Ames continued. “The relationship between Roland Prior and Walstead soured when Prior was falling behind on payments for services rendered by Walstead. When Prior died, he still owed Walstead a lot of money, since most of their transactions had been conducted with a gentleman’s agreement and had no formal paperwork or documentation. Walstead knew Priorwas likely still in possession of the King’s Prize, so he started to search for it.
“Since Timmons knew of the King’s Prize from the time they stole it from the mill workers, Walstead tasked him with the job of finding out if Mrs.Prior knew anything about it. Timmons wooed the lady’s maid until he learned what he needed. Once they were certain who had the King’s Prize, the three of them planned the kidnapping for a ransom situation. Timmons and Rebecca abducted the baby, and Broadstreet rode to Leeds to inform Walstead that the act was happening. That is why Walstead was already in the area at the time of the abduction.”
The facts raced through Anthony’s mind. They sickened him. Frustrated him. Embarrassed him—because he should have foreseen it. “Are you returning to Leeds when this is over?”
“No. From what I’m told, the details are coming to light, and it is causing quite a stir. Men in our profession have unique reputations as it is. This is going to make them worse.” Ames shifted. “And you? From what I see you seem to have found your place here. I can’t imagine you’ll be leaving anytime soon.”
Anthony chuckled and looked out to the moors—to the vast expanse that he had at one point been so eager to escape for something grander. But now, as he took in the wavy grass and rocky mounds, he felt as if he’d finally found freedom. He drew a deep breath of the earthy air, and a deep sense of gratitude settled over him. “You’re right. This is now my home.”
Chapter45
A few days later the gloomy clouds parted at last, and the gray morning had given way to a bright bit of sunshine as Anthony waited for Charlotte to emerge from Hollythorne House. A month ago, he never could have predicted how significantly his life would change—he’d been challenged and betrayed. But from a bewildering situation, such clarity and beauty had emerged, and he now stood on the precipice of a different life. And it infused him with optimism.
After days of being inside and resting his shoulder and arm, he was eager to be out of doors. When Charlotte joined him, they would ride out to the mill. He’d not had the opportunity to visit it until now, for his responsibility and attention had been here at Hollythorne House. But Ames had the grounds under control, and Anthony could feel comfortable leaving. What was more, he had no choice but to take up residence in the mill house, for it would be weeks before he and Charlotte could marry. Banns were required to be read and a great many things needed to be settled. He was her fiancé, and as such, he could not reside under the same roof as her, regardless of whether hewas injured or not. He would not compromise her reputation with her tenants.
At length Charlotte joined him in the back courtyard, and his breath caught at the sight of her approaching. Her expression was bright in the morning glow, and her cheeks were vibrant with the chill of the air. She was every bit as captivating as he remembered from that summer four years ago—if not more so. He’d always known her to be confident and outspoken, but he’d witnessed a different side of her over the past month—the side that confronted injustice and would stop at nothing to protect those she loved. It was an attractive quality—one he respected perhaps more than any other.
She smiled brightly as she approached and called, “Are you ready?”
His breathing slowed as she drew nearer. Charlotte had been clad in severe black and dark hues of browns and grays almost every day since they arrived at Hollythorne House, but now she was in a riding habit of pale green wool, with ivory flowers and vines embroidered along the hem and on her sleeves. An ivory satin ribbon was woven in her hair and beneath her bonnet, and for the first time, a shade of pink was returning to her cheeks. Gone were the dark circles beneath her eyes, and her warm hazel gaze enticed him and invited him to share her secrets and her heart.
The sight—the powerful allure of her—made him almost forget to respond to her question.
He whispered, “You are beautiful.”
An even prettier flush rose to her cheeks. “I-I thought it onlyappropriate that if we are to build a new life together, we should start over. I can’t abide black. Not anymore.”
“I wholeheartedly agree.” He longed to reach out and take her hand, but he refrained. They would be married, but people were still milling about. In the last few days a new housekeeper had been hired, along with a groom and a stable master and two maids. Workmen were finishing repairs to the roof, and glaziers were busy tending broken windows. Discretion was still key, regardless of what they had recently endured.
He pivoted to hand her the horse’s reins, and he winced when a sharp pain jolted through his shoulder.
Her brows furrowed in a sympathetic arch. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”
He grinned reassuringly. “No.”
“You’re lying. I saw the wound myself. There is no way you are not still in pain.”
He sobered. When she saw the wound she undoubtedly saw the other wounds too—the hastily repaired ones that, even though healed, were far more physically altering than a bullet wound. He was not embarrassed by the unseemly scars, but they were like a window into his past—into the dark things he had done, seen, and survived. As a result, he relived them every time he saw the grisly marks. He did not want her to think the same.
But she smiled at him—the sort of smile that would soothe every ache and push those tarnished memories far into the past where they belonged. Her gaze did not break away. Instead, she took the reins from his hand, allowing her gloved hand to brush his.
Together they rode into the fresh air and over the moor’s uneven terrain, past Even Tor, past Thoms Tor, past the places that had been so significant. It had been years since he traversed this specific path, yet he knew the way like the back of his hand.
He knew they were getting close when they crossed the arched stone bridge above the River Lamby. At the gate, the white-stone mill cottage he grew up in and the damaged mill building were visible, and the hum of rushing water in the river met his ears.
He’d been in shock the last time he was here, for he’d just learned of his uncle’s death. The sorrow over it, coupled with the guilt of not being here to save him, had been so overwhelming that he’d barely been able to look at what remained after the fire. He’d shut himself off that very day and given himself dozens of legitimate excuses not to return. But now everything was different.
Once at the gate to the millhouse, they dismounted and secured the horses. Anthony turned to Charlotte. “What do you think of it? Is it what you expected?”
Charlotte wrapped her arm around his and leaned against him. “It is as you described it.”
He followed her gaze and tried to assess it with fresh eyes.
The mill itself, a square structure of stone and brick, had two large windows on each side, many of which were damaged or missing, and it was positioned on a small island in order to harness power from the River Lambey. The island was large enough for the building and several mature trees and could be reached by a smaller bridge. Spencer had been right. The roof and wheel were gone, but from where Anthony was standing, the stones of the mill walls appeared largely intact.
“Can it be saved?” Charlotte’s question echoed the one that had simmered in the recesses of his mind since the day he learned of the fire.
He looked up to the charred remains of the mill. But despite the obvious damage, the inner and the outer walls were standing, and the millstone appeared intact. He was by no means an expert in construction, but he knew enough about this particular building and how it needed to function. What was more, his focus was shifting. Determination and motivation would go a long way to overcoming the obstacles.
