2

It had been sound, truly. The plan. If Arabella followed the outskirts of the tree line away from Blackflint's estate, she'd meet a road two miles from the edge of the property. A mile or so more, and she'd come to a farm. She would hide in the stable till daylight, then walk to the nearest inn, where she'd pay for a ride to London. From there, dressed as a governess and armed with a fake letter of reference, she'd make her way to Paris.

She'd change her name. And start her life.

If she was being honest, the threat of violence wasn't what scared her most about the duke. She didn't relish the thought of it, of course.

No. It was that he meant to lock her away in a comfortable, idyllic, soul-throttling countryside cage.

It wasn't balls she wanted, or important friends, or the latest gown. Quite the opposite—she didn't care about those at all. What she wanted, needed, was access to her life. Her real life. The one she'd carefully hidden from her father and everyone for the past year. Slipping away to Michel Allard's London studio, and, despite always departing before the crowd began to drift toward the back room, painting things that would turn the Beast of Blackflint pale.

Retrieving her bag from the carriage went perfectly to plan. No one saw her. She slipped away and ducked into the woods, changing into boots and donning a thick woolen cloak and fur-lined gloves before starting her trek just inside the edge of the tree line. She even had the thought that it wasn't nearly so cold as she'd expected.

And then things started to go wrong.

First, she thought she heard footsteps. She hurried to a large tree with a low branch. She swung her bag up and then climbed. Hugged the branch, holding very still ... waiting ...

No one came. The relief was intense. The ancient gods of the forest are with me , she thought, giddy.

As she climbed down, rain started to fall. Within minutes, it was coming down fiercely. The sky lit with lightning.

What's a little rain ? She kept moving, as fast as seemed wise given that the ground was rapidly turning to mud. She started to feel a sort of rhythm with it, a confidence that she could do this, when she tripped on a tree root.

She fell hard, the impact knocking the wind from her. She struggled on the ground for a long moment, gasping to catch her breath through a mouth full of cold rain. Thankfully, she hadn't injured herself—though her cloak and skirts were now heavy with mud as well as water. Finally, she managed to get up and keep walking.

It took her a few minutes to realize she'd lost sight of the edge of the forest.

She took a deep breath. Surely, she couldn't have wandered far. The thing to do was to keep calm. Despite the wind. The icy rain. Her chattering teeth. She would simply walk in the direction she'd come from. Retrace her steps for the five minutes it would take to get back on track.

Ten minutes later, Arabella was facing the fact that she was utterly lost. And so cold she could barely feel her hands and feet.

Nothing to do but keep walking. Keep her head and keep walking.

How long did she walk? Hours. Days. Years. The rain briefly lessened, and for an eerie moment, the whole forest sparkled. Every raindrop illuminated by the unveiled moon. She felt she'd stepped into a story book. Any moment, a fairy would appear to offer her an unwise deal in exchange for safe passage. Or a wicked huntsman would gallop in, axe in hand, to chop out her heart to feed to an evil queen.

"I hope you don't mind your maiden hearts frozen stiff, Your Majesty," Arabella muttered aloud, numb lips slurring the words.

She laughed. Absurd. All of it was absurd. Keep walking.

The rain returned, angry now, pouring freezing hell on her soaked, shivering shoulders.

Keep going. Find the tree line. This is your last chance.

But she could barely feel her feet. She braced for a moment against the trunk of the tree, trying to stamp feeling back into her legs.

Her bag now weighed six hundred pounds. She could leave it, that was fine—she'd buy clothes in Paris. She crouched to pull her money purse from the bottom of the bag. She tried not to think about how violently her hands shook as she hung the strap around her neck and tucked the leather pouch into her bodice.

The world tilted as she straightened.

No. No time to be dizzy. Tree line. Road. Inn. London. Freedom.

"Tree line. Road. Inn." She walked. The pouring rain made the ground treacherous.

"Tree line. Road. Inn." And robbed her of visibility beyond the next tree. You are truly bloody lost, Arabella.

"Tree line. Road." If she stopped walking, the huntsman would find her, and slice her in half with his axe. She could hear the hoofbeats now, in the distance.

"Tree ..." What had she been saying? Never mind. Keep walking. Faster. The huntsman was getting closer.

"Arabella!" The huntsman knew her name, evidently. He was yelling into the wind. He sounded angry. " Arabella Denton !"

Nonsense. She was imagining things. The rain had gotten into her skull. There was no one in the forest but her. She just needed to find the ... find ...

And then it was before her: a great, black horse, water slicking off its massive flanks. And on it, the rain-blurry, looming figure of the huntsman, all in black, huge, faceless.

She stumbled back. Her legs gave out. If she hit the ground, she did not feel it. Maybe she was still falling?

A hundred miles away, the huntsman's voice. "Dear God. You stupid child. Can you hear me?" And then, very close, his face—one burning eye, lips pulled tight. "Stay with me."

"I hope the evil queen chokes upon my heart," she said, and floated into blackness.