Sticks cracked. Boots thudded.
Run past. Just run past!
Then …
Blessed silence.
Her eyes flew open. Had the man truly sped by?
Metal clicked. A rifle cocked. And a gruff voice boomed in the night. “I know you’re there. Don’t make me flush you out with a shot.”
Her heart pounded in her ears, breath all but forgotten. Could she still fly away? But how when fear paralyzed her limbs?
A shot rang out.
Dirt, leaves, gravel flew into her face. She flinched, a yelp strangling in her throat.
“Out!” he bellowed. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”
Slowly, she uncurled from her ball, trembling as she pushed up to all fours. Her breath came in shaky gasps, tears running cold on her cheeks. Blood and sweat stung her back as she peered up through the holly branches that concealed her.
The man’s boots appeared first, crushing the earth beneath them, a mere ten paces from her hidey-hole. Tree trunks for legs came into view next. Then a rifle barrel. Long. Black. Unforgiving and aimed right at her. Juliet’s throat closed, her gaze fixed on that terrible weapon. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to look anywhere else, anticipating the fire of a shot to her head.
“There you are,” he muttered, voice as rough as the gravel. “Come on. Move it—an’ keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Her limbs felt like lead, but somehow she managed to crawl out, arms scratched raw from the spiky branches, hoping to God the man would show her enough leniency that she might be able to escape as she had before. But when the older man’s dark eyes bored into hers and his fingers bit into her arm, she knew. This was it. There would be no escape.
Not this time.
Coffee and toast. The quintessential breakfast—especially if that toast involved a healthy slathering of apple butter. Henry bit into a thick slice of deliciousness, savouring the sweetness with a hint of tart lemon just as Carver swung into the breakfast room.
The groundskeeper pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through greying locks of wiry hair. He smelled of crushed leaves and the dampness of a root cellar—and no wonder. He looked as if he wore half the grounds of Bedford Manor on his coat. “Sorry to disturb ye, Master Henry, but I’ve got something ye’d like to hear, I think.”
Brilliant. He could use some good news right about now. Henry set down his toast and picked up his coffee—the rich scent of which usually earned him a cancerous eye from Charity. In her words, only barbarians drank such a brew. But she’d not come down for breakfast yet. Thankfully.
He leaned back in his chair, leveling Carver with a look. “What I would like to hear is that you have caught my sister’s tormentor and we are finished with such dastardly business.”
A wry smile tipped one side of the groundskeeper’s lips. “I have bagged a scoundrel of sorts, leastwise as it pertains to game.”
Henry’s pulse galloped. “The poacher?”
“One and the same.” He shook his head, a sheepish dip to his shoulders. “I can scarcely believe that slip of a woman has given me the run for so long.”
Henry set his cup down without so much as a sip. “Where is she?”
“In the toolshed out back. What would you have me do with her?”
“You? Nothing. I will see her for myself.” He pushed back his chair.
“Don’t know as I’d advise that, sir. She’s a fiery one, and I’ve got the teeth marks to prove it.” Shoving up his sleeve, he held out his forearm.
A distinct curve of angry red indented the flesh.
Henry’s brow raised, though admittedly such a wound didn’t surprise him overmuch, not after his encounter with the woman. “I appreciate the warning, Carver, but I think I can handle myself.”
“That’s what I thought too, but the little nipper caught me off guard.” He tugged back the fabric to his wrist. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what do you mean to do with her? Poachin’ is a serious offense.”
True. And yet it didn’t seem right, somehow, to completely ruin the woman’s life. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I am not entirely certain yet.” Dropping his hand, he faced the groundskeeper. “Feel free to come along and keep an eye on the yard while I have a word with our … guest, though I trust you have secured her well?”
