Reaching ever so gingerly, he turned her face back to his with a light touch of his finger to her jaw. “There are stories in your eyes, Miss Finch. Tragedies, I believe.”
“Please.” Her voice broke. “If you would but let me go, I will trouble you no longer.”
Hah! He suspected this woman would be troubling his dreams for days to come. He turned away, pacing the small space of the shed. It would be a shame to see that lovely neck of hers snapped, and yet there ought to be some semblance of justice for the game she’d stolen over the seasons. For indeed, she had stolen—and quite successfully up to now.
He stopped in front of her. “How is it you managed to evade my groundskeeper for over a year?”
“I merely did what I had to,” she said simply.
“Yes, and you did it quite well. Too well, in fact. It seems you have skills most women would fear to acquire.”
“Of necessity, not by design.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I wonder what other skills you possess.”
Her nostrils flared like a spooked filly’s. “What do you mean?”
“You have proven yourself adept at moving through these woods unseen, and you have a knack for snaring game.” She did. She had. Until now, the woman was every bit as keen at remaining undetected as his sister’s tormentor.
And that’s when a perfectly mad idea took root. Who better to hunt for a man than a hunter? And a female one at that? No one would suspect such a thing. She might be able to uncover information that as a man he would have a hard time getting at. Once again, he took to pacing. This was either a clever notion or the most absurd thought he’d ever had.
Well, Lord? Which is it?
And just like that, he remembered the night Charity had come to him, scared—thunder crashing, desperation choking him—and he’d begged heaven for help. He hadn’t expected the answer to arrive in the form of a mud-splattered poacher. Then again, God’s ways were ever mysterious. And what did he really have to lose if he made a bargain with this woman and it proved fruitless? It wasn’t as if he’d be any further behind on figuring out who troubled his sister.
“Tell me, Miss Finch, how are you at tracking prey?”
She blinked. “What sort of prey?”
“Of the two-legged variety.”
Confusion rippled across her brow. “Speak plainly, sir.”
Henry stepped closer. “There is someone—an unwanted someone—lurking near my home. A tormentor who has yet to reveal himself. You have demonstrated a knack for … navigating the shadows, shall we say. If you should like to avoid an intimate rendezvous with the hangman’s noose, I would make use of that knack.”
Her jaw dropped, her words a whisper. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“I mean,” he said firmly, “I will not have you arrested. Instead, I offer you the chance to help me catch this villain. If you do so, your slate will be clean. You will be free to go—provided you do not return to poaching on my lands. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her nose scrunching ever so slightly, before she said at length, “And if I refuse?”
“Then I shall call in the law. That could be avoided, however, if you repay your debt to me. Think of it as restitution. Service rendered in place of all the pheasant and hares that have mysteriously vanished from my woods.”
Her lips parted slightly, maybe with a protest. Maybe not.
So he pressed on. “If you are not a thief at heart, then this is the easiest way to prove it.”
An uncertain silence lingered. Was it so hard a decision?
Finally, the woman lifted her face, meeting his gaze with fierce determination. “Very well, then. I accept.”
Chapter 7
Trussed. Trapped. Terrified. Not to mention torn over what she just agreed to do with a man who did all sorts of strange things to her insides—good and bad. Juliet leaned her shoulder against the rough planks of the shed, arms practically dead from being over her head for so long. Her body ached from the chase and subsequent hours she’d spent locked in this chilly outbuilding. Yet that was nothing compared to the degradation of having been caught like a bird in one of her snares. How foolish she’d been!
And how foolish she was for having agreed to partner with a man who stole her breath.
After what seemed an eternity since the enigmatic master of Bedford Manor had taken his leave, footsteps crunched against gravel, slow, deliberate, growing louder. Keys jingled. A lock clicked. The door opened with a creak. Juliet blinked against the brilliant sunlight pouring in, wrapping itself around the black figure of a muscular man with a bucket in one hand, a cloth bundle in the other, and a long knife hanging off his hip.
