Page 48 of The Lady’s No Angel

“Well, then, ladies,” he said, just as if they were at a garden party or a picnic. “Shall we take a little stroll?”

Though the desire to stay close was palpable, it was not practical. So they spread out, keeping one another in sight, but far enough apart to cover as much ground as possible.

The odd sense of melancholy that had stolen over Angel when they had first set eyes on the heath seemed to sink into her bones. Now and then she would see a marker, sometimes a sturdy wooden cross with a name, sometimes only two twigs bound with string. That she was walking over hundreds, perhaps thousands of graves, made her skin crawl, her imagination conjuring horrific images of hands pushing up through the ground and grabbing at her skirts, her ankles.

She shuddered and told herself not to be such a ninny. Still, she did not think she’d be reading any horrid Gothic novels anytime soon.

Time seemed to stand still, the next step blurring into the one after, and the one after that. Gorse and brambles caught at her skirts and now and then she would have to stop and untangle herself. Though she tried not to look, the gallows seemed inescapable, a dark, threatening presence that was always visible at the corner of her eye. Even if she turned her back, she could still feel it looming.

Glancing up at the sky, she wondered how long they had been here, an hour? Two? It felt like days.

Though she fought to keep it at bay, doubt niggled at the back of her mind like a maggot on cheese. What if Pops was wrong? What if any marker he had left was long since gone, worn away by time and exposure?

No. Pops was no fool. He would not have sent her here if there was no way to find his treasure.

“Where are you, Jenny?” she murmured under her breath, twitching at her skirts as the hem snagged on a patch of gorse. She took another step and, suddenly, something burst from the scrub at her feet.

Angel screamed.

Air battered her face, flapping wings and a soft, desperate scraping at her cheeks. A dry, almost human sound rang in her ears, her heart stuttering with fear.

“Angel!”

She stumbled back, falling on her arse on the stony ground.

A moment later, Leo was before her. He gazed down at her, worry making fine lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Oh, Lord, but he was so handsome it made her heart ache just looking at him.

“Angel? Are you hurt?”

She stared up at him, her jaw set. “Only my pride,” she groused, feeling like a fool.

He grinned at her and reached down, catching her under her arms, lifting her with ease. Once she was upright again, he brushed at her skirts, adjusted the shawl about her shoulders, and gave her bonnet a little tweak to straighten it.

“There. Fine as fivepence,” he said softly.

Angel rolled her eyes. Though she would have died rather than admit it, her nerves were still jangling and the urge to reach out and clutch at his hand was nigh on irresistible. She folded her arms, tucking her icy fingers into her armpits to ensure she did no such thing.

“It was a nightjar,” he told her, his voice gentle, seeming to understand that she was still vibrating with the shock of it. But it was this place. She could not wait to leave it. “They nest on the ground. I’m afraid you scared it a deal more than it scared you.”

“Doubtful,” she retorted, still sullen. She reached for the ribbons of her bonnet, which were hanging loose after constant worrying by the wind, which never ceased tugging at them, flapping them about her face and neck. With quick, angry movements, she tied them back up, swallowing down a sudden knot of emotion.

“We’ll find her.”

She looked up at the sound of his voice, so deep and solemn. Tears prickled at her eyes as she met his gaze. He understood. Though he didn’t say another word, just stood there, all big and manly and solid, she knew she could trust him. Leo Cleaver was as reliable, as unmovable, as English oak. He would not let her down.

“Oh, Leo,” she said, the words quavering.

He reached for her, pulling her close and hugging her to him.

“We’ll find her, love. I promise. Even if it’s not today. I’ll come back every day until we discover her. My word of honour.”

“Oh!” she said, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. She hit him with her clenched fist, striking where his heart lay beneath layers of linen and wool. “Oh, you wretched man. Why must you be so very… good?”

“Good?” he exclaimed, rearing back in alarm. “Me?”

He looked so shocked and appalled at the suggestion that she did laugh then. The sound seemed to echo around them, incongruous, blasphemous almost as it rippled over the graves of those lying still beneath the earth.

“Yes, you,” she told him, pressing her palm against the place she had struck him. “I’m sorry I told you to go.”