He crept from tree to tree, scanning the darkness, listening so hard it hurt his ears. An owl called. Mice scurried in the underbrush. Overhead, leaves rustled faintly from a whisper of breeze. And through it all, he could yet hear Charity’s fists pounding on his bedroom door, hardly a quarter of an hour ago. Her voice choked with horror. Her body shaking. She’d flung herself against him, panicked because that man—the fiendish phantom who’d plagued her these past two months—had stood outside her window. She was sure she’d seen him.
Henry barely took the time to put on his trousers and hadn’t bothered with shoes. Yet now his bare feet served him well, save for the occasional sharp piece of gravel that dug into tender skin. Even so, he relished the pain. Better that than calling for help when he ought to stand firm on his own. He’d done that once, as a boy. Never again.
Circling back to where he’d started, Henry blew out a disgusted breath. It appeared Charity’s tormentor was not inthis stand of trees. There was no telltale snap of twigs, no hasty breathing, not even a single footfall. Blast! He’d thought for certain the scoundrel would flee through this stretch of woods. Hopefully Carver was having better luck on his end. His groundskeeper knew this land better than anyone.
Once again Henry gazed into the darkness—though the sky wasn’t nearly as black as when he’d first dashed outside. Perhaps it would be best to check the hedgerow or—
Crack!
A shot rang out, violating the predawn quiet. The sharp report echoed through the trees, ruffling the feathers of birds in their roosts. His heart lurched, blood surging through his veins. Clearly Carver had sighted the man or maybe even taken him down. Victory!
Henry took off in the direction of the sound, pulse pounding in his ears. Branches whipped against him as he sprinted, but he paid them no mind. The thrill of the chase urged him onwards.
Nearing the edge of the trees, something caught his eye—a dark shape racing across the lawn between shrubbery and woods. He skidded to a stop, breath stuck in his throat. The man was moving quickly.
Straight towards him.
He froze. Had Carver missed his shot? Or had he hit his mark and wounded the blackguard, who was now trying to escape? Henry squinted, straining to make out details in the dim light. Something wasn’t quite right about that figure.
And where was his groundskeeper?
Unease prickled down Henry’s spine. He shifted back a step, eyes darting for a hiding place from which to spring. And … there. A cluster of holly bushes. Without another thought, he dove into the spiky foliage. The pointed ends of the leaves scratched sharp against his arms and legs where he crouched.Annoying, but necessary. The dense foliage provided excellent cover.
He tucked tightly into the crevice, musty earth and crushed leaves filling his nostrils. Forcing his breathing to steady, he prepared to launch.
Footsteps pounded. Closer. Urgent.
Henry tensed. The man was near. Just a few strides away. Breath heavy in the damp air. Once the fellow passed by, he’d pounce, swing one arm around the villain’s neck, and dig the muzzle of the gun into his back.
But then the footsteps quieted. Barely two paces beyond his hiding place, the fellow stopped, leaning heavily against a tree.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. What was this? Why would the scoundrel pause, hanging his head like a man in despair? Carry a sack slung over his back? And was that a sigh? The longer Henry stared, the more a brick sank in his gut.
This wasn’t danger cloaked in dark.
He wasn’t even sure this was a man.
As the person shifted slightly, a too-large tunic and baggy trousers came into clearer focus, confirming Henry’s worst suspicions. It was a mere boy, clothed in garments two sizes too large. Carver had been grumbling about a poacher the past few months. Apparently, Henry had found him. Not the criminal he was after—but a criminal, nonetheless.
The lad stepped away.
Henry sprang, grabbing one of his slim shoulders. “Hold it right there.”
He spun the boy around, leveling the flintlock pistol at his chest. Not that he’d shoot the lad, but a gun had a way of putting the fear of God into anyone.
Impossibly large eyes peered up into his own. Hard to say what colour they were in this dim light, but one thing was for certain … fear swam in those pools, the same fear he’d witnessedin his sister’s eyes. One giveaway curl sprang out from a patched flatcap, the tendril brushing against the curve of a delicate cheek. Thunder and turf! This wasn’t even a lad, but a woman, barely a slip of a thing. The desperation vivid on her face twisted something deep in his chest. Something dire must have driven her to play such a dangerous charade.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What the deuce are you doing on my land?”
A visible tremble rippled the fabric across her shoulders. “I am someone who is merely trying to survive, sir.”
Her dulcet tone and clear diction labeled her a lady. But that was impossible. No lady he knew would deign to set foot in the woods at night—and dressed as a poor boy no less. An act, then? Appear his equal to garner sympathy? He studied her face, the high cheekbones, the full lips, but she was a closed book.
“Survival or not,” he clipped, “stealing is a crime. You do realize what happens to poachers, do you not? I should have you arrested here and now.”
Her mouth flattened to a grim line. “Yes, I know. Had I any other choice, I would not be here.” She glanced at the sack on her shoulder. “My aunt and I have nothing but what I catch, for the harvest this year was bad. There is no work for me in town, as you well know the economy is particularly troublesome for everyone—save, perhaps, for you.”
His grip on her shoulder lightened. Truth ripened her words, bitter as it was. The countryside was full of desperate people these days, yet that did not excuse theft.
