His gaze flicked between her and the dilapidated cottage. His instincts urged him to go with her, to make sure she didn’t run off. And yet, there was something in her eyes—an honesty, bravery perhaps, but sincerity nonetheless—that gave him pause. She had every opportunity to lie, to spin some tale, and yet she hadn’t. She’d faced him head-on.
“Very well.” He ground his teeth, hardly believing he’d give her such a freedom. “But if you are not back in five minutes, I will come in after you.”
She nodded, though he could tell by the way her lips pinched his words had stung. She walked towards the warped doorwith steady steps, leaving him standing by the carriage, hands clenched at his sides.
As the door creaked shut behind her, he let out a long breath and leaned against the carriage, eyes fixed on the cottage, thoughts churning. Had he made a mistake? Should he have gone with her? His instincts said yes, but his gut also told him that she wasn’t the type to run. Not now. Not after she’d made a deal with him. And yet, the nagging doubt remained.
She could still surprise him.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open again and Juliet reappeared, approaching him with a wary look in her eyes. “My aunt would like a word with you.”
He quirked a brow. “Would she?”
“She … insists.”
Intrigued, he followed her inside. Despite the general shabbiness of the place, it was a tidy home, smelling of herbs he couldn’t begin to name. Across the room, a small woman with steel-grey hair and a keen gaze sat propped up in a chair, fingers twitching as she gestured to the other chair. She didn’t speak until he and Juliet sat. “You’re the master of Bedford Manor.”
He inclined his head. “I am, madam.”
“I suppose that makes you responsible.”
“For Miss Finch?” he asked, unsure where this was going.
“Indeed. I want to know what sort of man you are, Mr. Russell, before I entrust my girl to your fine estate.”
So, this was to be a reckoning. Not of title or means—but of character. He hid a smile. She reminded him of Juliet, only older, frailer, and twice as immovable. That same fire in the eyes, the same iron will wrapped in politeness. No wonder Juliet was the way she was. The pair of them could stare down a magistrate without blinking.
And somehow, an hour later, he found himself promising to see the roof mended before the first frost.
Chapter 8
There was safety in a moonless night. Black crevices to hide in. No light to betray her. Even the wind was hardly more than a secret, as if it held its breath. The scent of moist earth lingered in the cool air, leaves rustling softly with each tread of Juliet’s horse. These were the best sort of evenings to lay a snare, trap a quail, bag a feast. Even so, she frowned as she guided her mount through a maze of trees. Such darkness wasn’t helpful at all when following a man in a black coat riding on an inky stallion.
She squinted ahead to make out Mr. Russell’s imposing figure atop his horse, familiar now with his broad shoulders and regal posture. She knew the trail well enough, but not the man. If he turned and she wasn’t paying attention, she’d lose him. And that was the sum of the entire past week, tagging Henry Russell’s heels around Bedford Manor. Together they’d explored potential weaknesses where an intruder might breach the security of the house and scouted for signs of any recent ill-intentioned activity—the very purpose of this late-evening ride.
She ducked beneath a low-hanging branch. Then again, he’d shadowed her as much as she had him. Yes, he’d allowed her to gather her belongings unhindered at Aunt Margaret’s last week. He’d even shown much generosity by hiring a nurse to attend her aunt and sending over baskets of food. But those good actions were offset by the uncertain gleam in his eye every time he looked at her—and he did look. He watched her unceasingly.
She adjusted her grip on the reins, her pulse quickening. His wary scrutiny chafed, yet it also stirred an attraction to the very man she’d stolen from.
And she wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
Juliet shifted uneasily in the saddle, her thoughts tangling with each step through the darkened woods. So much had changed in the past week she hardly knew what to think anymore—which meant it would probably be better to simply focus on the task at hand. Upping her horse’s pace, she strained to see ahead.
A sudden whinny broke the stillness.
Something hit the ground. Hard.
Then a grunt, a groan, and hooves pounding against the earth, growing more distant with each passing second.
Her heart lurched. “Mr. Russell?”
Nothing but the hoot of an owl answered.
She dug in her heels, urging her mount around the next bend, then pulled up short. Five paces off lay a dark figure in the dirt with no horse in sight. Panic bubbled at the back of her throat as she dismounted. What was she to do if Mr. Russell had snapped his neck? “Mr. Russell!”
Kneeling at his side, she pressed her hand to his shoulder, bracing for the worst. For an agonizing eternity, he didn’t move, the silence louder than the thudding of her own heart.
“Henry?” Her voice was a shiver in the darkness.
