He uncocked his gun, though he did not release her. She held his gaze, sparks of pride and strength flashing. She was a brave one, he’d give her that. “What if I were to—”
She twisted from his grasp, ducking low, darting aside, fast as the wind.
Hang it all!
The chase was on.
He tore after her, gained ground, lunged and—
His foot snagged. Something bit into his bare ankle, jerking him off balance.
He went down hard, pain shooting up his leg as he hit the ground. His pistol skidded from his hand, disappearing into the underbrush beyond his reach. Henry grabbed for his foot, trying to free himself, but the horsehair snare might as well have been a solid cable of wire. His ankle throbbed white hot, and he suspected at best it was badly bruised. At worst, broken.
Meanwhile the girl didn’t waste a moment. Her lithe figure sprinted through the woods, and a breath later, she vanished into the trees.
Disgusted with himself for letting her give him the slip, he struggled against the snare, but the blasted thing was well set. The more he pulled, the tighter it cinched. Frustration boiled over. There was no way now he could give chase. Not like this.
Several grunts and winces later, he managed to free his foot and stagger up to stand. Gingerly, he tested his weight, clenching his jaw at the fiery pain. It was sharp, but bearable, yet the joint was not hale enough to endure the strain of a dash through the woods. Leaning against a tree, he squinted into the oncoming dawn.
The woman was long gone.
He limped over to retrieve his pistol, supporting himself heavily on his uninjured leg. As he pocketed the weapon, he couldn’t help but feel a reluctant admiration for the girl. She was resilient. Intriguing. And—hang it all—quite comely.
But she only doubled the trouble. Unless Carver had cornered the tormentor, now Henry had two rogues to find.
Chapter 3
Her lungs burned. And her thighs. Even so, Juliet pressed on, flinging herself over Bedford Manor’s rock wall and scraping her face in the process. She landed hard on her forearm and then rolled to her feet, all the while expecting a shot between the shoulder blades to take her down. Now would be a good time to pray.
But what would be the point? God hadn’t answered when she’d pleaded for her brother’s life as he lay dying from consumption. The great Creator hadn’t responded when she’d wept out her very soul at the injustice she’d suffered by her father’s own doing. And where had God been when Aunt Margaret had teetered at the edge of death, her body frail and fevered?
Juliet sprinted through the trees, fighting branches, rocks, roots. She tried to listen for footsteps at her back, but her own breathing and the rush of blood in her ears made that impossible. She didn’t slow a whit until she caught sight of the ramshackle cottage she shared with Aunt Margaret. The prayer she refused to utter had been answered anyway.
Why did some prayers merit favour and others did not? Why did God always seem to turn away His face when she needed Him most? And yet … here she walked, still alive, the danger past. Maybe—perhaps—God was still there, watching, waiting for her to acknowledge the thin thread of grace woven throughher life. But how could she when He had let so much be torn away?
Sucking in great gulps of air, Juliet shook off the jittery feeling in her arms and legs as she crunched along the gravel path. When Uncle William had been alive, this small structure of stone and timber had been a cozy home. He had purchased it from the manor soon after marrying Aunt Margaret, a blessing that now spared her from paying rent. But with him gone, things had fallen into disrepair at an alarming rate. And since it belonged to her, she couldn’t turn to the manor for any help—help that it desperately needed.
Ivy had overtaken two of the walls and half the eastern side of the roof. The wooden shingles on the corner of the west side were rotted, a drift of bird down filling the depression. Rising sunlight glinted off the two front windows, highlighting gaps where the glazing had fallen away. Juliet took great care in pushing open the door, for an abrupt move could take the rickety thing clean off its worn hinges. This place needed a man’s touch, sure enough.
She crept inside, hoping to make it past the small bedroom without disturbing her aunt. Let her sleep. Hopefully a good rest would ease the sting of her censure when the woman found out Juliet had been poaching despite being cautioned against doing so.
“You’ve been out again.”
Juliet whirled, slapping her free hand against her chest. Aunt Margaret sat at the big table that dominated the only other room in the cottage, her leg propped on a barrel. Beyond her sallow complexion and deep-set eyes, intelligence glinted in her gaze. The woman was far too keen. There would be no use in denying her.
But diversion might work.
“Aunt, what are you doing up?” Juliet grabbed a shawl from the back of the chair near the hearth and draped it over the woman’s shoulders. “You know you should not leave the bed on your own. You could have fallen.” She pressed a light kiss to her aunt’s parchment brow.
Aunt Margaret patted her cheek, her fingers cold against Juliet’s skin. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on you. I’ve been asking for God’s favour the whole time you’ve been out.”
“Well then, it is a good thing He listens to you. And being that you already know where I have been, perhaps you would like to clean this bird while I get a pot ready.” She dropped the bag onto the table.
“Oh, Juliet.” Aunt Margaret shook her head. “This poaching has got to stop. It’s too dangerous. If the groundskeeper were to catch you—”
“Please do not fret. I am very careful.”
“Oh?” She aimed her bony finger like a dagger. “That scrape on your jaw says otherwise. How did you come by it?”
