Chapter 1
Into the Woods.
Eleven years later…
Izzy tugged her cloak tighter around her, though the chill night air sliced through it, the nightgown she wore underneath doing little to keep out the cold.
The vicarage was a large, solid shape in the darkness behind her, offering safety, but she was not so hen hearted.
Another shout echoed through the black night, the sound of men crashing about in Winsham Woods making her heart thud behind her ribs.
Boreas was out there somewhere, fighting for survival as Captain Underwood and his Revenue men hunted him down like a dog. The charismatic and handsome smuggler who had occupied far too many of her thoughts, and starred in dreams that made her blush to recall them, might already be dead.
Izzy shook off the thought. He wasn’t dead. If he was, the shouting and shooting would be over.
For a moment she dithered by the back gate that led out through the woods and joined the road to Hatherley Hall.
The pistol Black Jack had given her all those years ago was a cold weight in her hand, brought for security, though she hoped there would be no reason to use it.
She certainly could not shoot at Captain Underwood, nor any of the other revenue men, all of whom might have family in these parts.
If she was caught with it, there would be far too many difficult questions to answer but it was a chance she had to take.
She must get Boreas to safety until Underwood and his men tired of searching for him.
Pushing open the gate, she hurried into the woods, moving with a good deal less noise than the men.
Another shot exploded through the night.
Izzy smothered a scream, reaching out to brace her hand against the rough bark of a tree.
That had come from close by the Hall. Briefly, she wondered if she was out of her mind for taking such a risk.
Her father sympathised with the smugglers and would abhor the idea of any man being shot, even a criminal, but he would hardly approve of her actions.
Yet she could not leave Boreas to his fate, not if she could help him.
She ran, grateful for all those childhood adventures that had seen her racing pell-mell through these woods, both in daytime and, in some of her and Angel’s more daring exploits, at night.
Her thoughts seemed to move as fast as her feet, the knowledge that her father would shake her until her teeth rattled if he had the slightest idea what she was up to foremost among them.
But he had slipped from the house too, no doubt intent on doing what he could to keep Boreas safe, or to give comfort to a dying man.
No. Not that. Another shot rang out, close at hand and she ran on, desperate now, heedless of twigs and brambles that caught at her arms, at her cloak and the hem of her nightgown.
The frigid night air prickled against her sweat-dampened skin. She was cold and yet too hot, her nightgown clinging unpleasantly to her body as she moved. She was level with the Hall now, and the sounds of men on the far side of the road became louder.
A noise ahead of her made her stop in her tracks, listening over the ceaseless thunder of blood rushing in her ears. Her chest heaved as she fought for breath, but there it was again. She moved, stealthy now, her every instinct on alert.
A muttered oath reached her, and she froze again.
“Boreas?”
The whispered name seemed to hang suspended for a long moment, like candle smoke drifting on the air.
Suddenly the night was utterly still, and Izzy felt the darkness pressing down upon her.
She was aware of movement in the bare second before a large hand covered her mouth, muffling the scream she might have released if he’d been a fraction slower.
The cold press of metal at the base of her neck made gooseflesh prickle over her skin.
Izzy’s heart ran rabbit fast, her entire frame rigid with terror. Was this Boreas, or one of Underwood’s men? Were there others out here for nefarious reasons of their own?
“Make the slightest sound, and you’ll never make another.” The low voice was silky and menacing, and Izzy swallowed but gave a jerky nod of her head. “Who the hell are you?”
He took his hand away, and Izzy let out a ragged breath, sure she recognised his voice now. “M-Miss Honeywell. I’ve come to help you.”
She glanced over her shoulder as he muttered something obscene. Turning fully, she faced him, increasingly aware that he was furious with her.
“You damned little fool. Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you want to die?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” she retorted, nettled. “I told you it was a stupid idea and that you’d get yourself killed. Now, if you’d like a safe place to hide, shut up and follow me.”
Izzy glared at him, or tried to, it was difficult to see anything but the pale glint of his hair in the darkness, but his only retort was a muffled snort.
Still, he gestured for her to move, and she led him back the way she’d come.
He followed close behind her, stealthy and cat footed as she might expect of a man who lived as he did.
Yet every snap of a twig made her heart leap in her chest, every rustle as the breeze stirred the leaves made her nerves leap as she expected a Revenue man to leap out at them, or a shot to come singing through the darkness.
They were halfway back to the vicarage when she realised he was slowing, his footsteps dragging.
She turned back, a spike of alarm darting through her as she saw him pause, leaning heavily against a tree.
“Oh, you’re hurt!” she exclaimed, going to him. “What is it?”
His eyes glinted in the darkness, and she smelled the faint coppery scent of fresh blood. Terror thrilled down her spine.
“Don’t fret, Miss Honey. I’m not dead yet. Keep going.”
There was amusement in his voice, but she could hear the rasp of pain there too.
Yet Izzy nodded, for she could offer no help here, no matter the injury he’d suffered, but she moved slower, darting glances over her shoulder to ensure he was still standing.
She could see little in the murky light, but she noted how he clutched at his right side.
Shot, she thought numbly, mentally preparing everything she would need to treat him.
First, she had to get him inside, though, up to the attic with no one noticing.
He made it through the garden gate and took several steps, and then paused, swaying.
Izzy ran to him, shoring up his good side, her arm sliding around his waist, discovering that he seemed much larger up close than she had imagined.
Hard muscle shifted beneath her hand as she lent him her support, and he grunted, slinging his arm over her shoulder.
Izzy noted the pistol, still gripped tightly in his hand.
The smell of gunpowder clung to him, a male, musky note of sweat underlying all else.
If not for the cloying scent of blood, she might have thought it an intoxicating aroma.
He stumbled and Izzy almost fell with him, the weight of him threatening to take them both down. She braced herself, knowing she’d never get him up if he passed out here. She’d have to wake the household and that would never do.
“Nearly there,” she promised him, though she knew he must climb two sets of stairs yet.
He nodded, and she got him to the kitchen door. They practically fell through it, and Izzy guided him to a chair by the table. He must rest before she took him any farther. Still, at least he was indoors and out of sight.
She made out his large form slumped against the table. He raised his head, looking back at her.
“You’re armed,” he observed with a huff of laughter. “Remind me not to underestimate you, Miss Honey.”
Izzy said nothing, too stunned by the reality of Boreas sitting at her kitchen table to speak.
“Is there anything to drink? Brandy?”
For a moment, she just stood awkwardly, shivering beneath her cloak.
The cold and the terror of the past hours had seeped into her bones, and Izzy thought she might never be warm again.
“Mrs Adie’s cooking sherry. I don’t dare go into the cellar, the door squeaks horribly.
There’s a good stock in my father’s study, but I need to get you to the attic first. I’ll bring it to you once you are safe out of sight. ”
She set her pistol down and moved towards him, going to her knees. “You must take these boots off. The children are light sleepers and if they wake, Mrs Mabbs will go to them.”
He said nothing but made no protest as she hauled his boots off. Getting to her feet, she stowed them out of sight with her gun, behind sacks of flour and rice in the pantry. Once he was settled, she’d come back and remove them.
“You took a monumental risk, coming after me like that.”
Izzy closed the pantry door and turned to face him.
She wrapped her arms about herself, wondering what he thought of her, if he really thought her a silly fool for taking such a chance.
His voice revealed nothing, the words could equally be those of censure or appreciation.
Though she had not done it to impress him, she realised she’d hoped he’d appreciate her bravery, that he might admire her for it.
But perhaps he looked at her and saw only a bookish vicar’s daughter?
Well, once he was safe, and she had tended his wounds, he could scold her all he liked.
“The attic is the only place I can be certain you’ll be secure and out of sight. Do you think you can make it?”
In answer, he pushed to his feet. Izzy nodded, going to him and sliding her arm about his waist again.
Heat blazed beneath his clothes, and she wondered if that was normal.
Surely infection could not set into a wound so quickly?
But what if it did? What if the wound putrefied, what if it killed him?
Don’t think of it.
All that mattered now was getting him to the attic.
By the time they reached the small door on the upstairs landing, Izzy was beside herself. The old house creaked and shifted, and every noise seemed to augur a member of the household stirring.
Opening the door with care, Izzy gestured with the candle she held. The staircase to the attic was narrow, only wide enough for one person, so she could not help him up.
“I’ll go first,” she whispered, stepping inside so she could light the way.
Boreas followed her, silently closing the door.
Izzy nodded her approval and climbed the stairs, aware of his presence close behind her.
She used the candle to light the lamp she had left, and a warm glow suffused the cramped space.
Izzy turned back to watch his progress. He was breathing hard now, and she could only imagine the amount of pain he was in.
He stumbled on the top step, and she reached for him, his weight still a shock as he fought to keep his balance.
For a moment she was enveloped in the embrace of a hard, male body, the size and proximity of him overwhelming her senses.
Awareness struck her like lightning, the sheer physicality of this man who lived by his wits.
There was nothing soft about him, no give whatsoever beneath her hands, and she looked up, meeting his eyes.
The icy blue was a shock, the contrast too great against the heat of his body, and Izzy shivered.
Despite herself, her eyes drifted to his mouth, a lush, full lower lip and shapely upper that would not have looked amiss on a woman and yet it was entirely masculine, promising a good deal of wickedness should one be mad enough to taste it.
His low voice rumbled with laughter as one corner quirked up.
“Oh, Miss Honey, what have you done?”