“It is merely a scratch.” Absently, she pressed a light touch to the injury, her hasty retreat still fresh in her mind … the all-consuming intensity of the man who’d held her captive even more real. What was the fellow doing in the woods in what was clearly his nightshirt, bare of feet, and trousers riding low on his hips from lack of braces? There was no way he could have heard or seen her from the manor, so there’d been no reason whatsoever for him to have raced from his bed with a pistol in hand. No, he’d not been looking for her, that much was obvious. But he had lookedather. And despite the fear of that moment, the threat of her very life, those grey-green eyes and husky voice of his had done strange things inside her chest.
“—then God was surely looking out for you.”
She startled at Aunt’s voice, pulled back to the present. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said God was surely looking out for you, for I suspect there is more to your adventure than a run-in with a sharp branch.” Aunt Margaret narrowed her eyes. “Promise me you will not go out again.”
“I will do no such thing. We need to eat.”
“There are still jars of ointments and bottles of tinctures to sell.” Aunt Margaret fluttered her hand towards the shelves behind her. “I know hawking wares is quite a fall from grace for you, but it is a respectable business and far less hazardous than bagging fowl from Bedford Manor.”
A sigh deflated her. “Not anymore,” she murmured.
Aunt Margaret angled her head, concern etching lines at the sides of her mouth. “What do you mean?”
Juliet bit her lip. She didn’t want to worry her aunt more than she already did, but there would be no hiding the truth from the woman. Aunt Margaret was as good at snaring one in a lie as Juliet was at poaching prey. She sank into a chair across from her aunt. “I did not wish to upset you, but … last time I went to town and set up a sales crate, that pompous new apothecary, Mr. Scather, and I had a row. He threatened me, said if I did not move on, he would get the constable involved unless I could produce a license. And without a license, I would be arrested.”
“Arrested!” Aunt Margaret slapped the tabletop, rattling the salt cellar. “The women of our family have been herbalists for generations. None of them needed to purchase a paper to sell their goods! What does he know of tradition, of local medicinals being passed down through the ages?”
“See? This is why I did not tell you. Times have changed, Aunt. There are new laws, different regulations. And Mr. Scather seems determined to make his mark by seeing them enforced—particularly the Apothecaries Act. But do not let this trouble you. I will see to it that we manage despite him.” Juliet patted her aunt’s hand, then filled the teapot with water before setting it onthe grate. “I think a spot of chamomile will be just the thing for now.”
“This is outrageous.” Anger shook her aunt’s voice. “The remedies I make are just as good, if not better, than anything that pretentious peacock Mr. Scather can concoct in his fancy apothecary shop. The people of Bedford ought to know that. They’ve trusted me for years.”
“I know but Mr. Scather has connections, and he has already begun spreading rumours about our remedies being unsafe. Last week, Mrs. Cunningham refused to buy her usual lavender salve from me, claiming she heard it might cause a rash. It is only a matter of time before others believe such hearsay as well.”
“So that’s why sales have dwindled.” Frustration leeched from her aunt’s words, replaced now by concern. “And that’s why you’ve reset your snares, risking your life.”
Juliet faced her aunt, curving her lips into a reassuring smile. “All is not lost. I fully intend to visit your past customers and try selling to them directly. It may take more effort, but it is safer than setting up a stall in the market.”
“A good plan—until we run out of stock.” She frowned. “And now is such a good time to collect plants. I wish I could venture into the woods to teach you what to harvest. A pox on this leg!”
“Give it time.” She squeezed her aunt’s shoulder. The woman had nearly died from blood loss and then from fever, not to mention she’d broken more than one bone in her leg when she’d tumbled into that rocky ravine. Juliet pushed down a shiver just thinking about it. “I am grateful you are alive, Aunt.”
A small smile replaced her aunt’s frown. “And I am thankful you are here, though I know you miss your old life.”
Juliet couldn’t deny it. She did miss her old life, with an ache that sometimes kept her awake long into the night. How weary she was of scraping and clawing, wondering where their next meal would come from, and from the ever-present burden ofkeeping them both alive. She wandered to the window, watching green leaves flirt with gold and rust. Winter would soon be here, making birds scarce, though she had a good eye for tracking larger game.
She pressed her fingers to the glass. If only she could get her hands on a bow and an arrow or two, she could take down a deer. She was sure of it. After her brother had trained her, she’d learned to outshoot him back in the day. Much to his chagrin. And a buck or a doe would last them for weeks, longer if they dried the meat. But where on earth would she get a bow?
And even more daunting, how could she risk hauling such a big animal off the Bedford estate without getting caught? Was she even strong enough? The danger would be tremendous, but the reward … oh, what a reward.
She let out a long breath, fogging the glass. It was a temptation she could hardly afford to ignore.
Defeat never came easy. Never had. In all his twenty-eight years, Henry could count on one hand the number of times he’d given up—and this would not be one of them. Wincing at the fiery pain burning a line all the way to his kneecap, he clutched the banister and hobbled up the first few steps of the grand stair in the front hall.
His father had left him in charge, and he would not fail. Not because of an injury. Not because of anything. If he couldn’t manage his responsibilities until his father’s return, what did that say about his ability to one day shoulder them permanently? To be the man his father believed he could be?
The man he needed to be.
“Henry!”
His sister descended in a flurry, her silk robe billowing ghostly white in the spare light of dawn. The fear on her face vanished as she gaped at his bruised ankle. “You are hurt. Here, lean on me.” She flung her arm around his shoulders. “I shall settle you in the sitting room and send word for the doctor at once.”
He pulled away, taking care to keep his full weight on his uninjured foot. “I made it this far on my own, Sister. There is no need to pester Dr. Branch. It is Carver’s opinion my ankle is not broken.”
She popped her fists on her hips, a pout to her bow-like lips. Golden curls framed her face, leastwise those not caught up in the full braid hanging down her back. She was a summer sun, this younger sister of his. Her eyes blue as freshly budded cornflowers, but her tone was an August storm. “Mr. Carver is a groundskeeper! Not a physician.”
“Yet he knows animals and has plenty of experience with injuries, both in the field and around the estate. You forget he’s seen more sprains and broken bones than most. Do you not remember how he nursed the hounds back to health after their skirmish with that badger last spring?”
