stared down with narrowed eyes.
“You.” He caught the full measure of the vagrant, the sneer to his lip far more threatening than her stamping horse. “Imp...”
Before Mr. Harrow could continue, the woman slid down the rocks, graceless in her landing. Feet bare and muddy, a mess of wind-tangled blood-red hair spilled from her hood, but it was the eyes, the way they turned up, that gave her away.
She was no English lass, yet she stared at him as if he were the one out of place.
Mr. Harrow had been wrong. The girl had not been running from him. She had not even known he’d pursued.
Circling, he didn’t make it within three paces before her stallion reared and forced him back.