She knew from looking. The expression he drew on her face. The wind at her hair. The glow in her eyes. Emptiness stung Georgina with such poignancy that tears blurred the picture.
The woman was not even beautiful. If anything, she was plain and ordinary and work-worn.
But she’d had something within her that made Simon Fancourt love her.
Something Georgina had never had.
Never would.
“Mercy, give it here.” Abandoning his rifle by the window, John hurried toward them and ripped the sketchbook away. “Papa don’t like no one to look at it but us.”
“I am sorry.” Georgina glanced away, a burning sensation rising to her cheeks. “I did not mean to—”
The door crashed open.
Georgina jumped, screamed, as Mercy scrambled onto her lap and John raced for the rifle—
The bulky, shadowed figure slung John back. He raised the rifle himself, stepping over John, breathing heavy.
Georgina suppressed another scream.
No.
CHAPTER 11
Seconds passed. They felt like days. Georgina clung to Mercy tighter, burying the child’s face, seeping her fingers into the soft curls.
Her muscles coiled tighter, prepared for a bullet to explode, but it never did. Instead, the silhouette limped closer to the hearth. Light washed over him. He was stooped, clad in patched clothes, with a matted white beard that reached low on his chest.
From across the room, John picked himself up. Everything about his movements was stealthy and slow, as he inched his way back toward the pile of quilts. He braced himself between the invader and his sister.
As if, even without the rifle, he would not allow harm to come to her.
Georgina prayed that was possible.
With a scratchy grunt, the stranger pulled one of the knapsacks toward him with the end of the gun. He crouched, glared over at the three of them, then tore into the bags.
Mercy whimpered.
John shuffled backward a step.
With growls and smacking sounds, the stranger ravished the chunk of cheese, then the bread, then the small pasties. Crumbs littered his beard. His fingers glistened with spit.
Then he pulled himself up, stumbled closer, eyes crazed in the shadows and firelight. “Money.” He slammed the butt of the rifle on the dirt floor. “Gimme the money.”
Words clogged in Georgina’s throat. None of them escaped.
“Now!”
She flinched, aware that John was yanking Mercy from her lap, dragging his sister away as the man edged closer. “I—I do not have any with me.”
“Fine clothes. Good horses. Ye have money.”
God, help us.A prayer.Please.
“Gimme.” Towering over her. Breath hot, putrid. “Gimme now—”
“John, run.” The plea shrieked, one second before the stranger’s hand throttled her throat, shoving her backward onto the quilts. Feet pattered. The door opened and slammed. The children were gone.
