He took the roll, sat back and studied her. “You mean I’m a stronger man for putting my faith in you, Miss Woolf?”
“We both have much to lose.”
“Yet you intend to keep me in the dark to some degree.”
“Only if I feel it’s in your best interest.”
“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
She fell silent, long enough for him to think she would say nothing at all. “I shouldn’t admit it, but I’m afraid. Afraid for myself. Afraid for you. I don’t want to be the reason you spend another decade believing women can’t be trusted.”
He was in danger of that regardless. “Then let’s make a pact to share information when necessary.” Trust was a commodity he had never bartered for—until now.
She gave a thoughtful nod. “I can do that.”
It felt like a minor victory, though victories seldom lasted. Friendship demanded honesty. “Let’s begin with something simple. What are we hoping to retrieve from the cottage?”
“Nothing. What we need is in the graveyard.”
Hell. This woman piqued his interest at every turn. “Something you buried deep in hallowed ground?” He was confident his coachman had a spade and they wouldn’t need to claw at the earth with bare hands.
“No, in the mausoleum.”
Why the devil had she hidden it there?
“Something stolen, perhaps?” Why else was the villain stalking her? Whatever she had taken, he was willing to kill to reclaim it.
“No. Something my father left me for safekeeping.”
“Is your father alive?”
“He died a year ago.”
“My condolences. Though something tells me he didn’t die peacefully in his sleep.”
Her grave expression warned of something sinister, but he was not prepared for her confession.
“He was found dead in the woods.” She hesitated, then described a murder scene all too familiar, for he had envisioned it every day for a decade: a body identified by nothing more than his personal effects. “He was buried in Cambridge, though he left me a letter insisting I disappear and never visit his grave.”
The woods again. Another body stripped of its identity. Another grave built on lies. Ten years had passed since Justin’s death, yet the wound still bled.
His fingers tightened on the seat. “Was he found in Cambridge?”
“A mile outside, near the village of?—”
“Coton?”
“Yes, in a hideout used by gamekeepers.”
He swallowed, but the tightness remained. Was that why he was drawn to this woman? Because fate had a cruel sense of humour?
Silence settled, the past pressing down on them both. Ten years of pursuit, and still the culprit eluded him. Her fear was not without cause.
“How do you support yourself? Did your father leave you an annuity?”
Money left trails.
Money revealed loyalties.
