Page 34

God help Shelby and Roxina if Desmond’s men spotted them.

Holding Roxina’s hand and hunched over so the shadows partially hid them, Shelby tugged her toward her cottage. The cool night air carried the scent of wet soil and crushed grass, mingling with the distant, acrid smoke from hearth fires burning in the village.

“Do not go through the front gate,” Roxina whispered, pulling him farther along the lane. “There is an entrance through the back garden. We are less likely to be seen.”

A frog croaked somewhere in the underbrush, the sound sharp and oddly foreboding in the thick hush of night.

As if sensing the urgency of the situation, Dash skulked low to the ground, ears pricked and fur raised, his movements nearly soundless as he shadowed them. The dog’s every muscle tensed, poised for action, as if he, too, understood the peril that stalked them.

“We do not dare light a lamp once inside, Roxina. Will you be able to find what you need in the dark?”

Her fingers trembled in his grasp, but her voice remained steady. “Yes. I only mean to grab a dark gray gown, which would serve much better for flight than my current one, some food, and money I have hidden in a book.”

Overhead, a horse chestnut branch rustled, something unseen shifting its foliage.

Shelby stiffened, heart hammering.

He half expected to see the gleam of steel or the flicker of a shadow where none should be. But then came a low coo, followed by the flutter of wings—just a wood pigeon, disturbed from its perch.

He exhaled slowly.

The waning moon and the partial cloud cover helped hide their scurried progress.

Villagers ran around the lane, calling and talking in loud voices.

“There is a fire at the mill!” a man bellowed, waving his arms wildly.

“Nonsense!” another shouted. “It is smugglers, I tell you! My cousin’s wife’s brother saw them sneaking through the trees not an hour past!”

“A fire? Smugglers?” came the creaky, warbly voice of an old woman. “I heard it was Mrs. Pritchard’s pig again! Knocked over a lantern, set the whole place alight, then ran off squealing!”

Through it all, Mrs. Beale’s shrill voice sliced through the night like a freshly sharpened blade.

“Thieves! There are thieves among us!” she screeched, her cries carrying over the din. “Up to no good, skulking about in the dark, I tell you! Someone, fetch the constable!”

Further down the road, two older men argued heatedly about whether the commotion had been caused by a brawl over a bad hand of cards or the apocalyptic return of Farmer Bevan’s notoriously ill-tempered goose.

Dogs yapped in a canine chorus, their frantic barking only adding to the bedlam.

Mrs. Beale continued her howling, growing ever more dramatic with each passing moment.

“She is quite an accomplished actress.” Shelby chuckled despite himself—a soft rumble caught in his throat.

Roxina giggled, the sound a soft, unexpected, melodious delight amid danger. “I thought her a mean-tempered gossip when I first met her because she constantly peered out her windows. I now know she fancies herself an amateur sleuth. This is probably the highlight of her life.”

Shelby bit back a grin. “We ought to give her a medal for services rendered. If nothing else, she ensures no one pays attention to us.”

Roxina’s fingers tightened around his, her warmth a stark contrast to the night’s chill. The press of her palm sent an unexpected shiver through him, something deeper than the cold, something unsettling and entirely too pleasant.

Did she feel it too?

This undeniable connection?

The garden loomed ahead, wild and overgrown in the darkness, the scent of ivy and crushed violets thick in the air. The faint, honeyed fragrance of unseen flowers drifted through the night, stirred by the shifting breeze. A trellis stood in shadow, its climbing hawthorn trembling, the blossoms nearly undetectable, but their scent whispering through the air like a ghostly presence.

Shelby barely avoided stepping in a puddle, his boot squishing into mud instead. A disgruntled croak erupted from nearby—another frog, evidently irritated with their intrusion.

Dash snuffled around, probably on the trail of a rabbit.