“Well then.” He set the cup down and stood, staring down his nose at his sister. “I would not hesitate to make her my own.”
He spoke with certainty, but as he strode towards the door, doubt crept in, unbidden and unwelcome. Could he even recognize such a woman if she stood before him? He’d spent the past years so deeply entrenched in furthering his father’s fine wine business that he’d scarcely given thought to women or marriage. His life had been a sequence of duties and obligations, each more pressing than the last.
But his sister was right. He wasn’t getting any younger. And while he had always assumed there would be time later for matrimony and family, now he wondered … had he waited too long?
Chapter 6
The black of night ought to be spent in dreamland, not snugging a rope on borrowed trousers. Juliet gave the makeshift belt a final tug, then shrugged into a patched coat reeking of moss and manure. No matter how many times she’d washed and hung the thing out to dry, she had yet to rid that lingering odour from the worn fabric. Then again, ought a poacher really be prancing about the woods smelling of lavender and roses?
Yawning wide and long, she swiped up her bag and left behind her curtained-off alcove of a bedroom. It was cozy enough, if not cramped—and to prove it, she had a perpetual bruise on her elbow from hitting the wall.
She tiptoed into the big room, taking care to avoid the third plank to the left side of the table lest it creak and wake Aunt Margaret. Her aunt need never know she’d been out tonight, leastwise not until Juliet presented her with a big bowl of rabbit stew … hopefully, anyway.
“Juliet, this has to stop.” Her aunt’s voice cut through the blackness like a thrown dagger.
Sucking in air, Juliet whirled. Across the room, in the darkest corner near the hearth, nothing but the whites of Aunt Margaret’s eyes shone, two sad beacons in the gloom.
“Oh, Aunt, you scared the breath from me.” Juliet swooped to the older woman, pulse erratic. “What are you doing up? Here, let me help you back to bed.”
“No, I will not be deterred so easily this time.” Aunt Margaret batted away her hand with a frail touch. Her voice—while weak—held a steely authority Juliet couldn’t ignore. “I forbid you to leave this cottage. You are playing with fire, child.”
Did her aunt seriously think she didn’t know that? Juliet bit back a snort, though the sound caught in her throat and threatened to turn into a sob. They were barely scraping by as is. Every snare she set was a small—yet very needed—step towards staying alive.
She dropped to her aunt’s side, the cold stone floor biting her knees as she peered up into her wrinkled face. “I know you are worried, but I am careful, and we need the food. If I do not go, then what will become of us? You know as well as I the cupboard shelves are empty.”
“There will be no food if you are caught. I would rather die of starvation with you at my side than alone, bearing the guilt of knowing you were hanged for thievery.” Her aunt pressed her palm against Juliet’s cheek, fingers trembling, her touch both tender and desperate. “You are all I have left.”
A tear traveled like a lone vagabond down her aunt’s cheek, weakening Juliet’s resolve. It wasn’t fair of her to worry this frail woman. Yet what else was she to do? Watch her starve to death?
No. Though it killed her in every possible way, she couldn’t afford to give in to her aunt’s distress, not when their next meal depended upon her. She pulled away, forcing a smile, though the action made her heart squeeze all the more. “Then I shall not be caught. There. Problem solved.”
Aunt Margaret wagged her head slowly. “Oh, my dear girl, this isn’t just about getting caught. It’s about the taut line you’re walking between right and wrong.”
“But—”
“Hear me out.” Aunt Margaret lifted a skeletal finger. “While I agree with you it is reprehensible for Mr. Scather to have damaged our means of income—”
“Obliterated, more like.” She scowled. Horrid man.
“Yes, if you will.” A small smile ghosted her aunt’s lips for a brief moment before fading into the night. “Yet it is just as wrong for you to take what is not yours.”
“It would be if the residents needed that food as desperately as we do, but Bedford Manor has more than enough game to feed half the town. They will not miss a rabbit or two. Poaching laws are archaic, a leftover evil from the times of overbearing nobles and greedy men.” She clenched her jaw, ruing her knowledge of just how far a greedy man would go. Had her father not been so covetous, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
A cough rattled in her aunt’s throat, pulling Juliet from her bitter musing. Alarm prickled down her arms. This was new. A lung infection would easily do her aunt in.
As quickly as it came, the cough disappeared, relieving some of Juliet’s worry.
But not all.
Aunt Margaret produced a kerchief from her sleeve and dabbed the corner of her mouth. “Regardless of excess or greed, the fact remainsyouare not the master of that parcel of land.”
Ahh, yes. The master. The man with those piercing grey-green eyes and heated touch she could still feel burning on her arm. She wanted to hate him. To despise him for his wealth and status, for denying her and her aunt a measly partridge or quail that he’d never miss.
And yet, though she’d outwardly deny it on pain of death, he’d intrigued her. His commanding presence, the way he’d looked at her with such intensity.
She sank back on her haunches, disgusted with him and herself. “What you say is true, Aunt, but I will not let us starve.And if that means setting a few snares, then so be it. Please, try to understand. I am going, and that is all there is to it.”
Her aunt sighed, the whoosh of it laden with resignation. “You are just like your father, headstrong to a fault.”
