Chapter 8
Cleopatra didn’t like Simon.
As one of their oldest mares, she preferred a lighter mount instead of his massive form flanking her. But needs must. He had
to find Charlotte before she carried out whatever scheme had taken root in her overactive imagination. His greatest fear?
She might truly intend to run off with the gypsies—or worse, the circus. He could still hear her explaining, with unnerving
conviction, how her “expert riding skills” would land her a spot in Astley’s circus as a circle rider. God help me.
After handing Fia off to Mrs. Patterson, he had rushed to the stables, only to be intercepted by Will, who pleaded to join
the search. Simon couldn’t say no. After all, he wanted to continue to nurture what threadbare relationship he had with the
boy. With two horses to ready, a few questions to pose to the stable hand, and some sleuthing around the barn, they were finally
ready to ride.
“I don’t think Lottie really means to run away to the circus,” Will offered as Simon gave him a leg up into the saddle.
Simon tightened the boy’s girth with a wry smile. “If that’s meant to be reassuring, Will, it isn’t working.”
Besides, Simon was fairly certain Lottie did all of this to enact some sort of punishment upon him for the tragedies of the
past two years. No wonder parents felt so exasperated all of the time.
As he turned to mount Cleopatra, he caught the mare’s baleful glare—or so it seemed. If Simon didn’t know better, he might think she was siding with Lottie in this whole fiasco.
Will’s voice piped up again. “Do you think she does it because she wants to be noticed?”
Simon paused with his hands on the saddle and one foot on the mounting block. He was learning that instead of directives to
these children, sometimes they just needed to feel a part, even in ridiculous circumstances with runaway sisters. “What do
you think?”
Will frowned, clearly reluctant to elaborate, but after a moment he ventured, “I think Lottie would rather be noticed for
misbehaving than not noticed at all.”
The words hollowed Simon. Such honesty, directed with such precision into his already tumbling attempts, did not bode well
for any budding confidence. He winced and swung into the saddle, turning to face Will. “Do you really think that?”
Will shrugged, looking away. The boy spoke little but watched everyone—saw things and reactions Simon may have been too busy
to notice.
“So many people were . . . gone all of a sudden,” Will murmured.
Simon pinched his eyes shut for a moment, the declaration a boulder on his chest. First their father, then their mother. Teddy
joining the army, Arianna running off on a secret elopement. People were gone suddenly, sending their already disjointed family into deeper chaos and . . . loneliness? Perhaps Charlotte needed someone
to notice her pain just as Will did, craving reassurance that they were still part of a family, still seen and loved.
How was he supposed to focus on finding a bride? He glanced skyward, a mix of frustration and prayers on his lips. Couldn’t
the right bride simply appear, fully equipped to help him heal this broken household?
Then, just as they’d turned toward the back pasture, a scream shattered through the afternoon air.
A horse’s pained cry followed. Simon exchanged a look with Will, who was as pale as milk, and immediately spurred Cleopatra into a gallop toward the sound.
Was Charlotte in danger? Was she hurt—or worse?
His stomach clenched as he tore through the trees, breaking into open countryside.
On the opposing hillside, just beyond the pond, a horse and a rider raced toward him . . . and the horse was at a perilous
pace.
But it wasn’t Lottie, nor Zeus.
The rider’s green habit flared dramatically as her mount bolted directly toward the pond. Simon squinted, his mind scrambling
to make sense of the spectacle before him. And then he saw it—an unmistakable, flailing appendage clutched against the back
of the horse.
Was that a . . . chicken?
His mind drew completely blank. He looked to Will as if the boy might have an answer, but his brother merely stared with a
similar expression as Simon must have worn.
He looked again. Yes, a white chicken clung indignantly to the back of the horse, flapping wildly as the rider—good heavens,
was that Emmeline Lockhart?—batted at the bird. Her riding hat dislodged, sending a cascade of golden hair into the wind,
stripping all doubt of her identity.
Air jolted from his body. Of course it was Emme. Because who else would be tearing across his land in such an absurd predicament
directly toward him when she was the last person he needed to see?
There was no time to ponder why Emme was riding through his back field with a chicken attached to her horse, because her horse
suddenly rushed into the shallow of the pond and skidded to a stop.
A stop that Emme hadn’t expected.
Simon watched in horror as she flew forward, a flurry of green skirts and golden hair, landing face-first in the pond’s deeper
waters.
He stifled a curse. What was happening to his life?
Nudging Cleopatra into a faster pace, he came to the pond at the same time as Lottie.
“I . . . I didn’t mean to kill her.” Lottie shook her head, breathless and wide-eyed. “I just—I just wanted to scare her.
She was following me from the Deans’ farm!”
The Deans’ farm? That was three miles away. What on earth had Charlotte been doing there?
But Simon had no time for questions. Emme hadn’t surfaced.
Casting off his jacket and boots, he dove into the murky water. It was nearly impossible to see, and his outstretched hands
found nothing but mud and reeds. Panic surged. Where was she?
Breaking the surface for air, he realized the pond wasn’t as deep as he’d feared. His foot scraped the bottom—and then he
heard it. The most unexpected sound.
Laughter. A familiar, effervescent laugh that reached him even through the mist of fear clouding his thoughts. What in blazes!
Simon blinked water from his eyes. There, waist-deep in the pond, was Emmeline Lockhart, soaked, bedraggled, and laughing
with such unrestrained delight that he almost forgot his irritation.
Almost.
“A very clever escape, Miss . . . Runaway,” she was saying to Lottie. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen something quite so determined
in all my life.”
Simon scrubbed his hand through his dripping hair, his chest tightening. Emme stood with her back to him, her focus still
on Lottie, and at her praise, his sister had the audacity to almost smile. Smile! After the disaster she’d caused!
As if sensing another’s presence, Emme turned, her radiant grin faltering the moment her gaze met his. “What are you doing here?”
Simon waved a hand vaguely toward the pond, still catching his breath. “You . . . you could have—”
Her brows arched in challenge, her eyes narrowing. “Died?”
The absurdity of his own words hung in the air for a moment as she stood before him, very much alive—and looking far too pleased with herself.
“And you decided to become a hero,” she added with a teasing lilt. “By diving in to save me . . . in five-foot water?”
He narrowed his eyes at her, pushing through the water to reach her side. With a low growl, he cupped her elbow to steer her
toward the shore.
“Oh, don’t be cross. It was my life that flashed before your eyes after all.” She tugged her arm from his hold, shooting him a glare. “It couldn’t have
been that much of a hardship for you.”
All heat fled him.
She couldn’t believe that about him. That her life held so little value in his eyes?
He leaned nearer, holding her gaze. “That is not true.”
Her frown faltered as her gaze held his. Then she took another step—only to stumble, the weight of her soaked skirts pulling
her off balance. He caught her with practiced ease, a self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips as he righted her—an expression
she conveniently chose to ignore.
“I’ve never been properly rescued before, so I think you should feel quite excellent about your . . . failed attempt.”
He didn’t trust his voice to remain steady, so he drew in a deep breath and said nothing, refusing to let her cheekiness rattle
him. He wouldn’t rise to it—not yet. Not until both of them were standing on solid ground. And how dare she presume he didn’t
care? The truth was far worse: He cared too much. That was the problem.
She still haunted his thoughts—long past the time she should have faded. And as the fool he was, he didn’t want her to fade.
It was the only time he could see her smile, the only time she looked at him the way she once had. When he truly felt like
a hero instead of . . . whatever he had become since then.
Once they reached the shore, Simon released Emme’s arm and planted his hands firmly on his hips. “What, may I ask, are you doing here?”
She pushed a tangle of damp curls from her face, lifting her chin in defiance. “If you must know, I was chasing a thief.”
With a pointed gesture toward Lottie, who seemed intent on becoming invisible, she added, “That thief, to be precise.”
“A . . . thief?” Simon’s tone held a dangerous edge as he turned his attention to his sister. Lottie peeked up at him, her
lips trembling, before dropping her gaze to the ground.
Drawing a steadying breath, Simon returned his attention to Emme, determined to get her away from Ravenscross—and the chaos
of his life—as quickly as possible. “And what, pray tell, inspired you to pursue this thief?”
Emme’s lips twitched, though she held her composure. “What else was I to do, Lord Ravenscross? She’d clearly absconded with
someone else’s horse, for that animal is certainly not fit for a girl of her size, and I watched her steal those chickens.
So naturally, I followed.”
There was nothing natural about it. Gentlewomen didn’t pursue thieves as a rule.
“And what are you doing here, Lord Ravenscross?” Her arched brow and the challenge in her voice nearly made him smile—blast her for that. He