but the laudanum made her tongue feel thick. She’d never seen her father again.
Though her grandfather had been intent on keeping her memories of her mother and sisters alive, he would never tell her anything of his son-in-law. If she asked, he would pat her on the head, saying in a dark burlap voice, “Not now, Emmie, not now.” As a child, she’d realized what her grandfather and the servants weren’t saying: her father had left because of her, because she should have died with the others.
Her grandfather, Lionel Morley, was the one who demanded she walk again, no matter how painful it was to try. She could still hear the boom of his voice—bursting on her consciousness in fifteen shades of red and brown—as he bellowed the first doctor, the one who recommended amputation, out of the room. She’d never seen voices before the accident, and her grandfather had assured her it was only an effect of the laudanum. But when she’d stopped taking the drug, her ability to see voices in patterns and colors had remained.
To care for her body, her grandfather had hired a local woman—a witch, the servants had whispered—while he read everything available on rehabilitating limbs. He’d even brought doctors from Switzerland to advise him. But in the end, her treatment was her grandfather’s own and the witch’s.
She never told anyone the word she’d heard her father say as he left her. But, through her pain, she determined—with her grandfather’s help—to be everything that broken wasn’t. In teaching herself to walk again, she’d taught herself to be resilient, determined, and, more importantly, compassionate to those who, like her, weren’t quite whole. Blind, deaf, mute, limbless, or simply poor, no beggar or traveler ever left her village hungry. Her kitchen and her hearth, everyone knew, were open to all.
But if a father couldn’t love his wounded child, would he welcome her now, with a walking stick and lame dog? Would her successes at managing the estate be enough? Or would he look at her and call her broken again?
In the forest behind her, a branch snapped. She flattened herself against the trunk of the oak to hide. But when she heard the chatter of an angry squirrel, she began her circuit again. It was colder now than before, and she pulled the shawl closer.
Surely Adam would come to her soon.
At least she hadn’t left her estate. If he did abandon her, she could return to the house. With the help of Jeffreys and Maggie, she could hide there until Colin came to his senses and married Lucy. Sam would ensure that the estate crops were planted and that the last of Bess’s pups were trained, but she’d be no better than a prisoner, unable to leave her hiding place while the world turned around her.
No, Adam would come. No matter how much he appeared to dislike her, once he’d made her a promise, he had never broken his word. The unicorn proved that. He would come.
The harsh trill of a blackbird sounded in the bare branches, but no blackbird answered. The sound felt lonely, stealing what little patience she had left. At the spot where two sections of the ancient oak grew together into a sort of niche, she sat down on a large knotted root, tucking her feet up under her skirts. Protected by the tree and wrapped in her shawl, she felt almost warm.
Now that the excitement of escape had passed, she felt tired to her very bones. For weeks, she’d been overseeing the wedding preparations and planning the estate’s schedule and expenses for the coming year. She’d wanted to try some new methods in the land near the river, and she’d left Sam her plans all neatly written out. Sam had promised he would report how her plans were progressing.
Suddenly she realized her escape separated her entirely from her lands. If she told Sam where to send his reports, and Colin found out, he would feel obligated to find her. The realization felt like a stab to her side. She pushed the thought away and the sorrow that came with it. No. She would be back . . . and soon. Colin would realize he loved Lucy, the two would marry, and then Em could come home. But by abandoning Colin, she had forfeited his friendship and that of his family. The consequences of running cut deep.
She tucked the shawl around her and leaned back against the oak.
The light declined in the sky. Soon the rattle and shriek of the barn owls would announce the arrival of night.
Adam still hadn’t returned.
Surely he would come to her soon.
She closed her eyes, intending only to rest.
* * *
Emmeline was woken abruptly by the scrabble of approaching feet. Then suddenly her lips were wet, and her chin, and her cheeks.
“Bess! Stop.” She held her arms up to fend off the big dog’s happy greeting.
Bess sat, but kept leaning forward to nuzzle Em’s face.
“I’d keep my voice low, my lady. As you know, sound travels well from this clearing.”
It was Adam. He’d come.
Relief made her wish to throw herself in his arms, but doing so required getting up. Her hands and feet were stiff with cold, and her knee ached from remaining in a single position too long. She would have to be careful when she rose. But her walking stick was by the table rock.
Relief quickly mixed with annoyance. The winter sun, which set midafternoon, was drawing near the horizon. And her stomach insisted she needed food. All of it together made her petulant.
“The duke appears to have successfully discouraged your betrothed from searching for you.” Adam dropped an overstuffed leather pack beside her walking stick. “But one never knows how quickly a wounded lover’s disposition might change.”
She petted Bess, keeping her voice cool. “I’d expected you sooner.”
“If to disappear you only needed to walk out the door, you would have done it long before today. And you wouldn’t have needed a scoundrel’s help.”
Bess looked from one to the other, as if their conversation were a bouncing ball.
Adam’s eyes, dark as sin, watched her warily, as he held out his hand to help her up.
She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to discover that his touch could still melt her defenses. But accepting his help would be better than crying out in pain or stumbling when her knee gave way. At least they both wore gloves.
Bess watched them both, her big black eyes pools of affection.
Emmeline put her hand in Adam’s, and slowly, gently, he pulled her to her feet.
When Em was upright, though, Adam didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, arm outstretched as if they were partners in a country dance, he led her carefully across the oak’s spreading roots. As they approached the table rock, he raised her hand and turned her toward him, her partner in an imaginary waltz. In an instant she wondered how he might respond if she lifted her lips to his. But before she could do so, he stopped, having led her to her walking stick.
Removing her hand from his, she picked up the walking stick and stepped out of reach. She might still long for the touch of his hand on her bare skin or the press of his lips on hers, but she would not forget that by nature he was a chameleon. Like the daemon lovers in the old ballads, Adam was a charmer, able to make anyone believe in him, whether he was telling them the truth or a lie. No, if their lips met today, she would taste only regret.
“We
