The housekeeper, Mrs. Morrey, was three feet away from the front door—her rigid back turned to Isabella as she situated blue delphiniums in a porcelain vase.
Isabella crept with bated breath, clutching her riding crop to her side.
Six more steps. Five. Four. Three until she made it to the door—
“Miss Gresham, I have not yet heard you practicing the piano-forte.”
A sigh blew out Isabella’s cheeks. If it were not so terribly unladylike, she would have grunted an answer instead of speaking one. “I am only saving the best amusements for last.”
Mrs. Morrey turned with a knowing expression. “Indeed.”
“I shall be off on my ride and return to fill the entire manor with beautiful songs—”
“You know your father wishes you to practice.”
“Yes, but he shall not badger me.”
“The dilemma precisely.” Mrs. Morrey stepped forward, her thin and wiry frame tense as always, her chestnut hair pulled back into a severe chignon. “Which is why I try my best to do the job myself. You do not wish to be an unruly daughter, do you? If it were not for my guidance, who else would gently yet firmly direct you in the path all fine ladies must follow? Do you not wish to be accomplished?”
“Not particularly. What I wish is to ride my horse.”
An annoyed, condescending smile formed on the housekeeper’s lips. “Very well. You may, of course, do as you will. I only think it rather a shame that after all your father does for your delight, you would not try in this one way to gratify him—”
“Oh, please say no more. I shall go and practice.” Isabella’s shoulders wilted as she handed the fussy old housekeeper her riding crop. “But we both know my playing is rather horrid, so do not complain when we all must suffer the unbearable strains.” She ambled off to the music room and skulked to the piano, then began the wearisome notes and chords. After a short while, she glanced with longing to the window.
Rain streaked the glass, and thunder reverberated against the panes. Perhaps it would not have been a pleasant day to ride the seashore after all.
Rain slashed down on William in a cold, brutalizing torrent. He must have been unconscious many hours, for the sky teetered on the edge of purplish dusk.
He tried to move. Pain webbed through his side, fierce enough he dropped his head back against the wet rock. Blood puddled beneath him. He swallowed the salty, metallic taste in his mouth and clamped his hand against the bullet graze along his neck.
Bullet.His mind spun.Shot.Groaning, he strained to inspect the wound at his side.Shot twice.
Pain radiated through his body as he ripped off his cravat and pushed it into the hole along his left rib cage. The white fabric turned pink then red. How much had he bled?
Colors blurred as he squinted through the rain. Six or so feet of harsh, uneven cliff hovered over him. He’d be dead had it not been for this ledge.
He might be dead still, if he couldn’t get out of here.
Help me, God.The prayer shook through him as he elbowed himself up and fought the blackness crowding the periphery of his vision. Nausea roiled. He collapsed back and gritted his teeth against pain so intense it stole his breath.
Blackness sucked him back. Voices shouted at him. His aunt, with her knotty finger jabbing into William’s chest.“Wicked child.”Edward, with his booming voice of thunder.“Get out of here. Conniving blackguard. How dare you … dare you …”
Then the shadowed face. The continental hat. The luminous eyes glaring at William with a pistol lifted, aimed, fired.
William flinched, jolting himself back awake.Help.With torturing rain stinging his wounds, he dragged himself up. He fell against the wall of the cliff, secured his footing, and clawed upward with torn hands.Get me to the top.
He slid back to the ledge but hauled himself up and tried again.God, please.
Isabella descended the left side of the exterior stone stairs. Orange and pink streaked the morning sky, and the tropical scents of rain still lingered in the chilled air. Today, she would have her ride.
Whether Mrs. Morrey or Father liked it or not.
She paused at the fountain, squinting through dense fog toward the entrance gate. Who was that approaching?
She would have scuttled on to the stables, as likely any visitor was an acquaintance of Father. She should not like her ride to be delayed by formal greetings to somber-faced gentlemen.
But the vehicle nearing the manor was no shiny post chaise or landau or barouche, but a mere farmer’s cart.
