![]() No, she was not going to be caught by that madman. Her shoes were too large and if there was a path she’d lost it long ago, so she stumbled and tripped through bracken and gorse, but she kept going. And if she was found she’d be forced to marry the Duke of Montgomery, the most loathsome man she’d ever known. She knew only that if she stayed here she’d be found. She wasn’t sure which direction the dogs were coming from. ![]() ![]() She could no longer see the lights of the little town she was supposed to be heading toward. She came to a halt at the bottom, cold and wet, miserable and frightened, the rain dashing in her face, the eerie howling of foxhounds rising and falling on the wind. She half slid, half fell in the darkness, the brambles and bushes and whatever other ungodly things grew on desolate moors in the north of England scratching her hands and legs as she tumbled down the other side of the hill. Hippolyta made the top of the hill, gasping, the rain dripping in her eyes, only for her right foot to slide out from under her. Worse even than when she’d been stalked by a tiger as a child-and that, really, had been rather terrifying. Worse than Freddy Ward with his awful bad breath forcing a kiss on her at that ball last month. Worse than the time she was so sick after eating those clams- she’d never been able to look at shellfish since. ![]() This, Hippolyta Royle thought a little wildly as she struggled up a gorse-covered hill in the rain, was the absolute worst night of her life. ![]()
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