“Aye. Tied her hands to an eyehook. She’s not going anywhere unless you say so.”
“Good. I shall decide what happens next once I assess the situation.” He strode from the room, Carver’s boots echoing on the floorboards behind him.
Outside, the first fallen leaves of autumn swirled in eddies as he crossed the gravel yard. He wasn’t sure how to feel about capturing the woman. Yes, a poacher ought to be prosecuted, especially one that bit like a dog off a lead. And yet something in his spirit gave him pause. He glanced at the morning sky, where thin white clouds stretched like cotton against the blue.
Give me wisdom, Lord.
At the shed door, Carver pulled out a ring of keys and opened the padlock, casting him a sideways glance. “Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
Henry shook his head. “With two of us, she might feel like a cornered animal, and as you know, those are the most dangerous sort. Just lay hold of her if she happens to escape.”
He stepped into the small outbuilding, the faint creak of the wooden door breaking the silence inside. Dank air met his nose, tinged with the earthy scent of dirt and rusting metal. Various tools hung from the walls—shovels, a rake with bent prongs, a pitchfork, some hoes—their shapes dull in the thin morning light filtering through the wall slats. When his eyes adjusted fully on the slender form strung up on the farthest wall, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Her back was towards him. Through the torn fabric of her shirt, pale skin streaked with blood peeked out. So did the knobs of her spine. He ought not be witnessing this, for it was far too intimate of a sight, and yet he could not pull away his gaze. She was thin, painfully so. When was the last time she’d eaten a full meal?
Her hair, perhaps once the vibrancy of roasted chestnuts, now lay in wild tangles around her shoulders, a braid that had obviously lost its tether. Her head hung forwards, her slender arms dangling from Carver’s bindings.
A wave of unexpected sympathy clamped tight around his heart. He wasn’t prepared for this—a poacher, yes, but not a woman so beaten down by ill circumstance. Still, he held his emotions in check, remembering this was no small offense she’d committed. She’d been stealing from his land for over a year now.
He planted his feet. “Turn around, if you would, miss. I should like to speak with you.”
Ever so slowly she pivoted, and when her face came into view, he inhaled sharply—not due to her disheveled appearance, but by the untamed beauty beneath the grime. Her cheekbones were sharp, yet the curve full and pleasing. Her hair cascaded around her face like the mane of a feral creature. And her eyes—sage with a ring of amber. Fear and boldness flickered simultaneously there, and something more … He cocked his head. Remorse. That was it. But for what? Being caught or for the desperate acts that had led her to be trussed up in his toolshed? Hard to tell. But of one thing he was certain. She was terrified. The threadbare fabric of her torn shirt rippled with her trembling, barely offering any protection against the cold air seeping through the shed’s walls.
He frowned. Did he frighten her so? Or was it the inevitable punishment she feared most? Regardless, he couldn’t very well leave her standing there, shivering in such a state. Poacher or not, she was still human, still a woman—and one who had suffered enough.
Without another word, Henry shrugged off his frock coat and draped the wool around her shoulders as best he could, his fingers brushing against her cold skin for the briefest moment.
Her wide eyes darted to his face. She blinked several times, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came, and in that moment, he saw her vulnerability.
He retreated several steps, giving her space. “This is the second time we meet.” The indictment came out huskier than intended, and he cleared his throat. “What have you to say for yourself?”
She glanced down at the coat, then back at him, tears welling in her eyes. “If you let me go, sir, I vow I will not set foot on your land ever again.”
He swallowed, fighting to keep his composure. Weeping women were ever his downfall. “I was expecting an apology, not a plea bargain.”
White teeth toyed with her lower lip. “I know it was wrong of me to take your game, yet I had no other choice.”
Judging by her hollow cheeks and sharp lines of her frame, he could easily see the truth of that. Curious, he cocked his head. “What has brought you to such dire straits? Have you no father? No brother or husband to provide? What about seeking aid from the church or a charity?”
Her chin came up then, eyes gleaming. “I will not beg. Not while I still have hands to work and legs to walk. I’ve lost enough—I will not surrender my pride as well. As for family, I have no one but my aunt, and she lies abed.”
“Who is this aunt?” He dared a step closer, studying her face. “Who are you?”
“I am Juliet Finch, niece to Margaret Brewster.”
“Brewster.” He rolled the name off his tongue, and the moment it flew free, recognition settled in. “The name is familiar. A neighbour, I think.”
“Yes. To the east.”
For a long moment he said nothing, trying to dredge up any and every memory he owned of Margaret Brewster. His father might have mentioned the widow once or twice, but other than that, he had no personal experience with the woman. And he’d never heard of Juliet Finch.
“You realize,” he drawled, “that I would be well within my rights to turn you over to the magistrate.”
“I know.” She looked away, her jaw quivering. “Do what you will, then. Just … my aunt, she—”
“Would starve without you,” Henry finished for her. “You have made your point clear, for you are very well spoken. You do not come from poverty.”
She said nothing. Nor would she look at him.
