by Lucy Leroux
A nearby roll of thunder distracted her from her self-pity. It was accompanied by the distinctive patter of rain on glass. Her heart sank. A storm would make any escape much more difficult.
Unless the guards decide to take shelter from the rain.
If they did, maybe she could slip away. There was no way for them to know that she had survived. As long as the door was left secured then maybe she had a chance.
Isobel looked down at her feet again. She had to do something. If she had the protection of Matteo's coat, then maybe she could tear strips off her nightgown to wrap around her feet. It was already torn from their earlier struggle. Wincing at the memory, Isobel fisted her hands and sucked in a steadying breath. She turned to Matteo with a critical eye. His exposed chest moved up and down steadily, his lower half still covered in his breeches and boots.
Still alive. Her life, on the other hand, was in a far more precarious position even if she managed to get out of the cottage unseen.
Do whatever it takes.
She needed to be mercenary to survive. Steeling her resolve, she walked over to Matteo's prone form and kneeled down. Tentatively, she reached out and took hold of one of his boots, tugging gently. It was harder to remove than she'd thought. By the time the boot slipped, off she was sweating and shaking, terrified that he would wake up. But he didn't stir. She worked off the second boot and examined them both.
Stepping into the boots and trying to walk proved impossible. They were simply too large. Isobel almost fell over twice before giving up. Dashing away the moisture that stung her eyes with the back of her hand, she put the boots down next to Matteo. His thick woolen socks would have to suffice. Slipping those off much more easily, she drew them over her feet and was grateful for their warmth. She cast another guilty glance at Matteo before dragging the blanket off the bed and throwing it over him. Then she took it off and put it back on the bed.
She would not help him.
Trying to move quietly in case the guards were still outside despite the rain, she carried the chair under the far window. Unfortunately, the blasted thing seemed to be swollen shut. Hands scrabbling on the wood she tried the other window. It too was damaged, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't open it. Were they nailed shut?
Giving way to self-pity, Isobel sat on the floor, her eyes stinging. Her eyes swung from the sealed windows to the door, trying to formulate a plan. But no brilliant ideas came to her. Defeated, she sat there for a few minutes, trying to prepare for the worst.
Though she wasn't a brave woman, it was harder than she'd ever imagined to sit there and meekly accept her fate. Giving up simply wasn’t in her nature.
Gathering her knees to her and hugging them tightly, she pushed away her feelings of despair and helplessness. She would do something—even if it meant attacking the guards the minute they opened the door in the morning. She couldn't possibly win, but at least she would go down fighting.
It took her some time to realize that the sound of drops she heard were not from her tears falling on the floor.
The roof was leaking. On the other side of the newly installed chimney was a small puddle. A desperate idea came to her. It wasn't likely to work, but she had to try.
Pulling the table with effort, she positioned it directly over the puddle. Then she put the chair on top of the table before adjusting Matteo's coat over her shoulders. She tied the ends together to keep it from dragging and tripping her before climbing onto the chair. Bent over nearly double, she pushed at the weak spot in the thatched ceiling. With some determined pushing, she could poke her finger out to feel the rain and night air outside. But getting her whole body out this way would require some effort.
Wasn't there something her grandmother had taught her that would help? Some spell for moving immovable objects? If there was, she couldn't remember it. The fire starting spell wouldn't help much, either. Even if the damp thatch caught, the smoke would alert people for miles around.
Doesn't matter.
Spine stiffening, Isobel continued to tear and poke at the weak spot in the roof. Eventually, she had created a hole large enough to fit her head through. The rain was slowing down. The occasional fat drop pelted her face, running down her neck and chest to chill her despite the stolen coat.
She tried to widen the hole with her shoulders, but all she succeeded in doing was scratching her neck. Crouching down again, she carefully pulled the coat over her head, holding on to the nearest beam of wood in the roof to keep her balance. Then she forced upwards with her back, using all her strength. A loud crack sounded as one of the supporting branches gave way and her shoulders were able to rise above the gap she'd opened wide.
Hoping the noise of breaking wood was covered by the wind, she crawled upwards. She hauled herself through the hole, sucking in a deep breath as the branches and bundled thatch scraped her sides. Without the protection of the great coat she would have been torn to shreds. As it was, she would probably be bruised from neck to knee.
Finally, she was outside in the damp night air, clinging to the thatch as she sagged there, trying to gather her strength. Repeatedly adjusting the coat, she crawled to the edge of the roof and looked down. The ground seemed very far away.
There was no convenient tree to climb down, but there was a pile of canvas-covered building materials directly under the eave of the house. Praying that it was more thatch and not lumber and nails, she crawled over the edge, dangling in the air for an endless moment. The she let go.
She hit the canvas pile with a thump. Though her hope that it was more thatch was probably correct, it didn't really matter since it felt like she had landed on a pile of lumber. Testing each limb gingerly, she gave thanks that at least all her bones appeared to be intact. Grimacing, she moved off the pile, stepping carefully on the muddy ground. She made her way to the side of the house.
Holding her breath, she peeked around the corner. Thankfully there was no sign of either guard. Picking up the hem of the coat, she ran to the shelter of the trees on the left side of the house. She kept running until she was deep in the woods.
Chapter 7
Despite Isobel's familiarity with the woods, her wild flight in the dark ensured she was lost for nearly an hour. It would have been much longer if she hadn't stumbled on the stream that bisected the woods into northern and southern halves. She followed the stream for nearly a mile before coming to the hollow fallen log where she had hidden her insurance policy.
There were two bags, one filled with clothing and a much smaller one with a few essentials. It was in this second one that she dug into first, pulling out a jar of salve she'd made from one of her grandmother's recipes. Trying to be quick, she spread some on the cuts and scrapes on her arms and neck with numb fingers.
Thankfully, her smash cash hoard was also present. There were ten pounds in notes and coins at the bottom of the sack and an additional twenty sewn into the lining. It represented all of the money she'd earned in her current and former positions as well as the sad remnant of what she'd inherited when her parents died.
For a moment, Isobel bowed her head, the weight of tonight's events pressing down on her.
It's going to be all right.
Her foresight in hiding these things in the woods meant she had a real chance now. Of course, never in her wildest nightmares had she imagined that these would be the circumstances that led to her flight. She'd always imagined an accident would lead to her exposing her abilities, necessitating a swift departure.
Well, in a way some aspects of that fear had come true, she thought, pulling out a black dress and petticoats from the larger bag.
Dressing in the clean drawers, wool stockings, and flannel chemise was a trial in the dark since she'd had to abandon the warmth of the stolen great coat to do so. The icy wind bit into her flesh, slowing her progress as her trembling hands hurriedly donned the rest of her clothing. Yanking an extra pair of her own socks over her feet, she put on the new low leath
er half boots she'd spent a month’s wages on.
At the time, she'd thought them an exorbitant addition to her escape provisions, but now she thanked the impulse that had made her buy them. With one last regretful glance at the greatcoat and muddy socks, she pulled on her hooded cape and gathered her belongings.
Wrapping the stolen items together, she bent low to shove them into the log. It would have been nice to keep the coat longer since it was still raining, but if they pursued her then she wanted to ensure they would have as few possible signs of her direction as possible. And it wasn't like she could take it with her. A woman wearing a man's garment would attract too much attention.
Streaks of light were starting to lighten the sky. Any minute now, the guards would come to collect her body and discover Matteo—alive?—on the floor and her gone.
She needed to be as far away from this place as possible.
Chapter 8
Matteo's head felt like it had been split in half. Disappointment and despair flooded him. It wasn't the headache that disturbed him. He deserved the pain, but feeling it meant he was still alive when by rights, in a just world, he should have been dead.
He didn't want to open his eyes. If he did, he would see what he had done. He wasn't sure what that was. His memories of being the monster were always vague and shadowy. Some days he woke up to himself with no recollection of the night before. But there would be no escaping the reality of what he was when he found the body.
And there was always a body. There was no way he would be here now, aware and conscious-stricken, if there wasn't. He couldn't be himself without death.
If his father loved him, he would let him die. But he was his father's only heir and Aldo Garibaldi never gave up, no matter what the cost. The price didn't matter to his father, but it mattered to him.
He had to find a way to die.
This desperate voyage to England had given him hope for a brief time. There had been a plan and chance for a cure. But days after their arrival had seen those hopes dashed. For a time, he'd ignored the truth and pretended. He lied to himself, crafting a little fantasy over a pair of more green-than-hazel eyes and auburn hair.
A shooting pain in his chest stole the air from his lungs.
Isobel.
A hazy memory of her wide and frightened eyes came back to him.
Oh, God, no!
How could his father have done this to him? It was bad enough waking to a body, but to know that it was her was destroying him.
There was no more tomorrow, he thought, tears stinging at his eyes. Despite the horror of the nightmare he was living now, he hadn't cried before. He'd torn out his hair and vomited on more than one occasion, but he hadn't cried. Weeping gutturally on the floor, his pressed his face to the floorboards for a long time.
Get up.
He had to prepare her body. He wasn't going to let his father's men do it. No one would touch his Isabella but him. He'd bury her himself.
And then he would find a knife or a pistol to end this. Finally. Maybe he would catch a glimpse of her in the afterlife on his way to hell.
Stiff from a night on the ground, Matteo opened his eyes and sat up slowly. He braced himself for the sight of Isobel's body, but froze instead.
The cottage was empty. He stood up, spinning around to take in the whole room. No one. Pulling the cover off the bed, he checked to make sure she wasn't hidden there, but thankfully there was nothing.
Had his father already been here? Was he trying to hide what he'd done? Aldo had to know Matteo would never forgive him for choosing Isobel. Had his men spirited her body away while he slept?
He went up to the door, banging on it and shouting—even kicking it a few times before he realized his feet were bare. As usual, he was ignored. The men never opened the door until his father showed his face, and Aldo calmly waited until after his breakfast before making an appearance.
Matteo had managed to crack the old wooden door with his fists by the time it was finally opened.
His father was standing behind his servants, Nino and Ottavio, who kept their distance from the door as they always did when they came to release him after one of his bad spells.
“Where is she?” he bellowed, running forward.
His father opened his eyes wide, taking Matteo's hands to hold him aside while the servants hurried past him. He shook off the restraint and grabbed the lapel of Aldo's coat.
“How could you do that? Why did you have to choose her?” he asked hoarsely.
His father started to roll his eyes before stopping himself. “She was the one you wanted,” he said dismissively.
“Not for this! I wanted to court her!”
Aldo suppressed a sneer, but his face was tight. “You know that was impossible, now please stand aside while we clean up here.”
Matteo was about to protest that he'd already done that when Ottavio came back outside.
“She's not here.”
Shock and surprise froze Matteo to the spot. His father hadn't had Isobel's body removed before he woke. The old man looked just as stunned as he did. Aldo pushed past him, going over to stand next to Nino, who was staring wide-eyed at the hole in the ceiling.
“How can this be?” the Conte asked in a low voice.
Matteo staggered back into the cottage and collapsed in the chair, next to the remnants of a broken lamp. He took in the rest of the room once more and looked down at his bare feet.
“She's alive. I'm myself, and she's alive,” he rasped.
Isobel had escaped death at his hands last night. Somehow, against all odds, she'd found a way. His missing greatcoat and socks were proof of that. The weather had been bitterly cold the last few nights. She'd taken what she could to protect herself from the elements.
Alive, alive, alive.
He shut his eyes and thanked the god he'd thought had forsaken him.
When he opened his eyes, Ottavio was walking back inside.
“She made it over the roof and into the woods. The tracks continue some way past the tree line. She must have escaped after the rain had mostly stopped.”
“We have to find her. Can you tell what direction she went in?” Aldo asked.
Matteo lifted his head to his father. “Leave her alone,” he whispered.
Aldo dismissed him with a wave. “Don't be a fool. We need her. She obviously has magic. There's no way she would have gotten out of here without it—not without killing you first. She did what that puttana crone was supposed to. Look at yourself. You are whole,” he admonished.
Matteo absorbed that in silence. Was it possible? Did his beautiful Isobel have some magical ability? Had she cured him?
No, no. It was too much to hope for. He was a monster, a demon from the pit of hell and those were not dispatched so easily. But he wasn't about to disagree with his father.
“If that's true, Isobel deserves her freedom. Leave her be,” he said, refusing to add that he would search for her on his own.
He needed to know that she was all right. He had no memory of what he'd done after he saw her face last night. Matteo never remembered what he did during one of his black spells—although he'd seen the strangely pristine bodies the next day.
Aldo scowled. “We can't take the chance. Not only is there the risk that she'll return to make accusations, but there is every possibility that this cure is temporary. Your affliction could return tomorrow for all we know.” His father gestured to Ottavio. “Take my son back to the house and then come back with Clarence and his hounds. We'll start searching the woods together.”
“No," he said, rising to his feet. "There's no chance I'm leaving.”
His father scowled at him. “You need to rest.”
Matteo shook his head. “I'm fine. I feel better than I have in months,” he said, before finding that it was the honest truth.
It had been so long since he'd felt this clearheaded. There was no pain or weakness, and despite his half-dr
essed state he actually felt warm.
His father still looked skeptical, but Matteo wasn't about to let him hunt down Isobel like some sort of animal. He wasn't leaving.
Turning to Ottavio, Matteo ordered, “Go fetch me a change of clothes and another coat. I'll be leading the search.”
Ottavio looked at his father for confirmation, who nodded impatiently. “Do it and be quick about it. We don't have time to waste.”
Chapter 9
Matteo's Uncle Clarence was beside himself with worry when he found out Isobel had survived the night.
Sir Clarence was all for putting a bullet through her head as soon as they found her, but his father berated him into silence, making it clear that they needed Isobel alive. He finally agreed, but Matteo watched Sir Clarence carefully anyway as they tramped through the muddy forest.
If his uncle was a threat to Isobel, Matteo would do whatever was necessary to protect her. But he felt like a hypocrite for wanting to give his uncle hell, when he was the one who’d tried to kill her.
Here and there the dogs caught Isobel's scent, losing it several times in the mud. But they always picked it up again. It was very steady alongside the stream. It had probably been too cold for her to cross it without shoes in order to mask her scent, or she hadn't thought to do so during her flight in the dark.
About a mile away from the cottage, they found the fallen log with his great coat and mud-crusted socks inside.
“What the hell is this?” his father asked with a scowl. “Is she running about in her nightgown?”
