Page 18 of The Betrothal

Drawing a bitter jagged breath, I launched myself over the stile at the end of the furthest field, slipping on the bottom step and stumbling into the snow on the other side, deep enough now to cover my boots, where I found they were not waterproof.

A narrow strip of land before the next stile told me I’d found the main road, covered in a thick layer of snow, although there were no tyre tracks, I checked left and right.

Oh, no. Through the storming snowflakes, a pair of headlights appeared, rounding a corner and steadily approaching. There was no way they wouldn’t stop if they saw me, on my own, in a storm.

Willing my feet to pick up pace, the feeling in them ebbing away, I realised my face was now pricking with pain, fingertips lost to numbness, wetness absorbing into my clothing as the snow worked its way through the waterproof layers and around the edges of my clothes.

Reaching the far side of the road, I ran my tortured hands over the white-covered hedges.

Where is the stile?

Finally, I found it, lurching up and over, just as the car drew level with me. The vehicle’s window was already down, a face barely visible through the sleet, calling out to me.

“Miss?”

I slid down the far side, the steps hidden in a snowdrift.

“Miss!”

I looked behind me, stomach lurching as a man clambered onto the stile where I’d been.

“Miss! Come back!”

“I’m fine!” I yelled.

What am I doing!

“Miss!”

Turning, I ran, the figure was now into the field and I knew I could not afford to be caught up to. People would ask questions. Who was I? Why was I out? Where was my guardian?

They’d realise and send me back in a heartbeat.

I couldn’t trust anyone.

Pounding my feet into the sinking snow I surged onwards, the calls dying away into the distance. I had planned for poor weather, but it was almost a guarantee that whoever they were they were not dressed for, nor willing to undertake, a pursuit into an unknown field in a storm.

The ground suddenly gave way below me and I stumbled, panicking, lurching forwards, my feet slipping out from under me entirely. My knees dropped and ground down against sharp rocks, my hands following, I had sunk almost elbow-deep in a large stream.

This wasn’t on my map.

CHAPTER SIX

ISABELLE

Iwas damp before, now I was sodden.

The rocks sliced through my outerwear, the waterproof covers, and the thick joggers underneath, water pouring inside soaking what little dry areas were left of the hiking socks and saturating the boots.

If the sharp cut of pain was anything to go by, I was definitely bleeding.

Pushing off against the rough rocks, I checked my hands. Tearing in the palms of the gloves showed pale skin underneath which bloomed with red splotches, the water seeping from the fabric diluting the blood oozing from new cuts.

At least they’d been rinsed with fresh water. I grimaced, dragging myself across the wide brook and out of the water, I fisted the hiking maps from my pocket, only to draw out a soggy wad of paper, the brook having spilled into the open pocket of the coat.

“Oh, fuck.” The whisper was lost to the weather.

Woods, fields, one main road to cross, follow a small stream on the right, one more stretch of woodlands, then emerge towards the village and the bay would be below me.