Jon needed no urging. He already knew he had not a second to spare. He must ride out after Beth, the woman he loved. He must bring her home.

It was cold. So very cold.

Beth bent her body into the wind and trudged on. This time, there was no sheeting rain to soak her. This time she was more warmly clad, and better shod. And this time there would be no knight in shining armour to rescue her from the beckoning darkness.

There must be no rescue at all. Jon was noble enough to come after her, but he must not find her. He would expect her to walk the eight miles to Broughton to board the coach for the first stage of her journey. He would assume that she was making for Fratcombe. He would be wrong.

In truth, she had no idea where she should go, except that it must not be Fratcombe. The Aubreys could not be asked to harbour a thief. Besides, they would be bound tell Jon where she was. No, she must go somewhere she was not known. Bristol, perhaps, or even Cornwall.

The wind was whipping at her skirts. Did she dare to follow the second part of her plan? To her left was the long flat road that would bring her, eventually, to Broughton and the coach office. To her right was the two mile path up over the moor. There was light enough now for her to see her way. And no one would think to look for a countess there.

Beth’s little valise had been getting heavier. She transferred it from one hand to the other and began to climb the lonely path. The slope was easy enough, at first, though the air swirling around her seemed to become colder with every step she took. She continued doggedly. She could endure worse than this. Before Fratcombe, her life had been very hard. As Lady Marchmont’s companion, she had been no better than a menial, wearing cast-off shoes and gowns that even Jon’s servants would have rejected. Lady Marchmont was exceedingly rich, but her household lived like paupers while she hoarded her money and her jewels. Especially her jewels. That mistletoe clasp-intricate, heavy gold for the stems and leaves, and berries made of priceless pearls-had been the old witch’s pride and joy. Until the day it vanished.

Lady Marchmont’s maid had claimed to have seen Beth sneaking into the mistress’s bedchamber. On such flimsy evidence from a jealous servant, Beth had been pronounced guilty by Lady Marchmont and all her guests. Including the Berncastles. If Beth had not climbed out of that locked room, she would probably have ended up on the gallows.

The path seemed to stretch for ever, steeper than she recalled. No matter. It was only the first of many challenges she would have to face. At least the wind seemed to have dropped. It was no longer cutting through her cloak and biting at her skin. She tried to smile up at the sky. She would cling on to her innocence, and to her love for Jon. She was doing this for him. She would cherish the memories of their times together, of how he had held her, and kissed her, and loved her. Nothing could deprive her of those.

She plodded on with even greater determination, clutching the memory of him like a talisman. She might find another village that needed a schoolmistress. She would be Mrs Clifford, the poor widow of an army captain tragically killed in the French wars. There were many such. One more would not be noticed.

She was shivering again. It was not the wind this time, but cold, penetrating damp. She glanced up at the sky. Was it starting to rain?

She could not tell. She could not see the sky. Suddenly, there was ghostly grey mist swirling all around her. It had come out of nothing. But it hid everything. She could see barely a yard in front of her feet.

She refused to allow herself to panic. She had no cause. The path over the moors was straight enough. She had only to keep going and she would soon reach Broughton. She must not allow herself to be afraid.

She stretched her free hand out in front of her, just in case there might be some obstacle in the path, and continued to walk into the forbidding grey wall, though she could not prevent her steps from becoming shorter, and rather timid. Surely she had already passed the halfway point? She must reach her goal soon.

The path was becoming much more uneven. She stumbled to a stop and strained to make out the way ahead. Were there loose rocks here to make her lose her footing? She must take care. If she were injured here, no one would find her.

The mist had become so thick now that she could barely see her own feet. She took a few steps more, but stopped. She could see nothing. She was no longer sure she was on the path at all. Perhaps she should sit on the ground and wait until the mist lifted? But if she did so, she might freeze. Besides, she would lose precious time. She must reach Broughton, and catch that first stage before anyone from Portbury discovered her flight. She dare not delay. She must keep on, in spite of the mist.

Taking a deep breath of the thick air, she made to stride out again.

A hand caught her waist from behind. She screamed. The sound was swallowed up in the swirling mist. Then another hand clamped across her mouth. She was pulled sharply backwards into a man’s body. It reeked of sweat. The hand on her mouth was so filthy she could taste it. She fought to free herself, trying to kick and stamp with her heavy boots.

Her captor was too wily to be caught by such feeble female struggles. He held her fast and dragged her backwards into the enveloping mist.

Chapter Sixteen

Jon had succeeded in leaving the Abbey without being seen by any of the guests. The grooms were quite another kettle of fish. They had stared, goggle-eyed, at the pistols holstered by his saddle, and the extra rolled-up cloak tied on behind. They had not dared to ask questions, of course, and the grim set of Jon’s jaw should have warned them not to gossip.

He would make everything right again, once he had brought Beth home. But where was she now? He slowed Saracen to a walk while he checked the time by his pocket watch. He had covered barely two miles of the Broughton road. Beth had several hours’ start on him and, even on foot, she would probably reach the town before he could overtake her. A stage was due to depart in less than half an hour from now. What if Beth was on it? Whatever he did then, he was bound to create a scandal. And he could hardly demand they stand and deliver his wife.

Saracen sidled a little, nostrils flaring in response to the wild scents of the moorland. ‘You want a gallop, boy. And you are right. If we go this way, we can save at least four miles. We might even reach Broughton before Beth’s stage leaves.’ He turned the big horse towards the moors and cantered up the slope.

What if Beth had come this way, too? What if she had already caught the first stage out of Broughton?

He shook his head in exasperation. Surely it was much too dangerous, especially at this time of year? But she had done dangerous things before and nearly died in the process. That thought worried him so much that he turned Saracen on to a side path after only half a mile. The diversion would not take him long. And he had to know. He eased the big horse down the slope until he could make out the fallow field at the edge of his own estate. Yes, the travellers from Fratcombe were still there. But would they be able to tell him anything of value?

Jon covered the remaining distance at the gallop and put Saracen at the wall. The big bay cleared it easily and cantered across to the cluster of caravans at the far side. From nowhere, a shrivelled old man appeared and held up a commanding hand. He must be the leader here. Behind him, curious faces peeped out from painted doors and windows. Dirty tousle-haired children crawled out from behind wagon wheels to stare at this latest arrival.

‘What d’ye want?’ The old man scowled up at Jon.

‘I am the Earl of Portbury and you are on my land. By my leave.’ The man’s scowl softened but he still did not allow Saracen to pass. ‘I have come to ask for your help in- Good God! Beth!’

He was sure he was not mistaken. He had glimpsed Beth’s face in the window of the furthest caravan. She was here, with the gypsies. Had they taken her by force?

He snatched a pistol from its holster and levelled it at the old man. ‘You have my wife. Give her to me, or I swear I will shoot you down.’ Slowly and deliberately, he moved his thumb to cock the weapon.

Before he could do so, the pistol was struck from his hand.

A merry laugh broke the sudden silence. Jon half-turned to see a darkly handsome young gypsy lounging against the side of the nearest caravan. He was holding another throwing knife loosely in his hand. Judging by his success against Jon’s pistol, he knew exactly how to use it.

‘What right have ye over this woman?’ the old man demanded. ‘We rescued her from death at the Devil’s Drop. She do belong with us now.’ He glanced over his shoulder. Beth had emerged from the caravan and come to stand just behind him. She was dirty and dishevelled. Her cloak was torn and her boots were thick with mud. She was the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

Jon gazed longingly at her. ‘I rescued her from death, too, a full year ago now. So her life was always mine.’ Beth nodded warily, as if to confirm the truth of Jon’s words. Another tiny sign. It gave him hope.

‘She be safer here. In your household, she be cried a thief. Leave her where she be valued. Or was you wanting to deliver her up to the noose?’

‘Of course not! Even if she were a thief, I would still defend her, with my life if needs be. She is my wife!’

The old man shrugged. ‘So we do both have a claim on her. But my son here do hold the knife. Why should he give the woman to you?’

Jon let his hands drop, displaying empty palms. ‘Because I love her,’ he said simply.

Beth’s gasp echoed round the camp. The young gypsy hurled his knife, point first, into the earth, just as Beth started to run towards Jon. In what seemed like only a second, Jon had thrown himself from Saracen’s back and his precious wife was in his arms.

‘You love me?’ She was gazing up at him with wide, glowing eyes.

‘More than life,’ he groaned, and began to kiss her.

They clung to each other, oblivious of everything. Their bodies seemed to melt together, while their lips sought and their tongues danced. When at last they broke apart, gasping for breath, they found they were alone but for Saracen, cropping the grass by the half-buried knife.

Jon bent to draw it out of the ground. He ran his thumb along the blade with a grimace. It was wickedly sharp.

Beth clasped her own cold hands round his to hold them still. ‘I am no thief, Jon. I swear it.’

Jon freed a hand to cup her chin and gazed deep into her eyes. ‘I know that. You are the essence of honesty and goodness. You could never have been a thief. Together, we will find a way of proving it. But first, we must go back and face them down. Can you do that, my love?’

‘With your love to strengthen and support me, I can do anything.’

He threw the knife back into the ground and picked up his pistol. ‘Come then.’

‘Wait!’ The young gypsy had appeared again, as if by magic. He retrieved the knife and offered it to Jon, hilt first. ‘Take it. Use it on the black heart of any man who would harm your woman. She be worth a life.’

Jon stared. Then he took the knife and tucked it into his boot. ‘Thank you. And be sure that, as long as I am Earl of Portbury, your band will always be welcome on any of my estates.’

Beth leaned in to Jon’s beloved body. Even through the heavy cloak he had wrapped her in, she could feel the heat of him reaching out to her. He loved her. He loved her! She sighed out a long breath and allowed herself to relax even more. They had not ridden together since that night in the folly. That memory made her insides glow even hotter.

Jon nuzzled her ear. ‘What on earth were you doing at the Devil’s Drop, love? It’s nowhere near the Broughton path.’

She shuddered. ‘I must have wandered from the path when the mist came down. That young gypsy pulled me to safety, though I didn’t realise it at the time. I kicked him quite hard.’ Jon’s deep chuckle vibrated against her cheek. ‘They said that, if I needed sanctuary, I could have it with them. I…I was going to stay.’

His arm tightened round her. ‘But you changed your mind.’

‘Yes,’ Beth whispered. ‘Because you said you loved me.’

‘I did. I do,’ he replied earnestly. ‘Though I did not realise it until I thought I had lost you.’ She felt him swallow hard. ‘Beth, do you-?’

She reached out from her cocoon to press a finger to his lips. ‘You know, for a leader of men, you are remarkably unobservant.’ He tried to catch her finger in his teeth, but she was too quick for him. That was for later. ‘I have loved you since that first time you lifted me into your arms.’