Chapter 31 #2
We took the path the stable hand had shown us at a run.
The three of us moved fast beneath low branches, our boots slipping on the damp earth.
The river lay somewhere ahead, unseen but ever present, its dark pull dragging at my thoughts.
Every sound scraped at my nerves—the creak of wood, the lap of water, the distant thrum of the house behind us.
Then a woman’s scream cut through the night. Raw, ragged.
I broke into a sprint.
The boathouse loomed ahead, squat and shadowed, its door hanging askew. Light spilled from within, unsteady, thrown by a single lantern.
What I found there would remain with me the rest of my life.
Rosalynd stood near the far wall, her dress torn, her hair loose and tangled about her shoulders. Her breathing was uneven, but her stance was firm. In her hands, she held a boathook, its iron end dark with blood.
At her feet lay a man, writhing on the floor, his trousers tangled about his boots, one hand clawing uselessly at the fabric while the other clutched his leg from which a jagged bone was clearly visible.
Her gaze lifted to mine.
For a single, suspended moment, the world narrowed to that look—fury, defiance, relief, all bound together by iron resolve.
“Are you hurt?” I asked hoarsely.
“No,” she said. “He is.” Her gaze hardened. “He turned his back on me to light the lantern. I grabbed the hook and struck him.”
“She done me in, she has,” the man cried out.
“He thought I was helpless.”
That was the last thing she had been.
She lifted the boathook. But before she could strike her attacker again, I eased it from her grip. “He’s already down, love.”
“Bloody coward,” she said.
Yes. He most certainly was.
I drew her into my arms and held her until the tremor eased from her body. And mine. “How are you, really?”
“It was dreadful, Steele,” she said softly against my chest. “But he did not prevail.”
“No. He most certainly did not,” I said, unable to keep the rough edge of pride from my voice. I murmured low nonsense words into her ear—assurances, fragments of praise—meant only to calm, until her breathing began to slow beneath my hands.
She glanced off to the side. “Is that what it looks like?”
“What?” I followed her gaze.
The man at our feet lay exposed in more ways than one.
She made a face. “What a sorry sight that is.”
A dry voice spoke from behind us. “Not always,” said the woman Finch was restraining. “When they’re at the ready, it can be quite impressive.”
Rosalynd glanced up at me, her brows lifting in wonder. “Is it?”
I huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “Under very different circumstances.”
I retrieved her cape from where it lay crumpled near the door.
The fabric was torn and damp at the hem, the clasp bent, but it would serve.
I settled it around her shoulders, drawing it close and fastening it with care.
She stilled at the touch, then lifted her chin, accepting the protection without comment.
“There,” I murmured. “That will do.”
Her fingers closed briefly over mine. Then she straightened, composure settling back into place as though she were donning armor rather than wool. “Did you get the young women away?”
“Yes, including Lady Honora. Finch’s men are escorting them to the barge.”
“Then it was worth it.”
I stroked her loose curls. “Was it?”
“Of course.”
At some point, I would agree with her, but I couldn’t summon the will to do so at the moment. I gazed at Finch. “Let her go.”
He released the woman at once, though not before fixing her with a look that promised consequences should she break her bargain. She did not linger.
I turned back to Rosalynd. “You will go with Finch. He will make sure you arrive safely at the barge.” There was more I wanted to say—far more—but the river whispered behind us, and beyond it the house still pulsed with expectation.
“You’re not coming with us?” Rosalynd asked.
“No. I’m returning to the house. There is something I must see to.”
“You will be careful, Steele.”
I lifted her hand to my lips. “I will.”
Behind us, the man dragged himself an inch across the ground, his hands slick with blood. “You ain’t going to leave me here,” he gasped. “You ain’t going to let me bleed to death.”
Finch looked down at him, then back to me. “What do you want done with him?”
I did not raise my voice. “He’s not dying. Yet.”
The man let out a broken sound that might have been a laugh or a sob.
“He needs a surgeon,” Finch said quietly.
Revenge warred with my conscience. He deserved to bleed into the rotting boards, listening to his own breath fail, until even his prayers turned to silence.
I could leave him. I could walk away now that Rosalynd was safe and allow justice to take its course, untainted by law or mercy. No jury would ever hear of it. No court would ever convict me. The city would not mourn him.
My gaze dropped to the man’s hands—shaking now, slick with his own blood as he clawed at the earth in a futile attempt to live.
He had not shown Rosalynd mercy. Why should I show that to him?
For one savage instant, I wanted to do nothing at all. But then my honor asserted itself. I would not become the monster he was.
I drew a slow breath, forcing the fury back behind my ribs until I could speak without it. “He’ll last until one can be fetched,” I said at last. “Bind the leg as best you can.”
Rosalynd exhaled once. “I suppose you’ll want my petticoat again.”
I met her gaze. “Sorry, love. I would rather have you clothed and him dead,” I said honestly. “But I won’t have his death on your conscience. And we do need him alive so he can talk.”
“Yes, well, there is that.” She turned away so she could loose her petticoat ties.
Once she was done, Finch approached the man. Revulsion flashed across his face, raw and unmistakable, before discipline smoothed it away.
“Lie still,” he said.
The man sagged against the ground, the fight leaving him at last.
When Finch was done with the task, I watched him lead Rosalynd away, the red of her cape a dark blur against the night, until both vanished into shadow. Only then did I turn back toward the path.
Toward the lights.
Toward the men who would be denied the thing they had come to claim.