Page 67 of The Lord Meets His Lady

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.