Chapter 6 #2
She plunged into the woods, branches clawing, pulling her hair, tearing her shirt. She dove into the underbrush, spikes of holly ripping sharp along her back, exposing her skin. Even so, she rolled into a tight ball, nearly crying out to God for deliverance.
Nearly.
She scrunched her eyes tight. If she couldn’t see the man, then he wouldn’t see her—a falsehood from childhood she’d never discarded.
Sticks cracked. Boots thudded.
Run past. Just run past!
Then …
Blessed silence.
Her eyes flew open. Had the man truly sped by?
Metal clicked. A rifle cocked. And a gruff voice boomed in the night. “I know you’re there. Don’t make me flush you out with a shot.”
Her heart pounded in her ears, breath all but forgotten. Could she still fly away? But how when fear paralyzed her limbs?
A shot rang out.
Dirt, leaves, gravel flew into her face. She flinched, a yelp strangling in her throat.
“Out!” he bellowed. “You’re only making it worse for yourself.”
Slowly, she uncurled from her ball, trembling as she pushed up to all fours. Her breath came in shaky gasps, tears running cold on her cheeks. Blood and sweat stung her back as she peered up through the holly branches that concealed her.
The man’s boots appeared first, crushing the earth beneath them, a mere ten paces from her hidey-hole.
Tree trunks for legs came into view next.
Then a rifle barrel. Long. Black. Unforgiving and aimed right at her.
Juliet’s throat closed, her gaze fixed on that terrible weapon.
No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to look anywhere else, anticipating the fire of a shot to her head.
“There you are,” he muttered, voice as rough as the gravel. “Come on. Move it—an’ keep your hands where I can see ’em.”
Her limbs felt like lead, but somehow she managed to crawl out, arms scratched raw from the spiky branches, hoping to God the man would show her enough leniency that she might be able to escape as she had before.
But when the older man’s dark eyes bored into hers and his fingers bit into her arm, she knew. This was it. There would be no escape.
Not this time.
Coffee and toast. The quintessential breakfast—especially if that toast involved a healthy slathering of apple butter. Henry bit into a thick slice of deliciousness, savouring the sweetness with a hint of tart lemon just as Carver swung into the breakfast room.
The groundskeeper pulled off his hat and ran his fingers through greying locks of wiry hair.
He smelled of crushed leaves and the dampness of a root cellar—and no wonder.
He looked as if he wore half the grounds of Bedford Manor on his coat.
“Sorry to disturb ye, Master Henry, but I’ve got something ye’d like to hear, I think. ”
Brilliant. He could use some good news right about now. Henry set down his toast and picked up his coffee—the rich scent of which usually earned him a cancerous eye from Charity. In her words, only barbarians drank such a brew. But she’d not come down for breakfast yet. Thankfully.
He leaned back in his chair, leveling Carver with a look. “What I would like to hear is that you have caught my sister’s tormentor and we are finished with such dastardly business.”
A wry smile tipped one side of the groundskeeper’s lips. “I have bagged a scoundrel of sorts, leastwise as it pertains to game.”
Henry’s pulse galloped. “The poacher?”
“One and the same.” He shook his head, a sheepish dip to his shoulders. “I can scarcely believe that slip of a woman has given me the run for so long.”
Henry set his cup down without so much as a sip. “Where is she?”
“In the toolshed out back. What would you have me do with her?”
“You? Nothing. I will see her for myself.” He pushed back his chair.
“Don’t know as I’d advise that, sir. She’s a fiery one, and I’ve got the teeth marks to prove it.” Shoving up his sleeve, he held out his forearm.
A distinct curve of angry red indented the flesh.
Henry’s brow raised, though admittedly such a wound didn’t surprise him overmuch, not after his encounter with the woman. “I appreciate the warning, Carver, but I think I can handle myself.”
“That’s what I thought too, but the little nipper caught me off guard.” He tugged back the fabric to his wrist. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what do you mean to do with her? Poachin’ is a serious offense.”
True. And yet it didn’t seem right, somehow, to completely ruin the woman’s life.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I am not entirely certain yet.” Dropping his hand, he faced the groundskeeper.
“Feel free to come along and keep an eye on the yard while I have a word with our … guest, though I trust you have secured her well?”
“Aye. Tied her hands to an eyehook. She’s not going anywhere unless you say so.”
“Good. I shall decide what happens next once I assess the situation.” He strode from the room, Carver’s boots echoing on the floorboards behind him.
Outside, the first fallen leaves of autumn swirled in eddies as he crossed the gravel yard.
He wasn’t sure how to feel about capturing the woman.
Yes, a poacher ought to be prosecuted, especially one that bit like a dog off a lead.
And yet something in his spirit gave him pause.
He glanced at the morning sky, where thin white clouds stretched like cotton against the blue.
Give me wisdom, Lord.
At the shed door, Carver pulled out a ring of keys and opened the padlock, casting him a sideways glance. “Sure you don’t want me to go in with you?”
Henry shook his head. “With two of us, she might feel like a cornered animal, and as you know, those are the most dangerous sort. Just lay hold of her if she happens to escape.”
He stepped into the small outbuilding, the faint creak of the wooden door breaking the silence inside.
Dank air met his nose, tinged with the earthy scent of dirt and rusting metal.
Various tools hung from the walls—shovels, a rake with bent prongs, a pitchfork, some hoes—their shapes dull in the thin morning light filtering through the wall slats.
When his eyes adjusted fully on the slender form strung up on the farthest wall, he stopped dead in his tracks.
Her back was towards him. Through the torn fabric of her shirt, pale skin streaked with blood peeked out.
So did the knobs of her spine. He ought not be witnessing this, for it was far too intimate of a sight, and yet he could not pull away his gaze.
She was thin, painfully so. When was the last time she’d eaten a full meal?
Her hair, perhaps once the vibrancy of roasted chestnuts, now lay in wild tangles around her shoulders, a braid that had obviously lost its tether. Her head hung forwards, her slender arms dangling from Carver’s bindings.
A wave of unexpected sympathy clamped tight around his heart.
He wasn’t prepared for this—a poacher, yes, but not a woman so beaten down by ill circumstance.
Still, he held his emotions in check, remembering this was no small offense she’d committed.
She’d been stealing from his land for over a year now.
He planted his feet. “Turn around, if you would, miss. I should like to speak with you.”
Ever so slowly she pivoted, and when her face came into view, he inhaled sharply—not due to her disheveled appearance, but by the untamed beauty beneath the grime.
Her cheekbones were sharp, yet the curve full and pleasing.
Her hair cascaded around her face like the mane of a feral creature.
And her eyes—sage with a ring of amber. Fear and boldness flickered simultaneously there, and something more …
He cocked his head. Remorse. That was it.
But for what? Being caught or for the desperate acts that had led her to be trussed up in his toolshed?
Hard to tell. But of one thing he was certain.
She was terrified. The threadbare fabric of her torn shirt rippled with her trembling, barely offering any protection against the cold air seeping through the shed’s walls.
He frowned. Did he frighten her so? Or was it the inevitable punishment she feared most? Regardless, he couldn’t very well leave her standing there, shivering in such a state. Poacher or not, she was still human, still a woman—and one who had suffered enough.
Without another word, Henry shrugged off his frock coat and draped the wool around her shoulders as best he could, his fingers brushing against her cold skin for the briefest moment.
Her wide eyes darted to his face. She blinked several times, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came, and in that moment, he saw her vulnerability.
He retreated several steps, giving her space. “This is the second time we meet.” The indictment came out huskier than intended, and he cleared his throat. “What have you to say for yourself?”
She glanced down at the coat, then back at him, tears welling in her eyes. “If you let me go, sir, I vow I will not set foot on your land ever again.”
He swallowed, fighting to keep his composure. Weeping women were ever his downfall. “I was expecting an apology, not a plea bargain.”
White teeth toyed with her lower lip. “I know it was wrong of me to take your game, yet I had no other choice.”
Judging by her hollow cheeks and sharp lines of her frame, he could easily see the truth of that. Curious, he cocked his head. “What has brought you to such dire straits? Have you no father? No brother or husband to provide? What about seeking aid from the church or a charity?”
Her chin came up then, eyes gleaming. “I will not beg. Not while I still have hands to work and legs to walk. I’ve lost enough—I will not surrender my pride as well. As for family, I have no one but my aunt, and she lies abed.”
“Who is this aunt?” He dared a step closer, studying her face. “Who are you?”
“I am Juliet Finch, niece to Margaret Brewster.”
“Brewster.” He rolled the name off his tongue, and the moment it flew free, recognition settled in. “The name is familiar. A neighbour, I think.”
“Yes. To the east.”
For a long moment he said nothing, trying to dredge up any and every memory he owned of Margaret Brewster. His father might have mentioned the widow once or twice, but other than that, he had no personal experience with the woman. And he’d never heard of Juliet Finch.
“You realize,” he drawled, “that I would be well within my rights to turn you over to the magistrate.”
“I know.” She looked away, her jaw quivering. “Do what you will, then. Just … my aunt, she—”
“Would starve without you,” Henry finished for her. “You have made your point clear, for you are very well spoken. You do not come from poverty.”
She said nothing. Nor would she look at him.
Reaching ever so gingerly, he turned her face back to his with a light touch of his finger to her jaw. “There are stories in your eyes, Miss Finch. Tragedies, I believe.”
“Please.” Her voice broke. “If you would but let me go, I will trouble you no longer.”
Hah! He suspected this woman would be troubling his dreams for days to come.
He turned away, pacing the small space of the shed.
It would be a shame to see that lovely neck of hers snapped, and yet there ought to be some semblance of justice for the game she’d stolen over the seasons.
For indeed, she had stolen—and quite successfully up to now.
He stopped in front of her. “How is it you managed to evade my groundskeeper for over a year?”
“I merely did what I had to,” she said simply.
“Yes, and you did it quite well. Too well, in fact. It seems you have skills most women would fear to acquire.”
“Of necessity, not by design.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I wonder what other skills you possess.”
Her nostrils flared like a spooked filly’s. “What do you mean?”
“You have proven yourself adept at moving through these woods unseen, and you have a knack for snaring game.” She did. She had. Until now, the woman was every bit as keen at remaining undetected as his sister’s tormentor.
And that’s when a perfectly mad idea took root.
Who better to hunt for a man than a hunter?
And a female one at that? No one would suspect such a thing.
She might be able to uncover information that as a man he would have a hard time getting at.
Once again, he took to pacing. This was either a clever notion or the most absurd thought he’d ever had.
Well, Lord? Which is it?
And just like that, he remembered the night Charity had come to him, scared—thunder crashing, desperation choking him—and he’d begged heaven for help.
He hadn’t expected the answer to arrive in the form of a mud-splattered poacher.
Then again, God’s ways were ever mysterious.
And what did he really have to lose if he made a bargain with this woman and it proved fruitless?
It wasn’t as if he’d be any further behind on figuring out who troubled his sister.
“Tell me, Miss Finch, how are you at tracking prey?”
She blinked. “What sort of prey?”
“Of the two-legged variety.”
Confusion rippled across her brow. “Speak plainly, sir.”
Henry stepped closer. “There is someone—an unwanted someone—lurking near my home. A tormentor who has yet to reveal himself. You have demonstrated a knack for … navigating the shadows, shall we say. If you should like to avoid an intimate rendezvous with the hangman’s noose, I would make use of that knack. ”
Her jaw dropped, her words a whisper. “What exactly are you proposing?”
“I mean,” he said firmly, “I will not have you arrested. Instead, I offer you the chance to help me catch this villain. If you do so, your slate will be clean. You will be free to go—provided you do not return to poaching on my lands. Or anyone else’s, for that matter.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her nose scrunching ever so slightly, before she said at length, “And if I refuse?”
“Then I shall call in the law. That could be avoided, however, if you repay your debt to me. Think of it as restitution. Service rendered in place of all the pheasant and hares that have mysteriously vanished from my woods.”
Her lips parted slightly, maybe with a protest. Maybe not.
So he pressed on. “If you are not a thief at heart, then this is the easiest way to prove it.”
An uncertain silence lingered. Was it so hard a decision?
Finally, the woman lifted her face, meeting his gaze with fierce determination. “Very well, then. I accept.”