Eleanor met his gaze. “Please do not leave me uninformed again.”
“I will not,” he said quietly.
Eleanor turned away before he could see the fracture in her composure.
They would get ready.
They would play their parts.
They would ignore the turmoil inside them because there were more urgent things than hearts.
For now.
But Eleanor knew the cost was coming.
CHAPTER 32
Eleanor had never enjoyed riding at speed.
There was too much wind, too much uncertainty, too much reliance on the temperament of an animal that could not be reasoned with. She preferred carriages and steady roads and the illusion of control.
Today, she rode like she had been born to it.
Her mare’s breath came in sharp bursts as they kept to the narrow lane, hooves striking wet ground with a rhythm that felt like urgency made physical. Eleanor’s cloak whipped behind her, the hood drawn up to hide her hair and the shape of her face. From a distance, she could pass for a man. Or at least for someone not worth studying closely.
James rode ahead, angled slightly left, his posture rigid with focus. Another rider kept pace on the opposite side.
If one glanced quickly, one might assume that rider was Roderick.
It was not.
It was Eleanor.
She had insisted. She had argued. She had held her ground until James had finally consented, jaw tight, eyes fierce with reluctance.
“You listen to me,” he had told her the night they planned it. “You do not improvise.”
“I will not be reckless,” Eleanor had promised.
James had stared at her as if trying to decide whether she was brave or mad. Perhaps both.
Now, as the carriage appeared ahead through a break in the hedgerows, Eleanor understood why he had not wanted her here.
Because everything in her wanted to surge forward and end it herself.
“There,” James called, voice cutting through the wind.
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. The carriage was dark, travel-worn, its wheels throwing mud as it pushed down the lane. Two outriders flanked it, both armed. It moved with the urgency of someone not taking a scenic route.
Lady Whitcombe was running.
Behind them, the sound of pounding hooves grew louder. Eleanor glanced back once and saw the constables, a small group, riding hard, cloaks snapping. Their presence steadied something in her. This was not simply vengeance. This was law.
James angled his horse, closing the gap.
“Stop them,” he commanded, not turning his head.
Eleanor’s stomach tightened. His voice had the same tone it carried in his study, sharp and absolute. It did not infuriate her today. It reassured her.
