“I ought to decline. But I cannot bring myself to. I’ll see to it that you’re paid.” He turned back to his other boot and pulled it on.
“Keep your head. That’s payment enough,” the man said, then strode from the room. Benedict donned his coat, listening to the murmurs beyond.
When he stepped into the kitchen, a loaf of bread and bowl of hearty stew awaited him. And nearly forty pounds. Neither Weston nor his wife was present, but Benedict tucked away the coins and bills, ignoring the mortification that came from taking coin from servants in his employ.
Spoonful after spoonful, Benedict consumed the stew without tasting it. When the bowl was empty, he ripped a hunk of the bread off and chewed quickly.
Effie entered the room, a satchel full nearly to bursting in her hand. “I’ve packed the honey. And a salve too. It has a bit of laudanum, so use it sparingly,” she explained without a greeting. “A few bites of bread and cheese as well. And some dried meat.I’m afraid I have nothing else here that will do. Alice gave me a few shirts and another pair of trousers.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Luke didn’t say— Is Miss Bella safe?” she asked, concern settling over her brow.
“I-I don’t think she’s in danger. Just my—just Eliza.”
She nodded, a hint of relief loosening her shoulders. “Your violet, I’ll keep it safe for you.”
Benedict felt a bit of laughter bubble up in his chest, but he tamped it down. How he wished so desperately that the little flower was the greatest of his concerns in that moment.
“Thank you.”
“The horse is saddled. Luke has gone on ahead. He’ll bring Sable back home.”
Benedict nodded. He took the bag from her grasp and strode toward the door.
“Ben? Be careful?”
He turned back to her. A quiet nod was all he managed.
Outside, he found Sable tied to a fence post. Though their barn was meager, the Arabian cross was Blackwood’s fastest stallion. Benedict fastened the bag to his saddle before mounting the horse.
Effie watched him from the door, her lips pressed tightly together. He gave her one last nod before nudging the horse forward.
Benedict forced himself to use restraint. If he pushed Sable to a gallop too soon, the horse would exhaust long before he reached the coaching inn. They settled into a fast trot as Benedict fought every instinct to push the horse.
For miles, over downed tree limbs and mossy rocks, Benedict’s urgency consumed all else. The agony overtaking his back was a distant, unreachable secondary problem.
He could not hear the pounding of the horse’s feet against the ground over the blood rushing through his ears. The only thought in his head—by any means necessary.Over and over. The refrain refused to abate.
Without noticing, he’d pushed Sable into a canter. When he noticed, he forced himself to slow down.
He was grateful for the familiar terrain and navigated the horse over the rolling hills with an ease that came only from years of exploring the area. At last, they were less than a mile from the posting inn, and Benedict gave himself permission to push Sable.
Beneath them, the grass blurred into a great green carpet as they raced over the hill. Within minutes, Benedict was tugging on Sable’s reins at the inn.
He slid off and tossed the reins to the waiting Weston.
“I’ve sent a lad ahead to the next inn. They’ll be waiting for you,” Weston told him.
Benedict caught the man’s hand in his own and shook it in gratitude. Weston pulled him in to clap an arm around Benedict’s neck—careful to avoid his wounds. “Be safe, lad.”
“I… Thank you. Truly.”
A stable boy untethered his satchel and shoved it inside the waiting carriage. Benedict followed, and before he found his seat, the coach was off.
In moments he was back on the road, racing across the countryside.
Hold on Eliza. Just hold on.
