The groundskeeper.
The one she’d bitten in the arm.
Her heart raced as he set down the items and slowly pulled the blade from the sheath. Stubble covered his jaw. Crescents the colour of bruises hung beneath his eyes. He’d not slept because of her. The hard set to his jaw silently accused her for such a crime. His dark gaze—cold and sharp—locked onto hers as heapproached. He could do as he wished behind these walls and lay the blame for what she suffered at her feet. No one would ever know.
Her pulse thudded in her ears as he stopped a breath away, the smell of a grave about him, all damp dirt and foreboding. “Ye don’t deserve the master’s mercy.”
The growl of a tiger in the dark couldn’t be more threatening.
Worse, he was right.
“No, I do not,” she whispered.
He raised the knife, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d cut more than just the rope. A man humiliated was a treacherous animal, for she had disgraced him by stealing game right out from under his nose.
She squeezed her eyes closed, a long-forgotten inkling of a prayer begging to be released past her lips—but she clamped them tight. Pleading for forgiveness now was the coward’s way out.
Cold metal dug into the tender skin of her wrists, yet not the sharp edge. The rope fell to the ground. Her arms felt lifeless as they dropped like anchors. Absently, she rubbed where the bindings had nipped her flesh raw. The master of Bedford Manor’s frock coat lay in the dirt at her feet, for it had fallen as well.
She braved a glance up at the man, then wished she hadn’t. So much vitriol was hard to digest. “What happens now?” she peeped in a voice she could hardly believe belonged to her.
So much for bravery.
“Mr. Russell and his sister await you. Clean yerself up and put on that gown.” He tipped his head towards the bundle he’d dropped atop a barrel. “And if ye so much as think of making a run for it, this blade o’ mine won’t be nearly as lenient as the master’s.”
He slapped the flat of it against his palm, making her flinch.
His mouth curved in satisfaction; then he wheeled about and called over his shoulder, “I’ll be waitin’ outside.”
It took her several deep breaths before she could coax her feet to move. Fingers still tingling from being overhead so long, she fumbled with unwrapping the cloth bundle. Inside was a blue silk gown—a very fine one—a sliver of soap, a cloth for washing, and a comb. Turning her back to the door, she made quick work of peeling out of her ruined shirt and filthy trousers. Many winces and a few groans later, she retrieved Mr. Russell’s coat and set it on the barrel, then stepped outside, feeling somewhat better—physically, leastwise.
The groundskeeper graced her with naught but a scowl, then strode across the backyard. She scurried to keep up with his long legs. They entered the manor’s rear door, the corridors a blur as she sped double-time to follow him—and she nearly crashed into his back when he swung into a sitting room and abruptly stopped.
“Here’s the girl, as you asked, sir,” he grumbled.
“Thegirlhas a name, Carver. Miss Finch, and as she will be part of the household for the foreseeable future, you shall address her as such.”
Juliet’s brows rose at Henry Russell’s voice. Standing so closely behind the big groundskeeper, she couldn’t see him, but the censure in his tone was undeniable. Which was surprising. Why extend her such a courtesy? She’d done nothing but steal from him.
The groundskeeper gave a sharp nod. “As you wish.”
“Thank you, Carver. You are dismissed.”
Her nemesis bypassed her, rumbling beneath his breath, “Softhearted fool—won’t last a week with the likes o’ her.”
A lifetime ago it would have grieved her to be thought of as such a ne’er-do-well. And it still stung a little. Yet there was nothing she could do about others’ opinions—a bitter lessonshe’d learned like a slap in the face when her father had been tossed in gaol.
And there she stood. Alone. Exposed. Trying desperately not to give in to the quake of her knees as Mr. Russell and a woman with burnt-honey curls regarded her like a rare bird to be cautiously studied. While different in colour, their eyes shared the same intensity, as if well versed in summing up the worth of a person without asking a single question.
Mr. Russell lifted a hand towards his sister, where she perched on a burgundy velvet settee near the fire. “I thought it best if you met my sister right away and learn what you are up against. Charity, meet Miss Juliet Finch. Miss Finch, my sister, Miss Charity Russell.”
Juliet curtseyed as gracefully as her legs allowed, her heart beating fast. One wrong move or word, and the man might think better of his offer. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss Russell,” she murmured.
“Thank you, Miss Finch.” The woman had a lovely voice, bright as a May morn. Her features were delicate and not nearly as angular as her brother’s. “I must say my brother and I were both astonished to find a female poaching on our family land.”
Heat flamed up Juliet’s neck, spreading to her cheeks. She lowered her face, hoping to hide such a reaction. Hoping to hide period. Deep down she’d known a day of reckoning would come, but that didn’t make it easier to bear. She swallowed hard. “I would not have done so had I any other choice, Miss Russell.”
The lines around the lady’s mouth softened a little. “I suppose desperation drives people to do things they otherwise wouldn’t. But you are here now, and my brother tells me you will be helping us with a different kind of hunt. Please, have a seat.”
