“You are at last.”
“I want to go back to the cottage.” Her knees nearly buckled. “You cannot keep me. I want to return to the forest and to my…my father.”
He took the words without flinching, sank back into his chair, and shook open his napkin. “I am your father, Eliza.” Deep, guttural. “Will you eat with me?”
No, she wouldn’t. She’d never eat again if he kept her here. Let them lock her in that room upstairs and guard every door and bar every window. She’d only die. Then Captain would come and bury her body back in the forest—
“I understand, Eliza.” He stood. “I fear I have no appetite myself.” Were those tears in his eyes again? He was gone before she could tell.
But it didn’t matter if he had tears. Or if he loved her or didn’t. If she’d rode on his shoulders as a child or only imagined she had.
Because she wasn’t staying.
Cupping her mouth, she escaped out a different door and ran until she found the entrance hall. She flung herself outside into a world growing dim with dust. The gate was already closed at the end of the drive, but she raced toward it anyway and grasped the iron bars.Help me, Savior. Please.
Danger awaited in the world out here. Cruelty reigned beyond the trees. Captain said so. If hehadtaken her from this place, his only reason must have been for her good and protection. What else had he ever cared for?
Help me.
All the sobs Captain would have told her not to unleash came blubbering out. She sank to the ground and wrapped her arms around the cold iron bars. There was no way out. There were no streams to whisper to or trees to lean against or soft mosses to wiggle her toes in. She was a fool to think she’d ever been lonely in her beautiful forest.
She’d never been alone until now.
“How is she?”
Lord Gillingham’s head remained bent over his rosewood desk. He scribbled more figures into his ledger.
“My lord?”
“How do you think she is?”
Felton took a step closer to the desk. “This is best, I assure you. With time and patience, she shall learn to—”
“To what, Northwood? Be content with a father she despises?” Lord Gillingham slammed his quill into its inkwell. “Let us not pretend, shall we? We are both quite aware of your reasons for bringing her here.”
“It was the only way.”
“For who?”
“For my father. For my mother. For you and—”
“No, I hardly think so. This is not about any persons you just named—but rather, as it always has been, about yourself.” The older man rose from his chair, and the voice so often low and deep grew even gruffer. “This is about Felton Northwood and his own ungodly pride. He is so worried about what the world thinks of him, of his own social standing, that he would do anything to remedy his image.”
The muscles tightened around Felton’s jaw. “That is untrue.”
“Is it?”
“Are you trying to tell me you would not have sent for her? That after all these years of looking, you would not have decided upon your own daughter’s return?”
“That was my choice to make.”
“Then I offer apology.”
Lord Gillingham blew out air, as if the words meant nothing, and sank back into his black Sheraton chair. “What have you come for? I am busy, as you can imagine.”
“I wish to see the girl.”
“No.”
