Chapter Thirty-Six
Thomas followed Eliza across the slick courtyard stones without protest, though every muscle in his body ached from the storm and the long ride.
Mud clung to his boots, marking each step behind him, but she did not slow or glance back.
Her pace was swift, purposeful, her shawl damp and drawn tight around her shoulders.
He had never seen her like this.
“Eliza,” he tried again, low and controlled, “what has happened?”
She shook her head without slowing. “Not here. Please.”
She led him toward the chapel terrace. Not toward the manor. Not toward his cottage. That alone sharpened every instinct he had.
Rain fell in a fine, steady sheet. The moon remained hidden behind heavy clouds. The world narrowed to the slight figure ahead of him and the thundering question in his chest.
At the edge of the terrace she stopped abruptly, one hand closing around the stone railing to steady herself. Her breath came unevenly. She had not slept. He knew it at once, and the knowledge settled hard.
“You’re freezing,” he said, stepping closer.
“Thomas.” She cut him off, urgency threading her voice. “There is no time. You must listen.”
He straightened. “I am.”
“There’s a child,” she whispered. “A boy.”
The ground titled beneath him. “What boy?”
“Samuel Briggs.”
He went very still. “From Thornhaven?”
She nodded.
Cold spread through him, sharper than rain. “He was there when I left. Near the stables. I saw him just—Eliza, how could he be here?”
“I found him in your cottage.”
The words struck like a blow. Thomas shook his head once, sharply. “No.”
But her expression did not waver.
“He was hurt,” she said quietly. “Frightened. Alone. He told me someone put him there.”
“Who?” His hands fisted.
“The man with the brass buttons.”
Ashwood.
Anger surged, cutting through exhaustion with brutal clarity.
Eliza continued, not allowing him time to speak. “He told Sammy to stay in your cottage. And if anyone asked, he was to say you brought him.”
The shape of it snapped into place.
A trap. Carefully laid. Meant to destroy him.
Thomas steadied himself against the cold stone railing. “Where is the boy now?”
“I hid him,” Eliza said softly.
He focused on her. “Where?”
“Somewhere Ashwood won’t go.”
She nodded toward the chapel steps.
“The crypt,” he said. Realization settled through Thomas like ice.
She nodded. “He’s safe. For now.”
Thomas scrubbed his hand over his face, the exhaustion of the night replaced by adrenaline. “Eliza, you moved him alone? In the dark? In this storm?”
“I had no choice,” she whispered. “If Ashwood had returned and found him there—Thomas, he meant to accuse you. To have you taken. Or worse.”
A long, taut silence stretched between them, filled with wind, rain, and breath.
“Was there not one available to help you?” he asked, his voice low.
She held his gaze steadily. “Would you have trusted anyone else?”
The answer came without thought.
“No.”
Her chest rose on a soft breath, her eyes shining with something deeper than fear. Something that stirred at the center of him like a dangerous, fragile truth. The realization settled deep in his chest, heavy enough that for a moment even the storm outside seemed distant beside it.
He did not dare reach for it.
“Show me,” he said quietly.
She turned and led him down the chapel steps, the stone slick beneath their feet. At the bottom, she paused. Thomas eased the crypt door open a fraction.
The candlelight inside flickered weakly.
“Lady Thornhaven?” Sammy’s small voice called.
“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Mr. Grey is here.”
Thomas stepped inside. Sammy’s head lifted at once. Relief flooded the boy’s face, pure and immediate.
Thomas crossed the space in three strides, kneeling beside him.
“Mr. Grey!” the boy cried, his voice cracking as he struggled to sit up. “You came back!”
“Of course I came back,” Thomas said, kneeling beside him. “Are you hurt?”
“My arm hurts a little. And my head.”
“Let me see.” Thomas examined the bruises with practiced care. “You’ll mend. But you were handled roughly.”
Sammy nodded, tears pooling again. “I tried to take Da’s message. I didn’t drop it. I swear I didn’t.”
Eliza’s heart lurched.
Thomas froze for one heartbeat.
Then, carefully, deliberately, he asked, “What message, Sammy?”
But Sammy’s lashes drooped, exhaustion overtaking him once more. His chin dipped to his chest.
“The one in my pocket…” he murmured, already drifting back into sleep.
Eliza’s breath caught. She looked at Thomas, but he held up a hand.
“Not now,” he said quietly. “Let him rest.”
He eased the blanket more securely around the boy, his movements gentle, protective. Then he sat back on his heels and let out a slow breath.
“Eliza,” he said, not looking at her yet, “you’ve done something remarkable tonight.”
Her throat tightened. “I didn’t think. I only acted.”
“That,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers, “is what saved him.”
They held each other’s gaze in the dim candlelight. Hers full of resolve, and his full of gratitude and something deeper he dared not voice.
“We need to move him before dawn,” Thomas said. “Somewhere Ashwood won’t think to search.”
Eliza nodded. “Where?”
Thomas stood, offering her his hand.
“First,” he said, his voice low and steady, “we go where no one will interrupt us. And then we decide—together.”
Eliza took his hand.
The moment their fingers touched, the house above them shifted, just a soft creak in the beams, but enough to tell her it approved.