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“You try getting dirt on something of my father’s and see how protective you become.”

Grace looked Garrick straight in the eyes and lied. “I have no reason to fear your father.” She stepped closer, keeping his gaze. His pupils dilated.

Fear.

He was concerned about her apparent apathy towards his father. She smirked. That was beneficial.

Garrick broke the gaze. He’d finally remembered she wasn’t worth his full attention. Grace used the moment to dash for the bag.

Garrick’s hand swept in front of her, grabbed her arm, and spun her away.

The unexpected rotation left Grace unsteady for a moment.

When she looked up, Garrick had maneuvered himself back to the doorway. “Guess I finally got that dance.”

Grace felt the heat of embarrassment and indignation stain her neck.

Backing away from Grace, watching carefully, Garrick tucked the bag under his arm.

Grace started after him, but he slipped through the doorway and the click of the front door told Grace he’d left the home altogether.

She halted and glared at the spot where Garrick had been.

Her arm burned where he’d grasped her, and she knew the blotches on her cheeks were as vibrant as her hair.

Scoundrel of a man, Garrick Clairmont.

It wasn’t a dance. Of course it wasn’t a dance, and yet she felt like she’d lost both the battle in Mayor Kavanah’s home as well as the battle she’d been waging with Garrick at the soirées.

How could she have landed herself in this position? Garrick should never have been able to follow her. She was supposed to be stealthier than the Clairmonts. It was a miracle she’d come to her senses before she’d become the Rogue herself. She’d have been caught and hanged on day one.

So many lessons in the fortress and greater Sherwood Forest, and nothing to show for it. Father and Mother would be disappointed at her failure.

If they ever believed her about Garrick’s nefarious behavior, that is.

Grace scuffed her foot on the ground. “At least I found the Rogue’s clasp before the sheriff has men scour the place,” she muttered to herself. She patted her hand against her dress, feeling the heavy metal bump against her leg in the pocket.

Proof. She had proof that someone was running around as the Rogue.

Her search was over. This was where the man came.

But then an idea seeped in, chilling her very bones. Garrick had seen the clasp. If he realized what it was, the town was already doomed. Or his father might recognize the description, since Mr. Milner’s cloak and clasp had been confiscated when he was arrested.

Grace prayed Garrick simply thought she’d held a random bit of metal.

Maybe, if she staked out this building, confronted the Rogue, and convinced him to stop, everything would be fine.

But, no.

Hadn’t she already acknowledged that the sheriff would come search this building after Garrick’s report of their interaction?

She’d be questioned. Her family would be questioned.

It would be better if they could truthfully say they knew nothing about it. Showing her parents the proof would have to wait.

Her chest constricted. She felt the sheriff’s hot breath on her neck as if it were happening now.

“Careful, Miss Robbins. Accidents happen when misguided rebels find themselves alone with me. I do my best to practice my blade work, but even masters slip and nick a pretty neck now and then.”