Page 10 of A Duke to Steal Her
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” came the driver’s voice through the door. “Carriage is ready when you are.”
“Excellent timing,” the man said smoothly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “It seems our journey continues, my lady. Unless you’d prefer another night in my arms?”
Emily scrambled to her feet. “I would sooner embrace a viper.”
Emily pressed herself against the carriage door, arranging her skirts to occupy as little of the cushion as possible.
“Where are you taking me?” she finally asked, the words clipped and cold.
His lips curved slightly. “You’ll see.”
Every muscle in her body remained rigid, her spine never touching the seat back, her gloved hands folded precisely in her lap. The morning chill seeped through her traveling dress, but she’d rather freeze than use the rug her captor had placed beside her.
Opposite her, he sat sprawled with deliberate ease, one arm stretched along the back of his seat, long legs extended to occupy more than his fair share of space.
His carelessly unbuttoned collar revealed the strong column of his throat, and his profile—the straight nose, firm jaw shadowed by a neatly trimmed beard that accentuated his features, and those infuriatingly expressive green eyes—was handsome enough to grace a classical sculpture.
Emily found his physical perfection maddening, an unfair advantage that he wielded as deliberately as any weapon. His casual posture only heightened her awareness of being cornered.
She turned her face to the window, determined to give him nothing. The landscape rolled past in a blur of spring greenery. Farms gave way to the wilder countryside, hills rising in the distance beneath a pearl-gray sky. None of it was remotely familiar. With each passing mile, she was being carried further from everything she knew.
“Have you ever traveled to the north country before?” he asked after a long silence.
Emily offered no response, maintaining her wall of silence as effectively as any fortress.
“The locals believe these moors are haunted,” he continued, undeterred. “Ghosts of lovers who died tragically are doomed to wander the heather for eternity.”
Her eyes flicked to his face, then darted away just as quickly when she found him watching for her reaction.
The thought of flinging open the door and throwing herself out flickered through her mind.
But as her muscles tensed imperceptibly for action, her captor shifted his position, one hand casually moving to rest on the door handle opposite her. His gaze never left her face, alert and vigilant despite his relaxed demeanor. The message was clear—he had anticipated this plan as well.
Just as the sun was moving behind the hills, the carriage slowed.
“We are now in Nightfell land,” the driver announced.
Emily looked out the window, curiosity overtaking her. Before them loomed a pair of wrought iron gates, taller than any she’d ever seen, with ornate metalwork forming an elaborate crest at their center.
Emily pressed her face to the glass as they passed .
The gates opened onto grounds that seemed to stretch endlessly with perfectly manicured lawns, ancient oak trees, and formal gardens glimpsed in the distance.
Heavens.
The carriage wound its way up a long, tree-lined drive, each twist revealing new wonders: a marble fountain, statues standingsentinel among carefully trimmed hedges, even a small Grecian temple nestled in a distant grove.
But it all paled when the house itself came into view.
It rose like something from a Gothic tale, its gray stone walls soaring three stories high, turrets and gables reaching toward the evening sky. Dozens of windows gleamed with golden light, and behind the massive structure, a lake shimmered in the setting sun, its surface broken only by the graceful arch of a stone bridge.
Emily couldn’t contain her shock. She leaned forward. Her lips parted in disbelief.
This was no modest country estate, but the domain of extraordinary wealth and power. What manner of man had abducted her?
“This is…” she whispered before catching herself.
“Home,” her captor finished simply.
