Every one of Juliet’s muscles clenched. “Donotcompare me to that man.”
Her aunt reached for her, the tip of her fingers falling short. “I beg your pardon, Juliet. I didn’t mean to bring him up. I’m just so—overwrought. I worry about you. I want to protect you.”
Her aunt’s voice broke, cutting Juliet to the core. This was too much. All of it—her aunt’s fear, the gnawing hunger, the precariousness of their situation. Leaning forwards, she pressed a kiss to her aunt’s palm. “I know you wish the best for me. But I am no child, and I cannot stand by doing nothing while we waste away.”
“If you would but join me in praying for God’s help then—”
She shot to her feet, unwilling to get pulled into yet another exhortation on the virtues of prayer. How could her aunt’s faith remain so solid when they faced starvation? “We have been over this too many times. I am not ready.”
Aunt Margaret’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, my misguided, brave young lady. You take on too much, yet I can see you will not be dissuaded. Please, vow to me you will be on guard. Stay vigilant. The woods are not safe, and for a comely woman such as yourself, there are more dangers out there than just the law.”
An ugly truth, that. She flashed a reassuring smile that was a lie. “I promise. I shall take extra cautions. Do not fret yourself into a frenzy. In fact, allow me to lead you back to bed now, hmm?”
Without waiting for an answer, Juliet guided her aunt to her feet, then with slow shuffling, led her to her bed. She tucked her in, smoothing the thin blanket over her aunt’s frail form, andpressed a tender kiss to her paper-thin brow. “Sleep sweetly, Aunt.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, exhaustion already closing her eyes.
“Good night,” Juliet whispered, then slipped out of the room.
Outside, she eased the cottage door shut, then paused to inhale the brisk air of the September evening. The chill of it revived her, cooling some of the hot emotions from the confrontation with her aunt. Despite the wrongness of what she was about to do—for yes, deep down she knew she ought not take what did not belong to her—there was still something about being out alone and free that invigorated her. Made her feel alive. Master of her own fate—and doing something constructive to fill the emptiness not only in her belly but in Aunt Margaret’s.
The moon hung low in the sky, a quarter-crescent, which didn’t do much to light her path through the trees. This time of year, a few leaves were already carpeting the ground. The rest traded whispers in the light breath of a breeze. All in all, it was a peaceful trek, though the closer she drew to Bedford Manor, the more her nerves wound into a tight ball.
She scaled the rock wall with practiced ease, landing lightly on her feet, then dashed into the thicket of trees where she’d been detained last time. Treading carefully, she peered into the darkness, spying for the grey-eyed master himself. What would he do if he caught her again—reallycaught her? The thought thrilledandterrified.
Forcing her mind to the task at hand, she traveled from one snare to the next, heart swelling when she found two partridges, and the trap by the hedge offered up a fat hare. What a banner night! She’d not have to reset her snares until at least the end of the week, especially if the next trap held a prize as well.
She glanced about before crossing the lawn. Nothing in front of her.
But something rustled behind.
She spun, staring so hard into the darkness her eyes hurt. Could have been a stoat. A hedgehog. A groundskeeper.
Yet the black line of woods appeared as it always did. Choked with secrets and peril, but without the skulking silhouette of a man with a gun.
She let out a long breath. Maybe she’d taken her aunt’s warning too much to heart.
Resettling the bag over her shoulder, she turned back to the hedgerow when a sudden movement to her right caught her eye.
She bolted, racing for the safety of the trees, unsure of what she’d seen. Better to err on the side of safety than to—
She flew forwards, hitting the ground hard.
“Thievin’ cully!” a man’s voice growled behind her.
Instinctively, she rolled to her side. Or tried to. The hold on the hem of her coat was a steel bond, pinning her in place, yanking her back.
No! This couldn’t be happening.
With all her might, she shimmied out of her coat, leaving her assailant with a handful of fabric.
Bagless, coatless, hopeless, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted once again. Panic charged through her veins. The cold air sliced through her thin shirt. Heavy footsteps dogged behind. Fear drove her on.
She plunged into the woods, branches clawing, pulling her hair, tearing her shirt. She dove into the underbrush, spikes of holly ripping sharp along her back, exposing her skin. Even so, she rolled into a tight ball, nearly crying out to God for deliverance.
Nearly.
She scrunched her eyes tight. If she couldn’t see the man, then he wouldn’t see her—a falsehood from childhood she’d never discarded.
