Page 63 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
“I am sorry.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Such an inadequate word for the weightiness of this conversation. Though the day had been relatively warm for mid-February she had been out for a long while and cold was beginning to creep into her bones. No matter how little she wanted to move she had a long walk back into town, too.
“Thank you for bringing us her effects,” Mrs. Leakes called after her. Antonia ought to help her carry the bag into her cottage. Yet an irresistible pull of her feet in a different direction. She nearly tripped as her entire body torqued back in the direction she had come from not a quarter hour ago.
Halfway back down the hill, the sound of hoofbeats thundered over hard-packed earth. Antonia knew that sound. It brought bile rising to the back of her throat. The world fuzzed gray at the edges as stark terror seized her innards.
I was trying to make things right.
The fast riders might not be coming for her, anyway. Yet in her morning of wanderings up through Idless asking where the Webber family—and then, pinpointing which branch had the most direct relation to Edith—Antonia had seen perhaps a handful of other people about. Not one had come down this sleepy road that coiled around the countryside to farms, and onward to tin and copper mines.
Two bulky forms hunched over gray and bay horses spied her and hauled up fast. Antonia shied off to the side of the road.
“You, boy. Have you seen a woman?”
Antonia’s knees nearly gave out. “Up at the farm,” she croaked in a voice far too feminine to her own ears.
“On this road, have you seen a woman traveling with a heavy sack within the past half-hour or so?” demanded a hard-looking man atop the dancing gray.
“No. Only myself, sir.” Her American accent peeked out around the edges of her vowels, flattening them into a drawl that must surely give her away.
“Which farm?” demanded the man on the bay with heaving flanks.
“The…”Think, woman. One more lie to save your hide and then you can stop forever.“The Webber’s.”
Gray horse’s rider scowled. “And you didn’t see a woman. You are certain.”
Her heart stopped. She was caught. Antonia would hang. When would she learn that caring about people never caused anything but trouble? Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to flee, or to fling herself to the ground and beg mercy. Yet, it seemed her time was not quite up, for Bay Rider spat onto the cold dirt and growled, “He knows nothing. She cannot be far ahead. We’re wasting time.”
The two men dashed off. Antonia’s body sagged with relief, to heavy and weak to move. It had been simple to discard the skirt and jacket in favor of the trousers she already wore and a well-fitted men’s jacket and topcoat. A twist of her hair up beneath a concealing hat and she had walked into the hamlet as a man. Her personal trunk awaited her return at the inn—if only her legs found the strength to carry her there. Antonia placed one foot before the other. The world did not spin or fall away. It held her up. Cold air pulled into her lungs and burned her throat. Moisture clung to her skin and dampened her under shirt damp where it turned clammy with the cold.
She would live to lie another day.
Antonia was so tired of the lies.
Her tired legs shuffled her down the hill. At the bottom, she stopped to rest on an old oak stump. In a quarter-hour or so, she would return to the inn, order a meal and collect her baggage. And then…and then what? Where would she go? Paris had been one option, but she hadn’t learned French. Scotland? Ireland? Or southward to Spain?
Antonia had finally stopped running. Not because she had found a sense of belonging or satisfaction. Because she had left the only friend she had ever cared about. Worse, she had left him. The gentle, kind man whom life had gifted with more material wealth than any man needed and saddled him with parents who couldn’t love one another.
Fear of pain had carried her this far. Yet she had washed up in a town of a few hundred souls in Cornwall with no idea who she was any longer. Everything she cared about was back down this road. All she had to do was follow it to Idless, get back on a stagecoach and travel longer, busier roads until she reached London. She would give her life for one more chance to touch Malcolm’s face.
The sound of horse hooves on packed earth made her swallow regretfully. Her curse had always been an inability to be content with what she had. She ought to get up. Move off from this forlorn tree trunk holding her bottom up off the cold ground. Fight to stay alive. Yet suddenly, Antonia no longer cared whether she was caught and punished for her crimes. Let Bow Street take her.
“Miss Lowry?” a man called out. Her chin jerked up, and Antonia was horrified to discover her cheeks were damp with tears. Shocked, she scrambled up. Her arse was numb, her hands so chilled the nail beds had turned blue, and her stomach empty of food but physical discomfort fell away as hope flooded through her. Havencrest’s driver.
“Yes!” she called out, waving. The great black coach lumbered up to her. Before it halted the door flung open and Havencrest leaped out. He stumbled a little as his feet hit the ground, righted himself, and caught her by the waist.
“You’re safe. Antonia.” Kisses, warm and life-restoring, rained down on her cheeks.
“I was coming back,” she gasped. The words were truth, not lies, and they burst out of her very soul. “I couldn’t leave you. Even though I did. I had one last thing to accomplish and when I was done, I had no more reason to run.”
Havencrest scooped her effortlessly into his arms. Antonia may as well have levitated into his embrace. She had tried to run from her pain. In doing so she had abandoned all hope of happiness. Caring about others meant pain, but for the first time she could remember her heart beat free with wild joy. Her hands clutched at Havencrest’s dark locks. Her hat knocked askew over her forehead. Beneath the battered brim she kissed and touched his face as though to reassure herself he was real.
He had come for her.
Havencrest stilled. Antonia’s feet touched the ground and she stood, listening. Hoofbeats.
No. Not now, when she had so much to lose.
“Get in the coach,” Malcolm demanded. Antonia threw herself at the door. The footman’s jacket shifted as he went to open it. Dread slowed time. It slammed closed behind her and locked from the outside.
