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A pain shot up her side. She pressed her hand against it and kept walking around the front of the inn and into the courtyard. A door slammed, and she looked up to see her father approaching from the stable.

“You’re back already?” he said. “Mr. Parkin must not ’ave been so long-winded as usual.”

Clenching her fists, she faced him. “How could you do such a thing?”

A look of understanding filled his dark eyes. “Ah, so you got to the church in time to ’ear the banns, did you?”

Realization that he’d intentionally slowed her so she would miss the announcement hit her like a bludgeon. He knew how she would feel about the marriage, and yet, he’d approved it.

“You—you gave me away to Mr. Cummings without so much as consulting me on the matter!”

An ugly smile that spoke of callousness and avarice cracked his face. “Oh, I wouldn’t say I gave you away, poppet,” he said. “Not at all. It was a business arrangement that benefited us both.”

“You sold me!” she cried.

Cyrus shrugged. “In a manner of speakin’, I suppose I did.”

“Then you’d better not spend a penny of it,” she said. “Because I will never marry that odious man.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “That’s enough of yer cheek. I’ve put me mark on the paperwork. You’ll be married by month’s end, like it or not.”

“No,” she said, standing tall and facing him eye to eye. “I will not.”

His arm swung back, and before she could react, he hit her square across the face. Reeling backward, she tasted blood.

“This matter is not up fer discussion,” he growled.

“I will not marry him,” she said again.

A second blow sent her staggering into the wall of the stable. Her knees crumpled, and her father stood over her, breathing hard, with fury in his eyes. “The next time you set foot inside that church—or anywhere else outside of this inn, fer that matter—will be on yer weddin’ day. Until then, you’ve got work t’ do inside.” Then he turned on his heel and marched across the courtyard and through the inn’s back door.

Chapter 11

Elizabeth’s tears were making the cut on her lip sting. She dabbed at the moisture gently with the corner of her shawl. Already, the swelling on the right side of her face was making her skin feel tight. Her eye was swollen half shut, and she could only imagine the colors that would be on display within a few hours. The ringing in her ears had made it hard to climb the stairs to her bedchamber. It was strange that the sound would affect her balance so badly. She’d needed to hold fast to the banister to make it to the landing without a fall and would undoubtedly need to do the same on her descent.

She glanced at the small pile of items on the bed beside her. Her old brown skirt, white blouse, and apron lay beside her Bible and bird book. There was a hairbrush, her tiny sewing kit, and a purse containing a handful of hairpins and three small coins. She pulled the blue ribbon out of her hair and added it to the purse. It would be safer there. Her belongings were pitifully few, but it would make the bundle easier to carry—especially with the damage she’d done to her shoulder when she’d hit the stable wall.

Moving slowly to minimize the hurt and dizziness, she rose to her feet and walked to the corner of the room. She lowered the pitcher and bowl to the floor and pushed against the upturned barrel. The pain in her shoulder took her breath away. Stifling a cry, she dropped to a sitting position, then put her feet against the barrel and pushed again, this time using her legs to inch the barrel away from the wall. When the gap was large enough, she moved onto her hands and knees and squeezed behind it. Lifting the floorboard, she slipped her hand into the hole and pulled out the linen purse.

She could feel the pendant through the fabric, its weight solid against the palm of her hand. She hesitated. From outside, she heard the creak of the stable doors and the echo of hooves on the cobblestones. She rose to her feet and reached the window just in time to see her father riding away—and in that instant, her decision was made. Her wait was over.

Placing the linen purse on the bed, she took the corners of the threadbare blanket and brought them together, tying them in a knot around her meager belongings. Then, gingerly setting her bonnet on her head, she tied the ribbons beneath her chin without touching her tender cheek. She placed her shawl across her shoulders, then picked up the bundle. She did not know where her father was going or how long he would be gone, but she did know that when he returned, she would no longer be here.

At the doorway to her bedchamber, she turned back. The bed looked all the more forlorn without the blanket. In the corner, the floorboard and barrel remained out of place, and the pitcher and bowl sat on the floor beside her empty chest. There was nothing here for her anymore. She would take her memories with her—of her mother and Reynard and the barn owl that hooted outside her window each night—and she would start again. Without her father or Mr. Cummings.

Although still not completely steady on her feet, she made it down the stairs without incident. At the end of the passageway, she opened the back door and stopped. The stable door was closed and the courtyard empty. She followed the inn’s outer wall until she reached the corner, then she paused to lean against it and listen. Bees buzzed amidst the red campion flowers, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance, but the inn and the road beyond were quiet. Grasping her bundle tightly, she moved away from the wall and toward the road. Then turning the opposite direction from the one her father had taken, she started walking.

The stile was virtually buried by the overgrown hedgerow, but Elizabeth pushed aside the clawing branches and climbed across. Once in the field, she stood in the shade of the tangled foliage and looked west. The sun was lowering. There would be a few hours of light and warmth yet, but that was small comfort if she did not find shelter before night set in.

She’d never been to Langton Manor before, but she knew its general direction, and she would need to reach it without taking the road. As soon as her father discovered she was gone, he would come after her. She could only pray that she reached the large house before he found her. If no one there knew Reynard or, worse still, if the smuggler had not survived his wounds, she did not know what she would do. For now, she could only put one unsteady foot in front of the other and hope she found her way.

She started across the field, anxious to put as much distance as she could between herself and the inn. The ground was uneven, pocked with molehills and tufts of bracken. Without the use of her right eye, her perspective suffered, and she stumbled often. Tree roots lay in wait to trip her. Once, she fell, landing on her hands and knees. The hard landing sent a jarring pain all the way up to her injured shoulder, and her face throbbed mercilessly. She tried singing softly to keep up her spirits, but even that slight jaw movement hurt.

She followed the river for about a quarter of a mile, looking for a means to cross, but as twilight turned to dusk, with no sign of a bridge or stepping-stones, she began searching for the area of shallowest water. Near a small grove of trees, the river bent and the current slowed slightly. Slipping off her shoes, Elizabeth tucked them inside the blanket. Then holding the bundle by its knot, she hurled it one-handed across the river. It hit the ground with a thud not more than two feet from the water’s edge.

Lifting her skirts as high as she could, Elizabeth stepped off the bank. The frigid water momentarily immobilized her. She took a shuddering breath as the icy sting turned to numbness. Then she forced herself forward, willing her legs to push back against the heavy water. She was only a couple feet from the opposite bank when her foot slipped. Lunging forward, she grabbed the branch of a scrubby bush and held tight. The shrub saved her from total submersion, but in her effort to reach for the lifeline, she let her skirts drop.

Using the bush as leverage, she scrambled onto the bank. Her shoulder screamed in protest, her wet gown flopping heavily against her shaking legs. When she was finally on her feet again, she reclaimed her bundle and put on her shoes. Squeezing the worst of the water out of her skirts, she turned her back on the river and scanned the horizon for any sign of the manor house. To the north, she thought she saw a thin plume of smoke join the darkening skies above a line of trees. Shaking with cold, she started toward it, hoping that no matter the dwelling, it was somewhere she could stop. For she knew she could not continue in this condition much longer.