Fifteen

The sun dropped low, the end of the workday. Genevieve stood in the garden behind linens fluttering from one of the many rope lines strung through the area. Lily and Ruby Dutton helped her, making today’s wash tomorrow’s ironing. What ought to have been drudgery had become a privilege. Cleaning, sweeping, cooking. Small tasks fit together, creating something bigger.

A home. For her and for the healing horses finding a better life.

Pallinsburn was in her blood. Each day, dirt collected in the creases of her palm, the gritty lines telling a story. The tale braided tightly with the cottage master, a man finding his way like her.

She rolled a long sheet end over end, watching Lord Bowles fixing a gate for the east pasture. He’d kept his distance all day—a consequence of last night, she was sure. Though much distance stretched between them, his keen stare followed her beneath the brim of his hat.

Holding the sheet close, she smiled about last night.

About lessons in gentling a horse. About him kissing her.

He’d asked her to sit with him in the kitchen and eat dinner with him as though she lived at his station, but when he’d presented the paper in the barn with the simple message about her grandmother, the ground had wavered.

“It’s up to you what you do next,” he’d said.

Lord Bowles had offered to deliver her to the Coldstream vicarage whenever she deemed herself ready. He gave her a certain sense of power. For a young woman who’d fought hard for every piece of happiness, the freedom was frightening.

She could leave.

Her grandmother lived on the other side of the River Tweed. She’d found what she was looking for, hadn’t she?

Then why did she feel so…hollow?

Hammers echoed across the meadow. Lily and Ruby chattered on about next month’s Twelfth Night celebrations. Ruby slapped smaller linens over a rope line at the garden’s entrance. Dozens of stained cloths testified to the healing work done on the horses.

“Miss, a rider’s comin’,” Ruby called out. “Can’t say I recognize him.”

Genevieve dropped the sheet in a basket. “I’ll alert his lordship.”

Black-winged birds scattered before her when she turned. Wind from flapping wings brushed an unearthly chill across her face. The flock flew through the air and perched on the cottage roof, their beady eyes following her.

“Wretched birds.” Her footsteps slowed on the gravel path, her nape tingling. Those steady hoofbeats…

She ducked, half hidden by fluttering linens. Coming off the road, a rider of military bearing dressed in black galloped toward the cottage. Light glinted off a large, round silver pin on his cocked hat. He stood taller in the saddle, as if he’d sighted her—or caught her scent.

She clutched her cloak over her chest. “Reinhard.”

The Wolf had found her.

Lily came around the clothesline. “Is something wrong, miss?”

Genevieve yanked her hood up high. “The rider,” she choked out. “He can’t find me.”

Lily nodded, catching on quickly. The maid peeked over the sheet. “Hide in the forest,” she hissed.

Genevieve grabbed handfuls of her skirts and, crouching behind the laundry line, darted to the dark trees.

“Genevieve!” The Prussian’s strong Germanic voice volleyed across the garden. “I see you.”

Her heart banged, the noise loud in her ears. From the edge of her hood, she could see his dark form sitting above rows of white linen. He rode into the garden to snatch her.

Run!

One leg shot in front of the other. Twigs snapped. Both feet pounded the earth. She sped deeper into the woods. Trees tangled everywhere. Low, thin branches clawed at her hood as if to hold her back. Her lungs burst. Air rushed in, knife sharp and bitterly cold.

“Genevieve!” Reinhard’s deep voice rang out in the forest.

She searched the dark woods. Where to hide? Rain-soaked trees were everywhere. The middle. It was darkest there. She leaped over a log. Her hem snagged on a jutting piece, jerking her back. She cried at being stuck and crouched low. Frenzied hands yanked hard until cloth ripped, and she was free.

Footfalls crashed behind her. Closer. Louder. Peeking over the fallen tree, she spied his dark form. He scanned the woods, his blond queue light on his black collar. Reinhard stilled, and slowly, slowly, he turned on his heel.

“I see you, Genevieve.”

The blasted red cloak.

The metallic taste of fear spurted across her tongue. She grabbed her skirts and fled. The forest blurred despite her wide-eyed search for safety. Running, she glanced back. Reinhard’s long legs ate up the ground. Big arms swung back and forth, matching his determined strides. He was gaining on her.

Low branches tore her hair. Her lungs burned. The cold. He was going to catch her. She looked back, her hair whipping her face. Her toes caught on a rock. The forest spun wildly, and her knees slammed the earth. The heels of her hands skidded over sodden leaves and dirt. Wetness stung her eyes.

Every sense screamed Get up!

Fight was not an option with Reinhard Wolf. Flight was all she had.

She pushed off the ground and tripped again, colliding with a tree. Bark scratched her palms, her cheek. Panting, she clung to the tree trunk, her eyes squeezing shut. Heavy footfalls crashed behind her. Her heart banged painfully against her breastbone. She shook from head to toe, lips and fingers numb.

She was caught.

A large hand gripped her shoulder. “Why do you run from me?”

Reinhard breathed heavier from his sprint. At least the chase had cost him some discomfort. Air billowed from Genevieve’s lungs. He spun her around, and she slumped against the tree.

“I thought I was free,” she whimpered.

His big hands brushed hair off her face. “Free? How can you say that? Have I not given you much?” His thumb stroked her jawline. “You know how much I want you.”

Her heart sank.

Possession was what Reinhard Wolf wanted. Full possession.

“Please,” she begged. “Can’t you let me go?”

Light-blue eyes stared at her, oddly piercing with the black ring around light blue—a predator’s eyes glowing in the dark forest.

“Never.”

Her heels hit the tree trunk. Why couldn’t she want him back? And be the kind of woman who gloried in the arrangement he offered? Herr Reinhard Wolf was handsome and accomplished. The wide planes of his face, his wheat-blond hair, and shoulders broad enough to carry life’s burdens should tempt her. Women in her position would dance a jig to be with him.

But she didn’t.

His presence loomed. Black clothes and clean, white shirt. His soldier’s bearing, staunch and proud in the twilight forest. Everything was wet, smelling of decaying wood and rich loam. Birds warbled from branches, disturbed by the chase, their twilight songs a reminder of the man she’d leave behind.

“So contrary, my Genevieve.” Reinhard traced her cheek. “You know you belong to me.”

Her face crumpled. Dreams for her future vanished under his claiming touch. Reinhard Wolf never gave back what he thought was rightfully his, and she was foremost on his list of possessions. She’d miss Pallinsburn—the horses, the cottage, and, most of all, the charming master for whom she’d toiled. So much gentleness here, but there was no escaping her fate.

“You have a hunter’s sense, Reinhard. You miss nothing.”

“All the better to keep you by my side.” He kissed her forehead. “Now, we’re leaving.”

Footfalls smashed the underbrush.

A pistol cocked. “Not with her.” Lord Bowles. His cheroot-rough voice came from behind Reinhard.

The Prussian turned, his grip firm on her elbow. Lord Bowles and Mr. Beckworth stood side by side, pistols drawn.

“You must be Lord Marcus Bowles,” Reinhard said, his face a stoic mask.

Lord Bowles’s eyes narrowed on the possessive hold. “I am, and we’re here to escort you off my land.”

“I will gladly leave with what is rightfully mine.” The sharp English rolled off Reinhard’s tongue.

“Rightfully yours? You mean Miss Turner?” Lord Bowles’s brows snapped. “She’s not chattel.”

“As I said, she leaves with me.”

Lord Bowles’s hazel stare pinned her. “Do you want to leave with this man?”

His intense gaze boded another question: Do you want to stay with me?

Tenderness flickered inside her. He promised fierce protection. Lord Bowles was at least a stone or two less than Reinhard and three inches shorter, but he faced down the Prussian soldier, not giving up on her.

Throat tight, she swiped a hand across her eyes. “I wish I could stay—”

“She wants to stay.” Lord Bowles’s smile was a cold slash of white in the dark. “Your first clue should’ve been her screaming and running away from you. Always a bad sign when a woman does that.”

Reinhard’s lips thinned. “This does not concern you.”

“Oh, but it does. I want you gone. Now. Or I’ll put a hole in you.”

“I think not, Englisch.”

Reinhard reached one hand inside his coat, and Lord Bowles raised his pistol to shoot.

“Wait!” Reinhard’s empty hands shot up. “I have something to show you. It’s in my coat pocket.”

Freed, Genevieve darted to a tree beside Lord Bowles. She took quick, harsh breaths and leaned against the tree. Bitter truth roiled her insides. Mr. Beckworth and Lord Bowles glanced sidelong at each other. Air hung thick as a suffocating blanket in the late-day forest. The truth was coming.

“Slowly,” Lord Bowles ordered. “I won’t hesitate to shoot if you try anything.”

Reinhard dug inside his coat pocket and pulled out a paper folded neatly in quarters. “Read this, Englisch. Then you’ll understand.”

A frigid breeze skirled through the woods, chilling Genevieve to the bone.

Mr. Beckworth stepped forward, snatching the paper. “Let me see that.”

A bag of stones could have been in Genevieve’s stomach, sinking her body and soul. The ground tilted, and she hugged her cloak about her, glad for the tree’s support. Her knees stung. Her scraped hands hurt. Trees menaced everywhere, and she couldn’t stop shaking. Mr. Beckworth held the paper up to waning light. He scanned the page, his scowl deepening. One didn’t need full light to see large, condemning words written boldly across the top.

This Indenture.

Her body wilted from the weight of that paper. “It’s true,” she admitted. “I’m a runaway indentured servant. I have to go with him.”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Lord Bowles said fiercely.

Mr. Beckworth folded the contract and held it out for Lord Bowles. “Want to see it? Looks authentic.”

“No. Burn it for all I care.”

Reinhard held out his hand for the contract. “Genevieve has her own copy. Let her show you hers.”

There was nothing anyone could do. She was the Prussian’s chattel.

She took a step, but Lord Bowles’s arm blocked her. Staring at Reinhard, he spoke to her. “I’ll ask again. Do you want to go with this man?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Tucking the contract in his coat, the Prussian sneered, “If she doesn’t come with me today, I’ll be back tomorrow with a magistrate. By your own laws, Englisch, she’s compelled to come with me.”

She shivered. That word. He’d said it before when he’d told her he was taking her away to Königsberg. Reinhard and Lord Marcus eyed each other, two foes measuring an opponent. With Reinhard’s size and fighting skills, she feared for Lord Marcus. Yet, his arm barred her.

“Samuel, would you escort this trespasser to the road?”

“Gladly.” Pistol aimed at the Prussian, Mr. Beckworth’s chin jutted toward the cottage. “You heard him. Get moving.”

Reinhard’s eyes flashed, but he was no fool. Skilled fighter that he was, two pistols at close range were something he dare not challenge.

“I’ve waited this long. One more day won’t deter me.” His mouth turned in a grim smile. “Until tomorrow.”