He lifted a trembling arm and pointed. “Along the path behind the sheds.”
“Let us go, Your Grace,” the woman who had first spoken said. “You don’t need us anymore.”
I held her gaze. “We haven’t found the lady in the red cape, have we?” I hesitated a moment. “But we don’t need all of you.” Turning to Finch, I said, “Let the other two go.”
Finch nodded once and set them free. “Go on.”
“Thank ’ee kindly, sir,” one of the women said. They wasted no time disappearing into the night.
I pushed the woman I held toward Finch. “Here. Take her.” I wanted my hands free for whatever we would find.
We took the path the stable hand had shown us at a run. The three of us moved fast beneath low branches, our boots slipping on the damp earth. The river lay somewhere ahead, unseen but ever present, its dark pull dragging at my thoughts. Every sound scraped at my nerves—the creak of wood, the lap of water, the distant thrum of the house behind us.
Then a woman’s scream cut through the night. Raw, ragged.
I broke into a sprint.
The boathouse loomed ahead, squat and shadowed, its door hanging askew. Light spilled from within, unsteady, thrown by a single lantern.
What I found there would remain with me the rest of my life.
Rosalynd stood near the far wall, her dress torn, her hair loose and tangled about her shoulders. Her breathing wasuneven, but her stance was firm. In her hands, she held a boathook, its iron end dark with blood.
At her feet lay a man, writhing on the floor, his trousers tangled about his boots, one hand clawing uselessly at the fabric while the other clutched his leg from which a jagged bone was clearly visible.
Her gaze lifted to mine.
For a single, suspended moment, the world narrowed to that look—fury, defiance, relief, all bound together by iron resolve.
“Are you hurt?” I asked hoarsely.
“No,” she said. “He is.” Her gaze hardened. “He turned his back on me to light the lantern. I grabbed the hook and struck him.”
“She done me in, she has,” the man cried out.
“He thought I was helpless.”
That was the last thing she had been.
She lifted the boathook. But before she could strike her attacker again, I eased it from her grip. “He’s already down, love.”
“Bloody coward,” she said.
Yes. He most certainly was.
I drew her into my arms and held her until the tremor eased from her body. And mine. “How are you, really?”
“It was dreadful, Steele,” she said softly against my chest. “But he did not prevail.”
“No. He most certainly did not,” I said, unable to keep the rough edge of pride from my voice. I murmured low nonsense words into her ear—assurances, fragments of praise—meant only to calm, until her breathing began to slow beneath my hands.
She glanced off to the side. “Is that what it looks like?”
“What?” I followed her gaze.
The man at our feet lay exposed in more ways than one.
She made a face. “What a sorry sight that is.”
