“You don’t remember me, do you?” His words jarred the silence. How strange, hearing a voice she’d never heard before. “But then again, I cannot own to remembering much of you either.”
Remember her?
She’d never seen him before in her life. How could she have? For as long as she’d known, there had only been the cottage. The trees. The stream. Sometimes she had other memories, things she didn’t understand, but they were more story—or nightmare—than anything else.
“We shall talk when we reach Weltworth.”
As if talk could make sense of this. As if anything the blackguard had to say might stop her terror and bring her home again. How far did he think he could take her before Captain caught up with them? Didn’t he know he’d never get away with this? That she’d flee, one way or another, the second his back was—
“You’ll do well not to seek escape.” As if he sensed her thoughts. “We’ve many a village ahead of us, and unless you should like to sleep on the ground between here and Monbury Manor, I suggest you be sensible.”
“Let me go.”
No answer.
“Please.” Bile edged up her throat. “Please, I beg of you.”
Again, nothing. He urged the horse faster and flexed his wounded hand until the dry blood cracked. “You named the dog?”
What?
“Well, did you?”
“Yes.”
“Fine name. Teach him to fight too, did you?”
She lifted her gaze. The trees were thinning. The wild shrubs were fewer. In the distance, open countryside appeared like foggy brushstrokes of an unfinished painting.
“The road is up ahead.”
Captain would die. Maybe she would too.
“A few minutes more and we shall be on our way to Weltworth.”
Then her beloved forest would be gone.
He should have thought this through. He should have waited for Lord Gillingham to make up his own mind, weigh the consequences, and make the decision himself. But what if the viscount had decided against sending for her? Where did that leave Felton—and his family?
Exactly where they’d been for the last fourteen years, that’s where. That was no place Felton intended to stay. For anyone’s sake.
The hours stretched by in silence, the only noise the clomp of his horse’s hooves and the loud warbles of unseen wrens. But the girl?
Not a sound.
He’d expected tears or questions or demands for freedom, at the very least.
But she just sat there, trapped in his arms, as still as the Grecian statues outside Lord Gillingham’s manor. She was her father’s daughter, truly.
He just didn’t know how to tell her.
The road wound onward through quiet Northumberland countryside, paralleled by stone fences, without sight or sound of another horse or carriage. A few more miles and they’d reach the village of Weltworth. Then what?
He didn’t know. He needed to think. Mayhap it was foolish to take her there, to think that she wouldn’t enlist the help of villagers and try for an escape. But what of his food supply? By tomorrow, they’d be out of provisions. Besides that, his hand needed a sight more than mere water and bandages. How much longer could he handle the reins with this swelling?
Oh well.
The devil with his hand.
