Tales of Timeless Romance

Chapter Five

S he had grown up in the forest. Her parents hadn’t been poor, but they had not been wealthy, either. Elizabeth was used to rugged landscapes, climbing over trees, foraging, and studying the arrangement of leaves around a plant.

She missed her father. Desperately. Dearly. It was only in the forest that he still existed. She would walk past the common Fraxinus excelsior and think of the times she would sit in her father’s lap while he read to her under the shade of their old ash tree.

He didn’t read her stories. As a little girl, she didn’t even quite understand that some of the books he read were his. They were his illustrations, his hand that drew the leaves and stems and roots. In a way, he would live forever in those drawings. He was gone, but his book would remain.

She found comfort in that because she knew it was something he wanted.

She left her copy of his book hidden in her room and never dared to take it out. The Dawsons didn’t care for reading, to the point that Mr. Dawson had a servant read him the headlines in the paper. Elizabeth couldn’t risk them finding her books and doing something awful to them.

After all, she wasn’t her own woman. She belonged to Timothy Dawson.

A shiver slithered up her back.

She hated feeling trapped. For the wealth of knowledge her father possessed, his facts never filled his bank account. She possessed nothing except for her old clothes and a few books.

She would very seriously consider the value of her own life before she let go of her father’s books. She wasn’t that desperate, yet.

But the thought of Mr. Dawson sliding his cold fingers on her skin or pressing his thin lips against hers made her question how desperate she truly was.

She would do it. She would sell the books before she had to marry him. But if there was any other way, any way at all to keep the things she loved close to her, she would figure that out.

It sounded simple enough to run away. She could apply to be a governess. Or work at a ladies academy. Or be a companion. If it ever really came down to it, there was work out there. But she wasn’t sure she could run from Timothy Dawson.

“You are mine.”

How far would he go to prove that? How much farther would she have to run to escape him?

And if she left, there might not be anything better out there. She might trade one Mr. Dawson for another just like him. She could end up working for someone like Mr. Thomspon.

She rested her fingers on the rough bark of a Quercus robur and listened to the forest. The scent of fresh night air mingled with the crisp scent of leaves. Most of the air was still and quiet, except for the soft sound of a body at work. Little sounds like clothing rustling or a body brushing against leaves met her ears and she knew he was there.

A thrill shimmied through her and she stepped forward into her clearing.

His eyes raked over her, taking in details she couldn’t fathom. His gaze wasn’t cold, but he hid his thoughts well. What did he think about when he looked at her like that?

His tense body relaxed and he slid his knife back into his boot.

It was dark but even that couldn’t hide that he was a huge shadow looming before her. His body looked as if it was more solid than a tree trunk and his large hands settled on things as if he owned everything he touched.

As if life was his for the taking.

Maybe that was the idea that intrigued her. She wanted to feel that way, as if she could take her happiness and her life back into her hands.

His face twisted with a snarl and he strode forward. Her breath caught and she stumbled back, immediately terrified at the pure rage barely contained in his controlled movements.

He snagged her around the waist with one arm and held the back of her head with the other, his eyes glaring at the side of her face. “What is that?”

His voice was angry but there was an undercurrent of something else there. She sensed an emotion behind him, in the way he held her, in the way his low voice shook, that eased some of her panic. “It was an accident.”

“Do you truly think I would believe that?”

He said, “You’ll tell me exactly what happened.”

“Mr. Thompson—”

“He hit you?”

His arm around her waist tightened and she searched his dark eyes for a sign of what he wanted from her. She had known that it would be dangerous to return but she had been scared not to.

And a little intrigued.

She repeated, “It was an accident.”

He dropped his arms and stalked away from her, running his hand through his hair. “Like hell it was.”

“He had the handcuffs,” when he turned to stare at her, his large body utterly still, she paused. He was listening. No, he wasn’t just listening, he was holding himself steady so he could listen. She went on, “And he was very angry when he arrived at the manor. In a fit, he threw the handcuffs and had been too angry to pay attention to where he was throwing them. I don’t think he meant to hurt me.”

“You don’t think …”

He snapped his mouth closed, his expression menacing but not in a way she feared. He was angry because she had been injured. It felt nice to have someone care that she had been injured.

She said, “I am fine.”

He pointed at her. “You are not fine. You…” His voice trailed off and he turned away from her, running his hand through his hair again. “Christ. I’m going to kill him. I should have done more to him when I had the chance.”

Why did he care? She didn’t mean anything to him.

The tiny warmth that had felt so nice a moment ago cooled and calmed. With it, so did her rationality of the situation. His anger didn’t matter to her. None of his emotions mattered unless they signaled something coming that she needed to defend herself from.

He rummaged around in his pack and pointed at the log she had sat on last night. “Sit.”

She sat, clenching her hands in her lap.

He walked over and sat on the log next to hers, opening a container of something. He smeared some goop onto two fingers and faced her. “This will help.” Holding up his fingers, he asked, “May I?”

He was asking?

She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her permission for anything. He waited, poised, fingers still smeared with goop.

She whispered, “What if I say no?”

He stared at her, no part of him moving except his mouth. “Then I will scoop the medicine on my hand back into the container because I do not want to waste it.”

He waited, not moving his hand at all.

She said, “Okay.”

With his free hand, he brushed stray strands of hair away from her face and held them back. Then, his touch so soft she could barely feel it, he spread the concoction on her cheek and up to her temple. It felt cool, as if on contact the cream could pull the aching pain out, soaking it away. She sighed at the relief and closed her eyes.

His hand pulled away from her head, a strand of hair falling and sticking to the goop on her cheek. She heard him stand and opened her eyes to watch him put away the medicine.

She didn’t think he could hear her quiet words of gratitude until he said, “You’re welcome.”

He sat next to her again and it felt like something had shifted. He wasn’t quite the monster of a man he wanted everyone to think he was. Why was he doing this, then? Why was he a highwayman?

Resolved, he said, “Now we can get back to business.”