Chapter 1
Bedfordshire, England, 1820
She was reborn that day of dust and wind, with tangles in her hair and a hard-cracked soul. Who knew such a transformation could come from something as simple as the snaring of a rabbit? Her first kill. The vanguard moment of self-reliance—and she’d sworn it wouldn’t be her last. Not if she could help it. But now, despite the skill her brother would have been proud of, game was scarce, and Juliet Finch wondered how much longer the stretch of wood and field beyond their mean cottage would sustain her and Aunt Margaret. She just might have to trust in God to provide … though she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to talk to Him again.
Not yet.
Bleary-eyed and yawning, she silently closed the gate in the thick darkness before dawn, then tucked the empty burlap sack more snugly into her belt. It’d felt strange that first time she’d donned men’s garments. Now, more than a year later, the trousers and scratchy woolen tunic were as much a part of her as the ball gowns and riding habits she’d once worn. If Colin Chamberlain could see her in her current state … he’d be glad he’d spurned her.
She kept to the worn rut winding through the trees, her steps sure and steady on a trail she could walk with her eyes closed—and they might as well have been. Beneath the canopy of fat oakleaves and clouded sky, not a star shone so much as a snippet of light. The first few times she’d ventured out like this, such blackness had been paralyzing. At least once, she’d run back to the cottage and bolted the door. A week of nothing but watery gruel had cured that ailment. Now? The witching hours were her dearest friend, for therein did she find sanctuary.
The woods ended abruptly, an unnaturally straight edge. The groundskeeper at Bedford Manor took his job seriously, keeping the lichen-covered stone fence free of growth for a good ten paces on either side. Easier to catch poachers that way.
Easier to catch her.
Juliet scanned the chest-high barrier one way then the other, squinting to detect movement. Granted, the task was nearly impossible in this darkness, but that could work to her advantage. If she couldn’t see anyone, then neither could anyone see her. She hoped.
Satisfied, she sprinted ahead and heaved herself up and over, landing on light feet. Now that she was on Russell property, all her senses heightened as she dashed into the woods on the other side. An owl hooted at her arrival, its eerie call indicting her for disturbing its domain. Ignoring the night bird, she caught her breath before padding onwards. There was no path here. She didn’t dare travel the same way twice on this land. Marking a predictable route would get her killed, and worse, be the end of Aunt Margaret. There was no way the old dear could manage for herself, not after the accident.
Near the base of a large beech tree, she carefully parted the undergrowth, then frowned. The horsehair loop she’d so carefully crafted sat empty, still attached to the peg she’d secured into the loamy ground. No small game had passed this way, but that didn’t mean her other snares held no prizes.
One by one, she checked her woodland traps, frustration rising with each barren noose. By the time she reached the endof the trees, her sack hung at her hip without a morsel of meat in it. Her stomach growled. So did she. But no sense wasting time in lament. Already some of the blackness in the sky leached into more of a charcoal hue. Day would soon break.
Leaving behind the safety of the trees, she darted across the field to the dark line of a hedgerow. She dropped to her knees and crawled until finding an opening wide enough to shimmy through. Her sleeve snagged. Fabric ripped. And skin. Bother. She ignored the sting as she broke through the other side, then crouch-ran along the edge of the row until it ended in a small patch of brambles. She had set only one snare here, yet a grin broke as she pushed the growth aside. A fat grouse lay on its side.
Her smile faded, though, as she set about loosening the bird. It always pained her, this taking of life for life. A blessing for her and Aunt, but a curse on the little fowl. Ending one life to nourish another felt like a sin.
“I pray you forgive me, little creature,” she whispered as she laid it inside her sack.
She reset the snare, a bitter laugh rising in her throat. What use was praying for pardon from a dead bird when her belly cramped? She could barely keep enough meat in the house to feed two mouths. Was it God’s design to test her very soul to death? Rising, she glanced at the ever-lightening sky. No, she would not cower. She would survive—no matter what it took.
She slung the bag over her shoulder and tromped back along the hedgerow, then veered towards the manor itself, making good time until the sharp report of a snapped stick cut through the air like a gunshot.
She tore back to the hedgerow, diving into the base of it for protection and nearly losing her hat—which was better than losing her head. There, on the other side of the hawthorns, the dark figure of a man strode out from the woods, a rifle cradledin the crook of his arm. Another poacher? No. Not with that sure gait. This was a man who belonged here. Knew the grounds. Maybe even knew where she now scrunched into a ball, for he strode right towards her.
Sweat wept hot on her brow in the cool air. Surely he would hear the rush of her breathing, the dead giveaway of her heart banging against her ribs.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud!
Her pulse kept time with the tromp of his footsteps—footsteps that were now so close the ground vibrated with each step. Should he find her … no. Better not to think of the noose tightening around her own neck as it had the little grouse’s. Poaching carried the death penalty—or banishment to Van Diemen’s Land, which would be just as fatal. Or so she’d heard.
The feet stopped right in front of her. If she reached out, she could touch the wet hem of the man’s trousers. If he squatted … oh Lord, if he squatted!
She scrunched her eyes shut, throat closing. She could not stand to think of suffering such an ignominious death.
And all because of her father.
The man’s coat rustled. Then came a metallic click—the cocking of that terrible gun. She squeezed her eyes tighter, sickened by the cold, hard promise of violence. This was it. Retribution. How much would it hurt? How quickly before her heart stopped? How—
The world exploded.
Chapter 2
So, it came to this. Henry Russell gripped his pistol with a steady hand as he stalked through the woods on silent feet. After eight weeks of his sister’s tears and fright, sleepless nights, and far too many threats from the shadows, he would avenge the terrors Charity had suffered—or die in the trying … an outcome Carver the groundskeeper had warned him against. But so be it. It was too importanthebe the one to settle this, to manage things with his own two hands.
