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C old morning mist stung Isabella’s cheeks, clinging to her lashes and settling like a veil of gleaming silver beads on her horse’s rough coat. They were on the cold side of the mountain where the sun had not yet touched. Fog hung thick in the valleys, motionless.

They trotted along the narrow stony track that skirted the hills. Bare winter trees etched stark, then softly blurred by the mist. The silence was almost eerie, broken only by the occasional soft scuttle of a startled creature diving for cover, or a sudden beating of wings.

She was alone, on top of the world.

Freedom. She breathed in deep lungfuls. The pure, chill air bit into her. She shivered, drew Lord Ripton’s greatcoat closer around her, and urged her horse a little faster. It would be better when she was in the sun again.

She felt a small twinge of guilt at taking his greatcoat as well as his horse, but he’d thrown her cloak away and given her this to wear, so what else was she to do? His coat was warm and soft and smelled faintly of horse, and of him, some clean, masculine fragrance. Disturbingly pleasant.

The morning sun gilded the tips of the hills across the valley.

At the convent they’d be finishing up morning prayers and filing silently in to break their fast. Eight years, the same breakfast: convent-baked bread and fresh cold water from the spring.

Only the freshness of the bread varied. And in the darkest days—thankfully well behind them now—the quantity.

If the bread was stale, Dolores would again recall her halcyon days at the convent in Aragon where the nuns made delicious cakes and custards with the yolks of eggs given to them by the local winemakers, who’d used the whites for clarifying wine.

Dolores would start describing the cakes, and then Luisa would tell her to be quiet, she was only making them miserable.

Then Alejandra would start on about chocolate and how uncivilized it was to start a day without it.

And then one of the sisters would tell them to be quiet, that morning was a time for contemplation of the day, not chattering about worldly things.

Isabella smiled, thinking about them all, and how each day was the same, variations on the same daily theme.

She’d probably never see any of them again.

How strange that thought was. The convent had been her home for eight years; the same people day in, day out, the same routine, the same food, the same conversations until there were days she was ready to scream.

She’d been so desperate to leave, she’d never thought of the convent as home. Only now she’d left there forever did she begin to realize it.

Now she had no home at all.

Valle Verde? No, that wasn’t home. It didn’t belong to her anymore, and she didn’t belong there.

She belonged nowhere.

Legally she belonged with Lord Ripton. Her home was with him.

Whither thou goest… Another pang of guilt. Surely the Bible had something to say about saving sisters. But she could think of nothing. This is what comes of not paying attention in class , a nun said in her mind. A bad pupil and a bad wife.

She wasn’t really his wife. Not yet. Not until the marriage was consummated. And she wasn’t running away from him, just seeing to her sister first.

If he hadn’t been so unreasonable…

What kind of priorities did the man have? The welfare of an admittedly unknown and illegitimate sister-in—all right, half sister-in-law—or a dance!

A dance ! It beggared belief.

She thought about his sister. The dance might be a frivolous reason to Isabella, but it wasn’t to Molly. Her first ball, her first dance, her come-out party. It was special.

It wasn’t the dance that was important; it was the promise he’d made to his sister, his beloved younger sister.

A man who didn’t take promises lightly.

Isabella had made her own promise, even if her sister wasn’t beloved.

Love, honor, and obey.

She would honor those promises, too, she made a silent vow. She would be a good wife. Just not yet.

She rounded a bend, and a small group of birds gathered around the remains of some creature erupted into the air with a violent flapping of wings.

Startled, her horse plunged backward. One of his rear hoofs slipped, and he scrabbled desperately for purchase on the loose, stony ground of the narrow track.

Bella gripped on with her thighs and flung herself onto his neck, forcing him forward and down. For two long, breathless seconds she feared they would plunge down the steep slope into the ravine, but then he found his feet and moved on, emitting a few loud, indignant-sounding snorts.

Bella heaved a sigh of relief and straightened, her heart still pounding. She couldn’t have done that sidesaddle. Not so easily.

On this side of the mountain the morning sun shone bright and warm. The sun was well up. About now her husband would be discovering his only option was to ride sidesaddle.

He’d be furious, that went without saying, but would he come after her, or would he do what she’d suggested in her note, and go on to England? And would he try to ride her horse?

She smiled. Lord Ripton wouldn’t be caught dead riding with a lady’s saddle. No man would.

He’d comb the village and find there was no other horse, let alone a saddle—the groom had assured her there were only donkeys in the village, not even a mule, and she couldn’t imagine Lord Ripton on a donkey, not with those long legs of his.

He’d either have to send to the next town for a saddle or ride bareback, which she very much doubted he would. Bareback was all right for short distances and emergencies, but a whole day bareback would be very hard.

Whatever he did, she had an excellent head start, and though she didn’t know the roads very well, all she had to do was keep heading east, and the mountains and the sun told her where east was.

Valle Verde was about two days’ ride from here, she guessed; three if she’d miscalculated. The land immediately around her might be unfamiliar, but the mountains were in her blood. It was so good to be out from behind the high convent walls, with nothing between her and the horizon.

She wasn’t sure where she’d sleep tonight. Perhaps she might find a barn or a derelict building. She was a little nervous about the prospect, but Papa had taught her how to live off the land, she reminded herself, even if it was more than eight years ago.

What would it be like, living in England?

The thought of it was more unnerving than the possibility of having to sleep under a bridge.

But she’d always dreamed of going to England.

Mama was half English, after all, and Bella had vague memories of a tall, black-bearded English grandfather who’d given her a small dolphin statue cunningly carved from whalebone and told her marvelous stories.

He’d died not long after Mama had died, Papa told her.

She shivered. Almost every one of her relatives was dead. Apart from horrid Ramón, and a few distant cousins she’d never even met, there was only Reverend Mo— No, Aunt Serafina in the convent, and Perlita.

Was that why she was so desperate to find Perlita? She hardly knew her half sister. She’d hated her for most of her life. And yet now she was risking everything to find her.

Why? Family feeling? Or guilt and atonement? A little of each? Bella didn’t know. Mama used to say Bella should always try to listen to her heart and do what she thought was right. Mama, who had listened to her heart and married Papa—and where had that got her?

Right or not, all Bella knew was that before she started her new life as the wife of Lord Ripton, she had to make sure Perlita was all right.

She was determined to be happy with Lord Ripton, to build a good life in England and make him a good wife, and she couldn’t do that with Perlita on her conscience.

And that, thought Bella bleakly as she rounded the mountainside into full, bright sunlight, was the answer to her question.

R iding sidesaddle took a bit of getting used to, Luke decided, but as long as a man didn’t mind looking ridiculous—and the applauding peasants were far behind him now—it wasn’t so bad.

Surprisingly comfortable. More secure than he’d expected— He caught himself up on that thought.

Had he really believed all this time that riding sidesaddle was precarious, even a little bit dangerous?

He had, and yet he’d never questioned the necessity for it, even though his mother and Molly rode sidesaddle—and his wife. The people whose safety he should care for most.

The worst thing about it was the difficulty of remounting.

He’d stopped once to relieve himself, and getting back up was much more awkward than it should be—he was sure he made a ludicrous sight—and he wasn’t hampered by a long-skirted riding habit.

If Isabella had been riding sidesaddle she might have been stranded without anyone to boost her up.

The thought mollified his anger with her. Slightly.

If by some miracle he found her—and please God it was soon and she was unharmed—he’d teach her a lesson she’d never forget. Run away from him, would she? Two bedrooms indeed! Never again would she trick him thus. When he caught up with her it would be one bedroom, and one bed.

He’d show her who her husband was, and by God, she’d learn to obey him as she’d vowed to do. Just one day into their marriage and she had him careering all over Spain—sidesaddle!—on a wild-goose chase!

A hare burst from beneath a bush and went bounding across the stony ground, causing Luke’s horse to shy. Bringing it under control was trickier than usual. Normally he controlled a mount with his thighs, but on sidesaddle it was all about reins and whip.

What if a hare startled Isabella’s horse and she fell? Out here in the mountainous wilderness she could lie injured and helpless for days with nobody any the wiser. And wolves still roamed these mountains.