“I think what’s worse is that I believe what he told me when I confronted him. I believe that he did truly care about me. That much of what we shared was real, despite his ulterior motives. That the connection we were forming could have been—” Flora broke off.
Bernadette took her hand. “If you have to mourn a future, it’s fine.”
“Hmmm.” Flora stared off into the distance. The woods beyond the main estate grounds were as tangled and cold as her heart at present. “Perhaps I’ll take a walk. I know it’s to rain the next few days, so this will be the last time I can stretch my legs and hopefully clear my mind.”
“A capital idea,” Bernadette agreed. “I’ll go with you.”
Flora turned toward her friend, saw the lingering pity in her stare. Hated it, even as she adored Bernadette for wishing to take care of her.
She gripped Bernadette’s hand and said, “No, dearest. While I appreciate the constant care you and the others have shown to me since we left London, I think the best thing I can do is go for a walk alone and have a stern talk to myself. And I promise when I come back I will laugh and play games and exchange knowing glances with you about Callum and Valaria.”
Bernadette smiled. “If you think it will help, I would never stop you. But do be careful.”
“I will,” Flora promised, and gave her hand a last squeeze before she walked across the large veranda to a short flight of stone steps that led down to the garden below.
She felt Bernadette watching her as she moved through perfectly trimmed, now leafless hedgerows and past covered beds of flowers, ready for their winter slumber. She had revealed too much to her friend…and to herself in their conversation. Now she had to sit with feelings she had been afraid to name.
She had cared for Roarke. And she’d known that feeling could develop into something much more powerful. Much more lasting. She’d known she could love him.
She stumbled a little with that thought. Love him. Let him love her. And she could picture it all in a rush of laughter and art and long conversations about current events. She could picture him pleasing her, touching her, taking her like she’d so desperately wanted him to do on the settee that day. She could picture a little life together. Not desperately exciting, but content and filled with passion.
Thatwas what she’d lost when she realized he’d come to her from a lie. And it hurt. It hurt so much that she wanted to run from it.
There was a low gate in the distance, and beyond it, the wooded peace of the untamed part of Callum’s estate. There was a trail through the brambles and she followed it, stepping over dead sticks and crunching through the fallen leaves. There was a smell of smoke to the air—perhaps someone was burning leaves in another part of the property—but it left a crisp bite that made her breathe a little deeper. Yes, this was what she needed. This type of peace alone here in the woods that helped her shove those painful thoughts aside and not continue to have them torment her.
Except just as that thought calmed her, she noticed there was a man ahead of her on the trail. He was very tall, very broad shouldered, and as she stopped in the middle of the path, she could see he had a hard, cruel expression on his face. He spat off the side of the trail and then smiled at her, though it was not a pleasant expression. Her heart began to pound.
“What are you doing out here, little mouse?” he asked.
She took a step back, and he moved forward the equal distance. “I was walking through the estate of myfriend, the Duke of Blackvale. This is his land, sir. I believe you might be trespassing. You’ll have to ask him when he and his party joins me in a few moments.”
She lied, of course. But she hoped she sounded truthful, so this man wouldn’t know she was all alone, without anyone from back in the house likely to hear her if she cried out. She hadn’t gone all that far off the main part of the grounds, but far enough that her voice might not carry and no one would notice her missing for a while.
“Now, now, lying ain’t very ladylike,” he drawled, and now he stepped toward her again. He had a big scar across his eye, like a knife had slashed him at some point. It only added to the terrifying presence of the man.
“I-I’m not lying,” she stammered.
“’Course you are. Iknowyou’re by yourself. This ain’t personal, you know.” He moved closer again and now he withdrew a long blade from a sheath at his hip. “Though I won’t say I won’t enjoy what happens first.”
She staggered back, ready to pivot and run, but she tripped over a rock on the trail, stumbling onto her backside. He darted forward and she braced, ready to feel his weight come down on her, his knife through her. But it didn’t. Before he could crash down over her and do whatever horrible things he had planned, the figure of a man flew from the woods and hit her attacker, flinging both men off the path and into the tangled woods.
Flora rolled to her knees and her breath caught. It was no stranger who had interrupted this attack. It was Roarke! And now he and the scarred man were struggling over the villain’s knife.
“No!” she screamed, and got to her feet. She should have run, of course, but she didn’t want to leave Roarke. Her attacker was bigger than him and now he looked enraged, like a bull in a paddock. She started to scream, “Help! Help!” over and over.
Her attacker looked up at her, clearly annoyed, and that seemed to give Roarke a chance. He tugged the knife free and stabbed it into the attacker’s shoulder. The man howled in pain and began to curse as he pulled the knife from his body, and then swung the handle across Roarke’s forehead. The wooden handle cut open a gash across Roarke’s eyebrow and he fell off the attacker with a grunt.
The man glanced toward the big house, looked at Flora and smiled. “See you soon, Your Grace!” Then he bounded off into the woods.
Flora hurled herself forward, off the path to where Roarke lay. He was awake, but his gaze was unsteady as he struggled to sit up. Blood poured down his face from where his forehead had split open, dripping from his chin.
“Roarke,” she whispered, reaching up to press her hand against the cut on his forehead. “Oh God.”
“You have to go,” Roarke murmured. “He might come back.”
“I’m not leaving you,” she said. She looked back over her shoulder at the house. A servant was running toward them, likely drawn by her screams. Perhaps the attacker had seen the man and that was part of why he’d run off. “Hurry!” she cried out.
The young man reached them and his eyes went wide. “Your Grace!”
