Page 52 of Alone with a Scarred Earl
Gabriel’s mask slipped for a brief instant, revealing raw conflict before he forced himself to rein it in. He desperately wished to continue trying to reason with his wife. But she was clearly set on going to her aunt, and he had no right to stopher, especially if the elderly woman was ill. Still, even as he stepped aside and let Genevieve storm past him, the dread and doubt compounded.
Preparations for Genevieve’s departure were made with grim efficiency, each arrangement carrying the sharp weight of unspoken turmoil. When the carriage finally pulled away, rattling toward London, Gabriel remained framed in the doorway, his stance rigid, his gaze locked onto its retreating form.
He did not move until the carriage disappeared entirely. Only then did he turn back into the shadowed hall, believing himself unobserved.
His composure shattered. A harsh exhale tore from his throat, raw anguish twisting his features. He leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his own certainty.
Letting her go was the right decision, he told himself weakly. The lie tasted like ash. The urge to recall the carriage, to ride after her, to undo his own conviction clawed at him with relentless force. Yet still, he did not move. He just had to hope he was wrong.
***
The road stretched ahead in a winding path, narrowing as the carriage moved deeper into the dense woodland. Hours had passed since their departure from Mountwood, and dusk was beginning to seep into the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the land. The countryside was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the packed earth and the occasional rustling of wind through the trees.
Genevieve sat rigidly inside the carriage, her fingers resting lightly against the folded letter in her lap, the fine parchment now crumpled at its edges from repeated handling. Her thoughts churned, replaying the events that had brought her to this moment, the sharp-edged argument with Gabriel still lingering like an ache beneath her skin. His refusal, his suspicion, his ironclad resistance to her departure had wounded her more deeply than she had anticipated. But she had not yielded. She could not. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to focus on the road ahead rather than the weight of everything she had left behind.
Outside, the towering oaks grew thicker, the canopy nearly enclosing the passage as the carriage rounded a sharp bend. The lead coachman slowed the horses slightly, adjusting their pace as they moved into the narrowing corridor. It was a routine shift, one Genevieve barely registered, until the sudden, sharp cry split the stillness.
“Hold,” the coachman said.
Genevieve straightened immediately, the warning reverberating through the carriage as the horses jerked against their reins. A jolt rocked the vehicle, sharp enough to make her grasp the edge of her seat to steady herself.
“What is it?” she asked.
The driver’s voice carried back, tense, clipped.
“A tree,” he said. “It is blocking the road.”
Genevieve pressed a hand against the window’s frame, shifting her gaze outward. A massive tree trunk lay across the passage, thick and deliberate, its placement unmistakably unnatural. The jagged edges where it had been cut revealed that it had not fallen by chance. Her pulse quickened.
The second coachman, riding alongside, surveyed the obstruction with narrowed eyes.
“Not recent,” he said. “This does not appear natural.”
“We’ll need to maneuver around,” the first coachman said.
Genevieve knew there was no alternative. Turning back was impossible. The only option was to attempt the uneven verge.
The lead coachman made his decision swiftly, guiding the horses cautiously off the road, onto softer ground. The carriage shifted beneath her as the wheels adjusted to the unsteady terrain. The movement was slow at first, tentative, until suddenly, the back wheels caught. Genevieve barely had time to react before the vehicle lurched violently. The horses reared, their cries sharp and frantic. Wood splintered beneath them. Balance was lost.
The carriage tilted sharply, one side rising as the weight buckled against the uneven ground. For an agonizing moment, time seemed suspended. Then, with a horrifying groan, the structure gave way, and it overturned. The carriage tumbled down the steep embankment, the force of the fall tearing through the air. Genevieve’s breath was stolen in an instant. Darkness and chaos swallowed everything.
Chapter Twenty-three
The world tilted violently, chaos exploding around her in a deafening cacophony of shattering glass, splintering wood, and shrieking metal. Genevieve barely had time to react before she was thrown forcefully against the padded door, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs in a brutal expulsion of air. Pain reverberated through her ribs, sharp and immediate, but there was no time to register it fully before the carriage lurched again, tossing her like a rag doll through the collapsing interior. She desperately tried to brace herself, hands clawing at anything that might steady her against the relentless momentum.
Gabriel tried to warn me...
The thought flashed, fleeting and fragmented, before agony erupted through her skull as something hard struck her temple. Stars burst behind her eyes, brilliant and blinding, before dissolving into suffocating darkness. The last fragmented image in her mind was Gabriel’s face, filled with anguish. Then, there was nothing.
***
From a concealed vantage higher up, hidden deep in the thicket, two rough-looking men watched the wreckage settle. Gregory Thomas glanced at his partner, George Goode, who was wiping sweat off his brow. Their faces remained impassive as they observed the scene below. He watched the struggling horses, the injured outriders, and the ominous stillness of the overturned carriage. Neither man spoke. Their task had been completed. Judging by the appearance of the wreckage, the ruin was indeed of a far greater extent than their master had desired. This had never been about an interception. There would be no ransom, no bargaining. Their instructions had been clear from the very beginning, ensure the message was delivered without arousing any suspicion. The wreckage spoke for itself. Without further acknowledgment, they exchanged brief nods and melted silently back into the woods, vanishing among the trees.
***
In all his years serving as Lord Mountwood’s footman, Francis Grant had never seen anything so horrific as the wreckage of the countess’s carriage. It took him several long moments before he could peer over the edge on which his mistress’s carriage had become stuck and tumbled into the abyss below. He was sure of what he would see down there, and he wished to delay the discovery as long as possible. What was seen could not be unseen, and he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his days. Especially knowing it was his fault for not having protected Lady Mountwood during her travels as was his duty.
When at last he made his way down the slippery slope that had claimed his mistress’s vehicle, his heart was beating impossibly fast. He got close enough to see the true extent of the damage, and he inhaled sharply, freezing once more. Inside the shattered carriage, Genevieve lay terrifyingly still, her delicate frame half-buried beneath debris. A dark pool of blood spread rapidly beneath her head from a deep gash at her temple, staining her golden hair and silk gown a deep crimson. The vivid contrast upon the pale fabric was remarkably striking, and indeed, rather ominous.
