Page 17 of The Swindler’s Daughter

He studied me, confusion lining his face. “But not angry?”

“Should I be angry?” I asked in frustration. “Because honestly, I can’t decide. Looking at the basic facts leaves me furious, because I do not believe that anything should justify outright thievery. But Johnny tells me you’re helping people, and I saw for myself the way that the constables were abusing their power.”

His brow furrowed in concern. “What happened?” His worried eyes raked over me from head to toe.

It was strange to see him suddenly so protective, and it took me a moment to gather up my thoughts again. “All I saw was one of the constables take a handful of nuts, then another one commented on how fine my arrows were.”

His eyes narrowed. “Commented?”

“It was…” I thought back on the encounter. “I don’t know. For a moment it seemed like he was going to take one, but then he asked what house I worked for. After I told him, his demeanor changed and he gave it back.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “So in all likelihood, if you didn’t work for a powerful and well-respected family, he would have taken that arrow right out of your hand and kept it.”

I wanted to claim it wasn’t as bad as that, but my intuition whispered that he was right. I shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe” was all the concession I was willing to give.

He turned away, his hands flexing at his sides before turning back. “What exactly do you expect people to do when the lawmen are the ones breaking the law?”

How I wished I had the answer, but all I could do was stand there with everything that I thought I knew tied up in knots and shake my head. “I don’t have an answer for that.”

He looked at me, his eyes intense, his jaw working from side to side. “Well, I think I do. So unless you come up with a better way to handle things, I’m going to continue to help in my own way.”

He took a slow step back, his eyes raking over me one more time, then turned to walk away.

Worry and fear swelled uncomfortably in my chest. “Just—” I called after him, and he paused. “Just don’t drag the others down with you. Please.”

He hung his head then turned to face me, holding his hands out at his sides. “I’m just doing what I think is right. Anyone who chooses to help me does so of their own volition.” He walked away, leaving me standing there, frustrated that he hadn’t budged at all. And even more frustrated that a part of me agreed with him.

4

I walked along the path that led to the Lockleys’ cottage, a basket propped on my hip. It was time to replenish the herb stores that were used for healing up at the manor house. I hoped that Rowan would have the herbs ready and waiting for me so that I could take them and be on my way without having to deal with my tangled thoughts about how he was stealing money in order to return it. And if I could avoid his charm that annoyed and excited me at the same time, that was all the better.

As I approached his door, I called out a hello in case he was working out in the yard as he was wont to do at this time of day. There was no response, so I knocked sharply on the door.

There was no response to that either. Odd. Rowan shared the cottage with both of his parents. At least one of them should have been at home. Perplexed, I hitched my basket up on my hip and headed around to the back of the house, where the herb garden spread out in tidy rows. Rowan was there, standing amid the rows of plants, his eyes glazed as he rested heavily on the shovel in his hands.

“Rowan?” I called as I approached.

It took him several seconds to look up and even longer for his eyes to focus on me.

“Miriam,” he said in a weak imitation of his usual voice.

I set the basket down and hurried to his side. “Rowan?” I asked, concerned by his pallor. His eyes fixed on me for just a moment, and I saw they were feverish. There was no sweat on his brow, though it was a warm day, and his breath was labored with exertion. “You are ill,” I concluded. “You need to go in and rest.”

He cast his eyes about him, though I wasn’t sure he truly saw anything. “Not done…”

“You’ve done enough,” I insisted as I gently pried the shovel handle from his grip. As soon as I did, though, he lurched to the side as if that had been the only thing holding him up.

Alarm shot through me as I reached out to try to steady him. He was not overly broad, but he was tall enough that I would be of little help if he collapsed.

Fortunately, he managed to right himself with my assistance, and I pulled his arm over my shoulders, helping him through the garden and around to his door. With each step, he seemed to lean on me more and more heavily, and by the time I pushed his door open, I feared we were in danger of crumpling to the ground. It was by sheer force of will that I maneuvered him the last several feet and heaved him onto the smaller of the two mattresses in the two-room dwelling.

His eyes were glazed and drifting shut. “Rowan?” I was out of breath. “Rowan Lockley,” I said again, patting his face in an attempt to get him to focus. “How long have you been ill?”

“Not ill,” he mumbled.

I blew out a breath. “You are most assuredly ill.” The temperature of his face under my hands attested to that.

His eyes were already closed, though, and I very much hoped he was simply sleeping and not entirely unconscious. I straightened and rested my hands on my hips, wondering what to do next. I couldn’t just leave him, but I also didn’t want to impose where I didn’t belong.