Elsbeth hesitated, his words striking a chord deep within her. For the briefest of moments, she felt an urge to open up, to share her burden. To not feel so alone. But that was foolish. He wouldn’t understand. How could he?
Surprising even herself, she revealed, “If you must know, I am searching for something specific.”
“Is it a pocket watch?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Because I do believe that is still in your possession.”
“I still have it. However, I did not want your pocket watch. You left me little choice in the matter,” Elsbeth said. “I shall see it is returned to you.”
He nodded. “I would gratefully appreciate that. It was my father’s pocket watch.”
“If that was the case, why did you give it to me?”
“You were robbing me… at gunpoint,” he reminded her.
She offered him a weak smile. “I am sorry for that. It was never my intention to steal from you.”
“Then why did you?”
“As I told you, I am looking for something specific.”
“Which is?” he pressed.
Elsbeth shook her head. “That is not something I can tell you.”
The crack of a pistol shot rang out, slicing through the night. Pain erupted in her left arm, hot and sharp, and she barely registered her gasp of shock before instinct took over. Kicking her horse into a gallop, she bolted into the trees, her surroundings blurring as branches whipped past her.
The searing pain in her arm was almost unbearable, and she clenched her teeth to stifle the cry building in her throat. She couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when someone had just shot her.
Lord Westcott had tricked her. Anger and betrayal coursed through her as she pushed her horse harder, darting through the woodlands. She glanced over her shoulder repeatedly, her eyes scanning for any sign of pursuit, but the woods seemed empty behind her.
Finally, the familiar outline of her stepfather’s manor appeared in the distance and Elsbeth let out a shaky breath of relief. The throbbing in her arm was relentless, and every jolt from the horse’s hooves sent waves of pain coursing through her. She reined in her horse. She had made it back home, but not without consequences.
The sound of hurried footsteps greeted her as the white-haired groom, Morton, stepped out from the stables’ lantern-lit entrance. She felt a wave of relief wash over her. Morton had been with her family since she was young, and he would not betray her confidence.
“I have been shot,” Elsbeth blurted out. Finally allowing herself to cry, she felt tears roll down her cheeks.
Morton’s expression hardened, but his tone was steady. “Where?”
“My left arm.”
“Do you need help off your horse?”
“No,” she replied, sliding down from the saddle. She stumbled slightly, her legs weak, but Morton was quick to steady her.
He took the reins, guiding the horse into the stables. “Come inside,” he said. “I will take a look at it.”
She followed him into the warm, hay-scented stables. The soft nickering of horses filled the quiet space, but Elsbeth could hardly hear it over the pounding in her ears.
“Sit,” Morton ordered, gesturing to a nearby stool. He had never been so direct with her before, but she wasn’t about to say anything about it.
Obediently, she sank onto the stool, and removed her wool cloak. Glancing down, she winced at the sight of her sleeve. It was soaked with blood. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the edges of the stool to keep from fainting.
Morton pulled another stool beside her and sat down, his frown deepening as he inspected the wound. “You should see a doctor,” he muttered, his face grim. “This isn’t something I should be handling.”
“No, I can’t go to a doctor,” Elsbeth said. “How would I explain getting shot?”
Morton muttered a curse under his breath as she rolled up her sleeve. She bit back a cry of pain as the fabric peeled away, sticking to the wound.
“The bullet grazed you,” he said after a long moment. “Right below the shoulder. You will need stitches, but it could have been much worse.”
