He had told himself he did not care which of them died, only that one of them must. But when her figure crossed into his line of fire, slender and unguarded, something inside him had wavered. He had hesitated. Adjusted his aim. A fraction too high, a fraction too slow.
The shot had gone wide.
He clenched his jaw, furious at the weakness that had cost him everything. A sentimental gesture, nothing more — and one he would not repeat.
He knew what was at stake. If Hawthorne lived to take a wife, if he and that girl fulfilled the old prophecy and broke the curse, all would be lost. Every careful plan, every maneuver he had set in motion to see the Ravenswood estate divided and the title extinguished, would crumble.
He could not allow that to happen.
It did not matter which of them died — the Earl or the girl. Either would suffice. The prophecy could not be completed if one half of it was gone.
His hand drifted to the pistol at his side, his thumb brushing the polished metal of the barrel. It was still warm from the morning’s shot. Next time, he told himself, there would be no hesitation. No misplaced sentiment.
He would not fail again.
And when the curse held firm, when Ravenswood’s legacy finally rotted into the dust, he would have what he wanted at last — the land, the freedom, and the silent satisfaction of knowing that no one would speak the namesHawthorne or Blackburn in connection with Ravenswood Hall ever again.
Chapter
Nine
The morning broke pale and cool. A light frost crunched beneath her feet as she walked the path, the mist curling low about her ankles. Eliza crossed the edge of the wood, her basket swinging lightly from her arm. It was early to be out, she thought, with the sun not even fully in risen. It was just streaks of pink and lavender above the tree line. The air was damp, carrying that familiar scent of moss and turned earth, and for the first time in days, she felt something close to peace.
The forest was quiet, but not oppressively so. The birds had begun their morning calls; a wren darted past her shoulder, vanishing into the undergrowth. Light streamed through the branches in shifting golden beams. It was beautiful, tranquil — the sort of morning she had loved since childhood.
She did not hear him approach.
“Miss Ashcombe.”
The sound of her name startled her. She turned, breath catching, and there he was — Gabriel Hawthorne, standing not a dozen paces away, his dark coat stark against the mist.
“My lord,” she said, recovering herself as best she could. “You are forever more sneaking up on me. Must you move so silently?”
He inclined his head, the faintest hint of a smile touching his mouth. “A habit from the army, I suppose. Old instincts die hard.”
Something in his tone softened the space between them. He looked tired, though not from lack of sleep — it was something older, deeper. And yet there was warmth in his eyes when they met hers, a light that unsettled her more than any hint of danger ever could.
“This is a dangerous activity, Miss Ashcombe. I trust you are not in the habit of walking alone in these woods before sunrise,” he said.
“Not usually,” she admitted. “But solitude has always suited me better than company.”
“Then I am intruding.”
“No,” she said quickly, surprising even herself. “Not entirely.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the mist swirling around them. His gaze lingered on her face — not boldly, not with impropriety, but with quiet intent, as though he were trying to understand something he could not quite name.
“Why do you walk here in these woods alone?”
Eliza gestures around her. “Because the forest provides… We have a small garden, but we could never grow herbs in the quantity that we require them for all the remedies and cures my grandmother…”
“Conconts? Brews? Conjures in her cauldron?” He asked, with a teasing smirk.
“You jest, but she is powerful. More so than you can know and more so than I could ever hope to be,” she admonished softly. “I will, sadly, always be completely ordinary, whatever people whisper of me.”
“I meant no offense, Miss Ashcombe… Eliza. And you are not ordinary. Not in the least.”
There was something in his voice — some hint of warmth or something perhaps even more appealing— that drew her nearer. She could see now that a lock of hair had fallen across his forehead, that his cravat was slightly askew, as though he had dressed in haste. She wanted to say something, to lighten the moment, but words deserted her.
