His eyes found the Whitmore phaeton. Two young gentlemen must have escorted Miss Whitmore out of doors, for they lingered at each of her elbows, necks craned toward her, seemingly relishing the laugh she rewarded them.
Simon slammed the window shut. No, he had no qualms. He was finished with yielding to senseless rules. He was finished with society circles and gossipmongers. He was finished with arranged marriages and well-respected positions and painful monotony.
Tonight, he would escape.
He was running indeed, but not away as Father had accused. He was running to the unknown, to the things he could not paint, to the words he could not say—the chance to accomplish something of worth.
He did not know what. Nor where.
But he would not cease searching until he did.
CHAPTER 1
October 1813
Marwicktow, North Carolina
A terrorized scream rent the air.
Jerking the reins to his leather-coated chest, Simon felt his heart stutter to a stop. Everything froze. He told himself to move, to leap from the wagon seat, but he could not rip his eyes from the scene.
The cabin, built with his own hands, stood with rain-darkened logs. Mud and drenched grass covered the yard, as chickens puttered to shelter beneath the porch and brown-yellow leaves tore from stripping branches—
A second scream sent him hurling from the wagon. He ran with the rain in his face, already groping for the knife in his boot, as his mind denied the wails he’d heard twice.
A snake had frightened little Mercy. Perhaps even young John.
But his wife would not scream.
Not Ruth. Never Ruth.
Teeth ground, he lunged into the front door, wood splintering as it crashed open. His blood drained.No.
Like a smeared, ghastly painting, she slumped to the floor in the corner of the cabin. Half unclothed. Hair in the fists of the long-haired man towering over her—
A shadow lunged at Simon from behind the door. He hit the ground, knife thudding to the floor, but he fingered to retrieve it as a bony fist smacked his jaw. Pain flared.Mercy. John.He seized the knife, rammed his forehead into the face bearing down on him, and plunged the weapon.
The blade struck the man’s neck. Blood sputtered.
Shoving the figure off him, Simon rolled, sprang to his feet, faced the corner with his arms spread.
The long-haired beast held Ruth before him, as if a shield. His eyes were crazed with fear. “Listen, sir—Mr. Fancourt—”
Ruth’s eyes were shut. Her head draped over his arm. Limp.
“This is not as brutal as you would imagine. I swear upon everything holy that I—”
“Unhand her.”
“It was not me. It was my acquaintance.” The beast nodded to the floor, to the blood seeping into the packed dirt. “I followed him…tried to restrain him. You must believe me, for I—”
In one abrupt movement, he slung Ruth forward, darted for a window, threw himself through the greased paper and wooden slats.
Simon dove after him. He landed outside the cabin on his stomach, cool mud smearing his face, as he scrambled back up and bounded after the running figure. Emotions raged through him. They boiled to the tip of his sanity, burst into flames of insanity.Ruth.He ran harder, up the mountainside.Mercy. John.His children. Where were his children?
Trees towered around them, as the mountain grew steeper. The air tasted musty, moist, like everything rotting and dying and cold. He itched to throw his bone-handled knife into the beast’s back. For the second time today, he could kill. God forgive him, but hewantedto kill again.
The man hit the ground with a screech, as if his boots had skidded under wet leaves. He clawed at dirt, roots, anything, but rolled down the mountain anyway.
