Page 9

E lsbeth sat atop her horse, hidden within the dense shadows of trees lining the road, her heart pounding as she waited for her stepfather’s coach.

She clenched the reins tightly, her breath visible in the chilly night air.

The weight of her mission pressed heavily on her shoulders.

She needed that key. The secrets it guarded consumed her thoughts.

A low whinny from the woodlands snapped her attention away.

Her pulse quickened. Someone else was here.

She wasn’t alone. Swallowing her fear, Elsbeth reached for the pistol tucked into the waistband of her trousers.

She couldn’t be caught. Not like this. The repercussions would be disastrous, and her family’s already tarnished reputation would be utterly ruined.

From the shadows emerged a lone figure on horseback. The moonlight glinted off his dark hair, and the sound of his voice sent a chill down her spine. “Don’t go,” he called out. “I mean you no harm.”

Her heart sank.

That voice. She would recognize it anywhere .

Lord Westcott.

For a moment, her instinct screamed for her to flee, to disappear deeper into the woodlands and abandon this foolish confrontation. But her curiosity held her in place. Why was he here? What did he want?

Lowering her voice to disguise it, she asked, “What do you want?”

“I just want to talk,” he replied.

She adjusted her mask, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to maintain her composure. “Talk? At this hour? Out here? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”

“I want to understand why you are doing this,” Lord Westcott replied.

“I do not owe you an explanation.”

Lord Westcott urged his horse forward but stopped a short distance away. “No,” he admitted, “but you seem driven, purposeful. What compels you to take such a risk?”

He wouldn’t understand her reasonings so there was no point in telling him the truth. “It is just something I have to do.”

“Are you in need of money?”

Elsbeth frowned. “I am not doing this for the money.”

“Then why are you doing this?” Lord Westcott pressed. “After all, you are risking your life by robbing coaches.”

“It is a risk worth taking.”

Lord Westcott tilted his head, studying her carefully. “Perhaps I could help.”

She almost laughed at the absurdity of his offer. “And what, pray tell, could you do, my lord?”

“You remember me, then?”

Elsbeth tightened the hold on her reins, silently chiding herself on the slip of her tongue. “I do,” she replied. “You are rather hard to forget.”

“I am at a loss since I do not know your name.”

The sound of a twig snapping in the distance caused her head to turn towards the direction of the noise. “Did you come alone?”

“I did.”

Perhaps it was just an animal that had made that noise. But a feeling of uneasiness came over her. Why was she chatting with Lord Westcott in the woodlands? She had a mission that she had to accomplish but she couldn’t do so with him here.

Lord Westcott’s voice drew back her attention. “You can trust me.”

“Trust you?” she asked. “Why would I do something so foolish?”

“I can help you.”

In a strained voice, she replied, “No one can help me. I must do this on my own.”

“That is a sad way to live.”

“And what do you know about that?” Elsbeth challenged. What would an earl know about struggles?

The moon shifted and it illuminated his face. It showed a pain that she didn’t think he was capable of. “I know what it is like feeling alone,” he admitted.

“But you aren’t alone.”

“Just because someone is surrounded by people, it doesn’t mean they can’t feel alone,” he replied.

“I agree with that sentiment,” Elsbeth said, knowing that feeling well. She lived in a home that was filled with servants, but she had never felt more alone. Isolated. Even her own mother didn’t quite know what to do with her.

Lord Westcott’s voice held compassion. “I am in a position that I can help you.”

She decided to ask the most glaring question. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know why, but I recognize a kindred soul when I see one,” Lord Westcott replied.

Elsbeth’s stomach tightened at his words. “We are not kindred souls, my lord.” They were far from it. He wouldn’t be saying such things if he knew her true identity.

Lord Westcott shrugged. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it.”

“You are a powerful lord, and I am…” Her words trailed off as she tried to find the right word. “Helpless.”

“No one is helpless.”

“How naive of you,” Elsbeth stated, her words curt. “You are an earl and have the world at your disposal. I am just a woman.”

Lord Westcott considered her for a long moment. “You seem like a remarkable woman. One who has a story to tell.”

“Everyone has a story to tell.”

“Yes, but some are more interesting than others,” Lord Westcott contended. “Not many ladies turn to being highwaywomen.”

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.”

“Will it hurt?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Yes,” he replied bluntly.

Elsbeth squared her shoulders. “All right. Do what you need to do.”

Morton rose from his stool. “It has been some time since I have sewn stitches on a person, not since my days in the Royal Army,” he said before he went to retrieve a weathered leather pouch. “It will no doubt leave a scar.”

“The scar is the least of my concerns,” Elsbeth replied.

Morton returned to his stool and gave her a hard look. “You need to stop this madness, my lady. Nothing is worth risking your life.”

“But my stepfather—” she began.

He cut her off. “Who cares if he has secrets? Don’t we all?” he asked. “I have been complicit in all of this since I have looked the other way. But enough is enough. You can’t go around playing a highwaywoman.”

For a moment, Elsbeth considered his words. Maybe he was right. Perhaps she was pushing things too far, taking too many risks. But then she thought of Alfred’s locked drawers, the whispered conversations, and the lies. She couldn’t let it go. “I need to know what he is hiding,” she said quietly.