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portions of the fall of stones like some ancient god of old thundering down from the very heights of Mt. Olympus.
    "Really, "Veronica said, having no choice but to wrap her arms about his neck lest she be banged about in his hold like a limp rag doll. "This is highly embarrassing. I am very capable of walking on my own."
    "The devil you are."
    They were on solid ground once again, but he did not set her down, nor did he slow his pace any. Veronica held on tighter as he effortlessly carried her across what she soon realized was an expanse of sheep-nubbed grass adorned here and there with a thin tracery of fog. Moonlight bathed the area, making the sod look rich green in color.
    She looked behind them, seeing the massive walls of Fountains jut high above. Somehow, the stranger had led her in a twisting path far away from Shelton... and somewhere amid those ruins were her coachman and a companion, doubtless still searching for her in earnest.
    Veronica pressed down a shudder, her arms, seemingly of their own volition, curling even more snugly about her rescuer's neck.
    He glanced at her, lifting one brow.
    Veronica looked away quickly.
    It occurred to her that she felt absurdly safe and protected in this stranger's arms. Though she'd met him barely an hour ago it seemed she'd known him far longer than that. Even the pure, masculine scent of him was becoming familiar.
    She chanced a peek at him beneath her lashes. His gaze was straight ahead, because they'd left the grass behind and were approaching yet another piece of stonework. Veronica took the time to study his profile. The fierceness in his features that had at first alarmed her when he'd saved her from the wild dogs seemed now to have been washed away by the moon's glow.
    His skin was deeply bronzed by the sun, proof that he was a man who labored out of doors. And his hands, roughened and callused, though tender when he'd touched her, were further proof that this man obviously lived by the sweat of his brow and the strength of his back.
    The one odd thing in the picture he presented was his perfect speech and cultured voice. It did not fit the puzzle of who he appeared to be. And in an age when fashionable men kept their faces cleanly shaven, this man sported a close-cropped beard—one, Veronica remembered all too clearly, had felt surprisingly wonderful against her soft skin.
    Her quiet appraisal of him came to an end as they reached another stone structure of the abbey. This, too, was roofless and doorless, and it had long since been stripped of its windowpanes. It was more ruinous than some of the places of Fountains she had seen this night, but even so it seemed to be the stranger's destination.
    He walked inside the structure, moving immediately to the right, where, Veronica noted, there was a cozy area with a small stone bench.
    He set her down on that bench. Beside her, to the very farthest right, was a yawning archway cut into the earth. Cold air, which smelled of dirt and the far-flung moors high above, flowed freely from it, indicating that it snaked beneath the ground to some other opening far away.
    "Wh-where are we?" she asked.
    "One of the abbey's many outerbuildings," he said. "The grass we just crossed over was probably a garden at one time, long ago. Doubtless it was watered from the River Skell." He indicated to her left.
    Veronica turned her head, catching her breath at the sight that greeted her. She'd been so intent on the man that she'd barely noticed anything else—but, oh! what a sight she now beheld.
    The opposite wall of the structure had long since fallen away, leaving in full open view the winding River Skell. The river now glistened a perfect silver hue beneath the moon's light, and it was skimmed here and there with feathery wisps of fog.
    The arches and foundations of Fountains thrust up and out of her waters like majestic monuments of old, and the Skell, as though to keep hidden some of her ancient secrets, appeared to be a silver ribbon