Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
If a mysterious assassin gets his way,
Ashton Cordell, the Earl of Ravensby, will die without leaving an heir. Five
years ago, that assassin murdered the Earl’s wife and unborn child, and Ashton
has dodged repeated attempts on his life since then. Now reclusive and wary, he
takes no chances when two highwaymen attempt to rob him one dark night. Killing
one of them, he takes the other prisoner, only to discover a beautiful and
sharp-witted young woman beneath a robber’s hood.
Glenys Shea is at his mercy, and she knows
it—even more so after her devoted young brother, an apprentice street thief,
barges in to save her. Ashton quickly realizes that the pair are good-hearted
and loyal despite following in the footsteps of their father—the robber Ashton
killed. Glenys wins him over with her kindness, intelligence, and empathy for
the tortured life he leads.
Together they concoct a scheme to lure the
assassin to light, but as their plan progresses, danger lurks at every turn,
and their growing love only serves to make the stakes even higher.
Coming soon!
1
England, 1822
MIST LAPPED AT the foot of
the crags, eerie in the dim light of the swaying lanterns as the coach rumbled
into the High Peaks. Menace lurked within each copse
of scraggly oak, from behind every lurching outcrop of black rock.
Ashton
Cordell, Earl of Ravensby, checked again the small pistol concealed in a sling
above his wrist. Oiled, primed, ready to fire. His eyes burned and his neck
ached from the strain of watching the road.
With
a sigh, he leaned against the padded leather squabs and told himself to relax.
But caution had become habitual. Or compulsive, he thought with a humorless
smile.
For
years, he’d never traveled without at least four armed outriders. Now he was
protected only by the coachman and Big Charlie, whose wits were uncertain at
best. And stealth, he reminded himself. No one knew he would be on this road
tonight, and Ravenrook was less than two hours away.
Ravenrook.
Home in the clifftop aerie, he would be safe. His eyes drifted shut. Perhaps he
could sleep for a while.
He
was dreaming about Ellen when the coach shuddered to a halt.
"Stand
and deliver,” yelled a rough voice. A spate of coughing followed the demand.
Groggy,
Ash fumbled under the seat for the primed set of pistols concealed there.
Before he could reach them, a face appeared at the window.
"Outside,
your lordship,” said the highwayman in a raspy voice. "Hands in the air. I got
you in my sights, so don’t make any move I don’t like or I’ll plug you.”
Ash
stepped to the ground, hands slightly raised. The shifting light revealed only
a tall thin man holding two guns. One was leveled at his chest. The other
pointed toward the driver’s seat where John Fletcher and Charlie poised, arms
uplifted. The highwayman was careful to hold back, keeping all targets in his
sights.
Then
Ash saw a smaller man some distance away, gripping a pistol between both hands.
He waved it back and forth between the two men atop the carriage and the man he
had come to kill.
Nervous,
Ash decided. The weak link. But why didn’t they shoot? One bullet for him, two
in reserve for the driver and Charlie. They must be amateurs. Trained assassins
would have finished the job and been gone by now.
"Your
money, milord,” said the rough-voiced man. When he bent his head and coughed,
the smaller man moved forward as if to protect him. "Toss everything you got on
the ground, including rings and watch and whatnots. But no sudden moves or I’ll
pull the trigger.”
Ash
stared at him, dumbfounded. Could this be a robbery after all? But no
highwayman with a jot of intelligence would be waiting on this desolate byway
for a victim.
And
the man had said "your lordship.” Without question, they were expecting the
Earl of Ravensby.
"Don’t
try my patience,” the highwayman warned. Again, more coughing and another move
forward by his accomplice.
Suddenly
Charlie bent over. The robber swung toward him, both pistols raised.
Without
conscious thought Ash dropped his right arm and flicked his wrist. The
concealed gun fell into his hand, and he fired at the same moment the
highwayman did.
The
robber groped at his chest and the other pistol went off, sending a bullet
harmlessly into the air. He pitched over, hands and feet quivering.
Ash
dove for the ground just as the second man fired. A bullet whizzed by his head.
For
a moment there was silence. Then Charlie, with a war whoop, swung down from the
coach, his gun pointed toward the man who stood frozen with the pistol between
both hands, aimed at where Ash had been.
A
few yards away, the other man lay still.
"Papa!”
cried the accomplice in a high thin voice. Dropping his pistol, he rushed to
the limp body and huddled over it. "Oh, Papa.”
Ash
came to his feet and moved forward, pausing a short distance from the
astonishing tableau.
Two
eyes, golden in the dim light, lifted to his. "You k-killed my father.”
Ash
felt ice at his fingertips.
"Damn
you to hell! You had no right. He never meant to hurt anyone.”
By
now Ash was sure it was a boy, not a man. He was smooth-cheeked and painfully
slim in ill-fitting trousers and shirt, with a woolen cape over his shoulders
and a floppy hat on his head.
Ash
glanced briefly at the dead man and at the pistols clutched in his gaunt hands,
forefingers still pressing the triggers.
Blood
pounded at Ash’s temples. He had been careless. Charlie and the driver might be
dead by now, and the bullet from the boy’s gun had nearly cut him down.
Charlie
moved toward the boy, but Ash heard sobs and gestured him away. A son should be
allowed to mourn his father, even if the man deserved to die.
"Were
you hit?” he asked, relieved when Charlie shook his head. "Then stay here, and
make sure that one”—he pointed to the boy—"doesn’t get away. We’ll send a wagon
to pick you up. Bring him to me when you get to Ravenrook.”
Golden
eyes fixed on him. "Killer!” The boy spat in his direction. "Bloody killer!”
Ash
turned away. Why should he be held accountable for the death of a man who
clearly intended to murder him? But his hands were shaking as he climbed into
the coach. He hated violence, although he had lived with it for what seemed
like forever.
Whoever
was responsible would pay for this night, he vowed to himself. Someone had
hired these pathetic highwaymen, and the boy would know his identity.
WHEN
HE ARRIVED at Ravenrook, Ash went immediately to the library and poured himself
a hefty shot of brandy. He drank it and then another, sensing the onset of a
crippling attack.
Now
and again drinking helped him to sleep, if he swallowed enough in time. Five
years ago, when a bullet creased his scalp in Hyde Park,
the headaches began. Since that time, they came often and with little warning,
bringing nausea and agony he’d never imagined until it took up shop in his
head.
But
he always recovered, with only the vague memory of time lost and excruciating
pain. Once in a while the brandy was stronger than the headache, and he badly
hoped it worked tonight. He needed answers, and at last he had found someone
who could supply them.
In
spite of the brandy, pain swept over him in waves. Two hours later he could
barely see the door when he responded to a thunderous knock.
Big
Charlie stepped inside, intelligence shining in his eyes. His wits came and
went since Waterloo,
when shrapnel had pierced his skull. "There was two horses tethered near to
where we was attacked. They’re in the stables now. Sad beasties, in need of a
good feeding. We put the body in the icehouse. Will you be wanting to send word
to the constable?”
Ash
rubbed his temples. "Yes, but not until I’ve questioned the boy. And I can’t do
that tonight. Lock him in the cellar.”
"He
ain’t what he looks like, milord.” Charlie shuffled uneasily. "Fact is, he’s a
girl.”
There
was a long silence, and then Ash swore long and loud. "Are you sure?”
"Got
tits.” Charlie’s voiced cracked. "Came upon ’em when I searched for weapons.”
A
girl! Ash regathered his concentration. "In that case, we can’t use the
cellars. Lock her in a room upstairs, make sure a footman is posted outside,
and see that she’s fed. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.”
"As
you say, milord.” Charlie shambled to the door and turned again, a despondent
look on his face. "Mighty upset, she was. He was her father. The man you
killed.”
Ash
winced. "Yes. I thought he was about to fire at you.”
Charlie
stared gloomily at the floor. "I shouldn’t have made a move. It was stupid of
me. Sometimes I’m so bloody stupid.”
Ash
crossed the room and took his hand. "You were trying to protect me, and chances
are they’d have shot us all if we hadn’t fought back. This is a damnable mess,
but I will take the consequences.”
Charlie
raised his head. "I didn’t mind what happened until I knew it was a girl. She
cried all the way here.”
"I
should have brought her back in the coach instead of leaving you to deal with
her. Well, see that she is made comfortable, Charlie. That’s all we can do for
now. And remember, you are not to blame.”
"Nor
you, milord.” With a vague wave of his hand, Charlie withdrew.
Ash
made his way to a chair, head throbbing. Devil take it, a girl! It was almost
absurd. The assassin had scraped the bottom of the barrel when he hired a
sickly highwayman and his daughter to keep watch on the isolated road to
Ravenrook.
As
the room began to spin, he wondered how he would convince the girl to give up
her secrets. Dear God, he had killed her father. How she must hate him.
2
GLENYS SHEA STUDIED the packed
dirt beneath her window, recalculating the distance to the ground.
It
hadn’t moved any closer.
The
rope she had braided from the bedsheets and blankets wouldn’t reach nearly that
far. She would have to tear down the curtains. But a servant was apt to notice
bare windows, so she could do nothing more until her supper tray was removed.
With
luck, the same maid who had served all her meals would come back for the tray.
Prudence was young, softhearted, and not terribly bright. When she saw a
dejected woman huddled on the bed, begging to be left alone, she’d tell the
other servants to keep their distance.
Mad
Jack Shea would have been pleased to see his daughter taking action instead of
moping, but that didn’t stop her from feeling guilty. Poor Papa. Better if he’d
been cut down at Salamanca or Vitoria, remembered as a war hero instead of
a criminal.
She
wiped a tear from her cheek, angry because she’d promised herself not to cry
again until she was free. On tiptoe, she crossed the room and pressed her ear
against the door. After a while she heard a man clear his throat. The guard,
posted in the hall when she was hustled upstairs, still blocked her way. It was
out the window or face the hangman.
At
the sound of footsteps in the hall, she hurried to the bed and flung herself on
the counterpane. There was a light knock at the door before it opened.
"I’ll
be takin’ your tray now, miss. Would you be wantin’ anything else?”
Glenys
emitted blubbering noises.
Instead
of withdrawing, Prudence came to the side of the bed. "It’s a sad thing, losin’
your da. Would you like me to sit with you for a time?”
Glenys
shook her head and heightened the intensity of her sobs.
"Tomorrow
we’ll have a better-fittin’ dress for you,” the maid said after a moment.
"That’s my old one you are wearin’. Mrs. Beagle, she’s the housekeeper, is
putting down the hem on one of her ladyship’s gowns. I’ll bid ye good night,
then, and see that no one disturbs you. Well, his lordship might send for you,
but he hasn’t said.”
When
the maid was gone, Glenys sat cross-legged on the bed for a few minutes,
reviewing her predicament. Why were these people so kind to her? She had nearly
killed the Earl of Ravensby, for heaven’s sake! Now his wife offered one of her
own dresses for the almost-murderess to wear. And last night the man named
Charlie had wrapped his arms around her while she wept during the long drive to
this secluded house.
He
had even apologized for searching her, and seemed astonished to discover a
female under the trousers and shirt. Although she was wearing her brother’s
clothes, it had not occurred to her that she was in disguise. She could hardly
wear skirts to help her father hold up a coach, and had not dared let him go
out alone, sick as he was.
She’d
have followed him anyway, Glenys admitted to herself, if only because she
longed for adventure. Riding through the dark night, robbing an elegant crested
coach, plucking a diamond stickpin from a rich earl’s
cravat... in her imagination it had appeared vastly exciting
and romantic.
The
reality was savage and bloody.
A
glance at the clock sent her off the bed in a flash. Although dusk came late at
this time of year, it was past time to finish her preparations. She retrieved
the letter opener she’d found in a drawer of the writing table and set to work
on the drapes.
Two
hours later the rope was finished. Securely tied at intervals with knots her
father had taught her, it looked strong enough to bear her weight. She wouldn’t
know for sure until she was dangling thirty feet above the ground.
Concealing
the rope under the bed, she returned to the window and gazed longingly at the
solid branches of an oak tree growing just beyond her reach. Even if she swung
like a monkey from the windowsill, she was certain to miss.
A
long sweep of grass lay just past the line of oaks that bordered the house.
Once she stepped onto the lawn, there was no place to hide herself for at least
a hundred yards. In the distance stretched a thick grove of ash trees, and
beyond that she could see nothing.
If
she made it to the ash grove undetected, stealth and her own two feet would be
her sole assets. With luck, she’d have the whole night to get as far away from
this place as she could.
The
blue sky darkened to gray, and shadows cast by the trees began to lengthen.
Almost time to go. Then she heard voices coming from a point not far from her
window.
Ducking,
she listened attentively and recognized the earl’s deep voice.
".
. . tomorrow, for Derby.
I’ll give him a letter for the constable after I’ve questioned the girl.”
"Will
you do it tonight, milord?” That was Charlie.
"The
maid says she’s overset, and I’m not likely to get what I need from a weepy
female. It can wait until morning, but no longer. Keep the guard posted.”
After
a few moments of silence, Glenys poked her head above the windowsill and saw
the earl striding across the lawn. He wore dark breeches and a white shirt, the
full sleeves fluttering in the evening breeze. He was headed directly for the
same grove of trees where she intended to go.
She
muttered a few of her brother’s favorite oaths. Now what?
For
half an hour she kept watch by the window, and when it grew dark, he had not
returned. Probably he came back to the house from a different direction, she
decided, around the front where she couldn’t see him. In any case, she had no
choice. Unless she made her escape, tomorrow she would be summoned to judgment.
Careful
to make no sound, she changed into Harry’s clothes, which had been laundered
and returned to her for no reason she could imagine. A good omen and a blessing,
because it would be nearly impossible to shimmy down the rope in skirts.
In
her pockets she stored the apple, dinner roll, and wedge of cheese she’d kept
back from her meal trays. With no idea where she was or how far she had to go,
she knew the food would be of use. She tugged the floppy hat over her short
curls, pulled the rope from under the bed, and secured one end of it to the leg
of a heavy armoire near the window.
The
lawn looked like a field of quicksilver under the pale half-moon. After a quick
check to make sure there was no one in sight, she slowly let out the rope.
She
had miscalculated the distance, but the end hung only a few feet above the
ground. Not a dangerous drop, if she got that far.
This
is it, she told herself as she climbed onto the
windowsill. Wrapping her legs around the rope, she took a deep, shuddering
breath and let go of the sill. Ghastly visions of her body splattering on the
hard ground seized her for a moment, but the knotted sheets and curtains held.
Clinging
to her uncertain lifeline, she began the long descent. With every move she
made, the rope swung crazily, banging her against the side of the house. She
ignored the pain and lowered herself hand over fist until her legs reached
empty air. Then she let go.
The
fall seemed to take forever. When she landed, her left ankle gave way and she
hit the packed-earth walkway with a loud whoof. Immediately she
came to her hands and knees and scrambled to the trunk of the oak. There she
huddled, listening for any sign that she’d been discovered.
For
a long minute, the silence was eerie. Then crickets took up their song. In the
distance, an owl hooted.
Using
the tree for support, she came erect and moved her foot in circles, wincing as
she tested the ankle. Wrenched, she decided, but not badly. She could walk.
Hell, she had to walk, and even run the first stretch across that lawn.
When
she was certain the ankle could bear her weight, she bent low and made a mad
dash for the line of trees.
The
lawn stretched for miles, or so it felt until she plunged into the welcome
shelter of the ash grove. She paused there to catch her breath and rub her
abused ankle. No hue and cry from the house. Everything was quiet.
She
hugged herself in relief. So far, so good, but the worst was yet to come. The
earl wanted to question her, and instinct warned he was not a man to give up
easily. She must be well beyond his reach before morning.
Favoring
her ankle, she made her way deeper into the woodlands. Overhead, stars shone
through the open canopy of the slender, graceful trees.
With
no idea where she was going, Glenys plowed ahead, hoping to stumble across a
road or one of the rivers that crisscrossed Derbyshire. Either would lead her
to civilization, and at all costs she must make her way to the cottage before
her brother came looking for her. Rash and scatterbrained, Harry never failed
to get into trouble.
Not
that he could fare worse than his father and sister had done, she acknowledged.
Right now he was probably stomping around the cottage and swearing as only
Harry could swear. He’d be furious that she had taken his horse, and his gun,
and his place by Papa’s side.
Lost
in thought, she tripped over an outcropping of limestone and landed facedown in
the dirt. The fall knocked the breath out of her, and when she struggled to her
feet, she was dizzy and uncertain of her direction.
Damn
damn damn! Trying to orient herself, she made a slow turn
and saw light filtering through the trees. The house? Had she been traveling in
a circle, only to wind up where she’d started?
Cautiously,
she crept toward the glow. No, she had not passed here before. The trees ended
near a small ornamental lake, and on the other side a domed marble building
glimmered in the moonlight. Warm light poured from the windows, flickering as
if cast by torches from inside.
"Holy
hollyhocks,” she said aloud. A temple, in the middle of nowhere! And so very
beautiful. Tall cypress trees stood at intervals along the sides of the
building, and a Corinthian portico graced the front.
Enthralled,
she padded a bit closer, unable to stop her feet although they were moving in
the wrong direction. Any sensible criminal would be headed the other way, but
she’d been a criminal for only one day. And in all her life, she’d not been
sensible even that long.
How
could she leave without investigating the most fascinating thing she’d ever
seen? True, she had seen very little in her sheltered existence, but that made
her all the more determined to peek inside. With any luck, some arcane ritual
was going on in there. She had always wanted to witness an arcane ritual.
Since
her early schooldays, she had imagined herself the heroine of an ancient
legend. As Persephone, Ariadne, or Helen of Troy, she dreamed herself away from
the tedium of her own life. In the classroom, she plodded through Latin verb
declensions only so she could read about Bacchic revels.
Then
one of her classmates revealed that her great-uncle had been a member of the
infamous Hell-Fire Club. At midnight gossip sessions Amy had recounted, with a
deplorable lack of particulars, Uncle Lester’s tales of virgins dressed as nuns
and men in masks who did unspeakable things on marble altars.
Glenys
had wondered for years exactly what unspeakable things those were. Now the
bizarre temple, a perfect spot for heathen rites, drew her like a Siren’s song.
She
circled the lake, holding well within the shelter of the trees until they ended
a short distance from the building. On tiptoe she crept around the side to a
high window and lifted her head.
Inside,
torches were spaced at intervals along the walls, and niches between them held
blazing candelabra. Light danced on the walls and ceiling, warm and undulating.
After a moment she realized the enormous room held a pool lined with blue
tiles. The effect of torchlight reflected by water against the marble was
eerie, and she stood mesmerized for a long time before noticing that someone
was in the pool.
A
dark form swam toward the other side, directly across from her, and lifted
itself out.
She
stared in amazement at the back of a man’s body, his bare buttocks glimmering
in the light. When he shook his head, water sprayed in all directions. Then he
raised his arms and stretched broadly.
Suddenly
aware her mouth was hanging open, Glenys pressed her lips together. She had
seen her father and brother shirtless during the months they’d lived together
in the small cottage. Neither man looked anything like this one.
Papa
had broad shoulders, but they were bony. Harry was slender, just her own
height, with none of the interesting muscles that rippled in the man’s back and
legs and arms.
He
looks like the statue of a Greek god, she thought, bedazzled.
Then
a pair of hands clamped her shoulders. She let out a squeal of surprise.
"Now,
now, missie,” Charlie scolded. "What would ye be doing here?”
She
struggled in his grip, but he was too strong. In desperation she brought down
the heel of her shoe on his toe.
He
yelped.
"Let
me go, you big ox!” She planted an elbow in his ribs.
He
gave a loud oooomph and took a step back, but his hands maintained a
firm hold on her shoulders.
Then
her gaze caught the man in the temple. He had turned and was looking directly
at her.
Ravensby.
Although
he stared back, she was scarcely aware of his eyes. With a will of its own, her
gaze moved lower, to the chest sprinkled with curly dark hair. To the flat
stomach, the narrow hips and the... rest of him.
Heat
flamed in her cheeks. She forced herself to look up to his face. His expression
was unreadable.
He
gestured to Charlie, who swung her around, seized her by the back of her shirt,
and marched her to the front of the building and up the marble steps.
"His
lordship wants to speak with you,” Charlie said, his voice bleak. "I’ll have to
search you again.”
"Don’t
fret yourself.” She twisted from his grasp and emptied her pockets. "Cheese.
Bread. Apple. I am now disarmed.”
Charlie
watched the apple roll down the steps. "Not good enough, y’see. Mebbe you have
a knife.”
"I
did have a letter opener, but forgot to bring it along.” She held out her arms.
"Paw away.”
Blushing
furiously, he ran his hands down her sides, hardly touching her at all.
He
looked so miserable when he stepped back that Glenys put her hand on his
forearm. "I have no weapon and would not use it if I did. Word of honor.”
His
smile of gratitude touched her heart. He really was sweet, even though he had
recaptured her and was about to send her into the lion’s den. Sparing him that
responsibility, she pushed open the heavy oak door.
DESPITE
THE WARM glow of torches and candles, the pool house was icy cold. The earl
gazed at her from shuttered eyes. He had pulled on his breeches, but his shirt
hung open, leaving his chest bare.
Taking
care not to limp, she sauntered to a marble bench beside the pool. It was like
sitting on a glacier. "Congratulations,” she said. "You caught me.”
"How
did you get out of that room?” he countered in a soft voice.
"I
flew.”
"Or
cozened the footman.” He began to button his shirt. "I’ll turn him off.”
"You
must not!” She hadn’t considered that the guard would be blamed for her escape.
"I expect the poor man is certain I am still locked up. It’s not his fault.”
"Indeed?
You have not sprouted wings, young woman, and there is only one door.”
"You’ll
find out anyway,” she said in a disgruntled voice. "I braided a rope from the
sheets and curtains. It’s dangling out the window.”
A
faint, sardonic smile quirked his lips. "Then I must congratulate you. Most
enterprising, even for a brigand. How long have you been at your trade?”
"Oh,
decades.” She waved a hand. "I am the Scourge of the Great North Road, don’t you know?”
He
shook his head impatiently. "Spare me the theatrics. You can’t be above sixteen
or seventeen years old. What is your name?”
"I’m
one-and-twenty! And my name is Gl—” She bit her tongue. "Gladys. Gladys Knox.”
"Your
father was... ?”
"John
Knox.”
"Right.
And I am Oliver Cromwell.” He picked up a towel. "I don’t enjoy games, Miss
whoever-you-are. Your father carried no papers, but the constable will have
both your identities soon enough.”
"Perhaps.”
She hugged her sides. "Wh-where is Papa?”
"In
the icehouse.” There was a long silence. "What happened last night is
regrettable,” he said in a somber voice. "I am sorry for it. But I had no
choice.”
"I
know.”
He
looked surprised.
"Everything
went wrong,” she said despondently. "We never meant to hurt anyone, and Papa
only wanted the money. You have lots of it. If you’d just handed over your
purse, we’d have been on our way. But you didn’t, and—”
He
made an exasperated noise and applied the towel to his wet hair. "Miss Knox, we
both know you are lying, about your name and why you were waiting on a private
road for me to come by. Things will go better for you if you give me the
truth.”
Whattruth? Didn’t the man recognize a plain robbery when he saw one? She
opened her mouth to ask him and clamped it shut again. So long as he imagined
she had a secret worth hiding—some piece of information he wanted—she could buy
time for another escape. Another try, she reminded herself with an
interior sigh. She should have been well away by now.
"What
do you care about my name?” she asked instead. "And why do you imagine I’d
conceal my identity? As you pointed out, the authorities will uncover it soon
enough. I’m astonished you haven’t turned me over to them already.”
"So
I shall, when you’ve told me what I want to know.”
She
came to her feet. "If you are so anxious for information, Lord Ravensby, why
the devil did you confine me in a room for nearly twenty-four hours? Stow my
father’s body in an icehouse when he should have a Christian burial? He was—”
She turned away, feeling hot tears blister her eyes.
Maybe
highwaymen were not entitled to Christian burial. She wasn’t sure.
"It’s
up to you,” Ravensby said from close behind her. "Your employer cannot protect
you now. I’m ready to listen, if you are ready to tell me who hired you.”
Hired?She swallowed her retort. Sergeant John Shea had been
driven to crime only because he couldn’t find a job. Damned if she would betray
his identity, whatever the consequences to herself. It was the least she could
do for the father she’d scarcely known but had always loved.
"Why
is it so cold in here?” Crossing to the edge of the pool, she dropped to one
knee and dipped a hand in the water. It was like liquid snow. "You actually swimin this?”
"The
pool is fed by an underground spring. Bathing in cold water is good for the
health, or so I’m told.”
She
grimaced. "Don’t believe everything you hear.”
"Certainly
I don’t believe anything I am hearing from you. But as you are chilled, we’ll
continue this conversation back at the house.”
Still
on one knee, Glenys watched two large bare feet move past her. Soon she heard
the door close behind him.
For
an instant she thought of escape. Even with her aching ankle, she could outrun
Charlie. But she wouldn’t get far, because Ravensby would track her down. She
recognized tenacity when she saw it, although she was generally looking in a
mirror at the time.
Once
again she put her hand into the pool. So cold, like the Earl of Ravensby. Like
her father’s body in the icehouse.
For
a moment, despair sat on her shoulder. Then she shrugged it away. While she
lived, she could hope. And she could love life and what it offered—if only the
summer afternoons in the fields near Miss Pipcock’s School where she wove
circlets of daisies for the little girls. Taught the village boys to tickle
trout.
Ah,
well. Best to get on with matters at hand—Ravensby and, quite possibly, the
hangman. She stood and smiled at Charlie, who waited at the door with an
unhappy look on his face.
"His
lordship said as how I was to bring you to the library,” he said.
Moving
to his side, she linked her arm through his. "I am partial to libraries, but
take care. I’m a hardened criminal, Charlie. Very like, I’ll try to steal a
book or two.”
