“Speak up!” He backhanded her face, but she never moved or cried or shrunk. He had taught her well. “He wants what?”
“To s–see you, sir.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Then by all means, Miss Reay.” He turned her for the door. “Send him in.” He reseated himself at his harp lute and was halfway through the intro of a second song when the Swabian cleared his throat.
Bowles never so much as looked back. “You know I detest you coming here. I despise dirty boots treading upon my rugs.”
“This couldn’t be waiting for another meeting.”
“Well, well. News indeed.”
“The girl ran away.”
“Oh?”
“Tall Postle heard from one o’ the Monbury servants.”
“Where?”
“The market. This morning.”
“I see.” Bowles positioned his fingers lower on the harp lute. “And did such a servant mention where the little girl has run to?”
“To Ellis.”
A smile slid up his face. “To Ellis, indeed.” He picked the strings and a melody of charming victory filled the parlor. “Then you must see that our little Miss Gillingham joins her captain as quickly as possible.”
Felton rode through Poortsmoor, then the village of Weltworth. At both inns, the proprietor had shaken his head and insisted that no such girl had stayed there.
The little fool. What had she done, ridden through the nights? Had she even brought food?
A reoccurring pain squeezed through him, as he urged his horse faster down a countryside road. She’d flown without telling him. Had she trusted him so little that she couldn’t ask him for help? Had her care for him been so small that saying goodbye meant nothing to her?
She’d never forget the ocean, said the note—but he didn’t care if she forgot the ocean.
He just didn’t want her to forgethim.
A sigh filled his lungs, and he dragged a hand across his chin. Never mind such thoughts. They were as nonsensical and unwise now as they’d been before she left.
This would make it only easier.
Not having to see her. Or smell rose water. Or hear the voice that sounded more like a chorus of angels than anything else. By this evening or perhaps sometime during the night, he would reach the cottage. He’d make certain she was safe. He would see to it no one had hurt her.
Then he would speak the goodbye that so obviously meant nothing to her. He’d go back to a world where his name was still in shame and his only friend could no longer be trusted.
But the truth was, he didn’t want to leave Eliza Gillingham at all.
God, thank You.Her horse took his first step into a sphere she’d never imagined she’d see again. The trees were taller than she remembered. How fondly, how kindly, they all shivered as if in welcome.Thank You, thank You.
Feverish joy breathed through her as the cool, piney air rustled her hair. Sunlight slanted through dark green branches. Sap oozed and dripped from knotty holes. A rabbit scurried across the dry, orange pine needles and disappeared into a thicket.
Never had she dreamed what this would feel like. Coming home. Treading back over ground she’d danced on and spotting trees she’d talked to and breathing air she’d lived on.
The deeper she entered the forest, the more familiar the landscape grew. Her cares took wings and flew away. Nothing mattered because everything would be the same again. She had nothing to fear. Not here.
