CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nathanial’s arms whipped around her as they tumbled to the ground. Wide-eyed, she stared into his grim face as he scanned the garden, his body caging hers. Silence descended, broken only by the harshness of their breath as the moments ticked by, each more tense than the last.
Nathanial’s gaze flickered and then he pushed himself up.
“What are you doing? Get down,” she hissed, tugging at his arm.
He waved a hand nonchalantly as he got to his feet. “The shooter is gone.”
“You cannot know that.”
“Of course I can. One must only observe the obvious signs of withdrawal.”
“I apologise if I do not find it obvious. I am unused to being shot at,” she said stiffly.
“I would assume as much. It is not a normal occurrence in most people’s lives.”
“Then why did you say it obvious the shooter had left?”
“Because it is.” Frowning, he stared at her.
She began to argue, then closed her mouth with a snap. He regarded her as if he were confused by her line of questioning because, of course, he was. It was obvious to him, and therefore he could not imagine it not obvious to others. He meant no offence, did not imply she was an imbecile. He simply could not conceive that others did not think as he did.
Taking a breath, she pushed herself up, wincing as her hip protested.
His frown darkened. “Are you hurt?”
“I am fine.” She struggled to get to her feet, the pain in her hip sharpening. He held out his hand and she took it.
“You are certain?” His eyes searched hers.
Her breath locked in her chest, her heart racing. The warmth of his touch sunk into her skin, and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his.
His grip tightened on hers, the pads of his fingers brushing the delicate flesh on the inside of her wrist. His gaze wandered to her mouth. A strangled breath escaped her and his gaze focussed on her parted lips.
Clearing his throat, he dropped her hand.
Tucking it to her side, she ducked her head as heat burned her cheeks. She had just been shot at. What on earth was wrong with her? He was so far above her as to be laughable, and any fancies she held were just that. Besides, she had just been shot at.
“It was a Weatherall & Sykes 12-gauge double-barrelled shotgun, a gun used for hunting.” His words were thick, gravelly. Shaking his head as if to rid himself of something, he cleared his throat again. “The shooter did not hit us, but this was his intention. It is someone who knows how to aim and fire, and to hit what he aims at.”
Ignoring the pulse low in her belly, she forced herself to concentrate. The weapon was one favoured by hunting parties. Rose knew this as she’d seen the invoice for twelve such guns cross her desk. “A gentleman.”
Nathanial nodded grimly. “A gentleman.”
Dread curled within her. “Lord William’s preference is for such a weapon.”
“Yes.”
She did not know what to say. It was unthinkable that a member of Lady Caro’s family had killed Sir George but it also made a sick kind of sense.
“We can presume from this we are on the right path,” he said. “Mrs Boothby must have knowledge of the perpetrator, or the poison Sir George ingested was purchased from her. In my experience, criminals are not intelligent and, given enough time, will reveal themselves through impatience, a lack of composure, and error.”
Dazed, she nodded. She didn’t know what to think. This…this was all too much. Sir George was dead, most likely by the hand of Lady Caro’s relative. Someone had shot at her. She stumbled.
Nathanial’s arms lashed out to catch her. “You are unwell.”
“I—” She shook her head.
His hands ran over her shoulders, her arms. “Where are you hurt?
His tone was almost frantic. “I am not hurt. Nathanial.” She captured his hands. “I am not hurt. I am…overwhelmed.”
A crease appeared between his brows. “Why?”
“I am not used to this. A month ago, Lady Caro was planning her wedding. A month ago, I was a lady’s maid and secretary. A month ago, there was no murder, no mystery, no gun shots. I…I am overwhelmed.” Wrapping her arms around her middle, she took a deep breath.
Silence shrouded them. She closed her eyes, trying to regain a semblance of control.
She started when a strong hand cupped her jaw, her eyes flying open. He gazed down at her, his expression intent as his thumb stroked her cheek, his fingers rubbing the skin behind her ear.
“Miss Webster! Mr Evans!”
They leapt apart. Mrs Boothby came storming down the path, a terrific scowl on her face. “Did I hear gunshots?” she demanded.
Features wiped of all expression, Nathanial said, “You did.”
“You will leave my property immediately.”
“Of course. However, you may wish to consider your own safety.”
Her jaw clicked shut with an audible snap. “You will leave. Immediately.”
Nathanial continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Whoever killed Sir George may come after you, Mrs Boothby. It might behove you to remove from Yorkshire for a week or so.”
“You will leave my property, Mr Evans, and you will leave now.”
“Of course.” He offered Rose his arm. “Miss Webster?”
Curling her fingers around his forearm, she offered a nod of farewell to Mrs Boothby. Lifting her chin, the herbalist turned her cheek and did not offer anything in kind.
Nathanial led her from the garden, and they were silent as they walked back toward the village. “Should we inform the constabulary of what has occurred?” Rose asked.
Gazing straight ahead, his full mouth set into a grim line. Contempt evident in his tone, he said, “What do you believe they will do?”
Nothing. They would do nothing. A thought occurred to her. “Why did you suggest Mrs Boothby only leave for a week?”
He glanced at her. “Rose, you must know we will solve this case within the week. Even now, it becomes clearer who the perpetrator is.”
“You are remarkably confident.”
“It is not confidence when it is fact. Did you respond to Lady Caroline’s invitation?”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lady Caroline invited us to a dinner party at Faringdon Abbey. Did you respond?”
“I— Perhaps?” Good lord, he could be so confusing.
“Ensure to respond in the affirmative.” Having delivered that instruction, he fell silent once more.
And it was only when they had returned to the inn and Rose was safe in her hired room that she allowed the rigid control she held over herself to falter. It was only then she allowed the fear and the terror she’d kept bottled inside to explode into a storm of weeping that only ceased once she’d tumbled into a fitful sleep.
To always receive the latest chapter, sign up for Cassandra’s mailing list