The Blood of a Baron - K.J. Jackson Page 0,2
will need a solitary moment, please.”
Mrs. Hosler nodded and shifted to the line of servants, ushering them into the manor. She paused at the doorway, waving to the driver of the carriage. “Please, good sirs, accompany us inside. Lady Helena desires a solitary respite.”
Bless her heart.
Mrs. Hosler would always save her.
It gave Laney enough margin to avoid what was in front of the wagon and concentrate on the back of the wagon—where all of her attention should be. Needed to be.
And this was something she had to do alone.
Her look dipped down to the grey gravel just beyond the worn leather tips of her boots, staring at a particularly large chunk of the granite. Too big, lounging about where it didn’t belong.
Just like the man that alighted from the opposite side of the wagon.
Laney didn’t lift her gaze as the driver and the man moved past her and stepped beyond where Mrs. Hosler held the front door open.
The skin on the back of her neck prickled as he passed, but she managed to override instinct and keep her gaze on the ground until the door clicked closed behind her.
It took her another breath—another five breaths—before she could lift her gaze to the wagon. To the top of the long black box sitting in the bed of the wagon.
Another breath quivered past her parted lips and she took a step forward.
Steady. Almost.
Five more steps and she would be there.
She forced her wooden legs forward, rounding the back of the wagon.
His coffin. Black, shiny, rich.
Who would have picked it out? Paid for it? She would have to find out and make sure they were recompensed.
Her tongue went dry as her stomach started to roll. She shook her head.
No. No weakness. Not now. One last thing to do.
Laney tucked the white handkerchief into the top of her black bodice and hiked her skirt up. Lifting her leg, she set her foot onto the bed of the wagon next to the coffin. Her heart thundering in her ears, she grabbed a hold of a wooden slat on the side of the wagon and hauled herself upward.
She shuffled along the coffin, stopping at the part where it narrowed. The head.
For a long held breath, she looked across the open expanse unfurling from the front of Gruggin Manor, staring at the forest that lined the edges of the lawn, wanting to hide in the shadows the trees afforded.
But that thought was for the weak. Hiding.
She wasn’t weak. Not anymore. She was the last of the Gruggin line, and she would see it to its very end with dignity and grace. Not weakness.
One more ragged breath and she bent at the waist, her fingers curling under the top edge of the coffin, pulling, lifting. Heavy under her fingertips.
Just as the wood creaked open, she flew into the air, a massive arm at her waist yanking her backward and sending her legs flying about in front of her.
The coffin slammed shut, the crack echoing as she was dragged over the side of the wagon and flung to the gravel drive.
Her arms flailing, her long legs jabbing at the ground for balance, she spun, attempting to stay upright.
“I’ll not let you see it—see him—Laney.” The roar of his voice hit her before she could find stability and look to him. Wes. Weston Jacobson, Lord Platford.
No. Not Lord Platford. Not for a very long time.
Her lip curled in a screech, her words flying as she spun to him. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Wes?”
Her feet solid under her, she found him, her first true look at him since she recognized who was coming up the drive. Standing at the side of the wagon, his chest lifted with a heaved breath.
He was bigger, if it was even possible.
Wider and not with fat. Shoulders that could plow a field. Arms under his smartly cut coat that could lift boulders. A crook interrupted his straight nose—that was new.
Her look locked onto his glare. Onto those dark hazel eyes—darker than they once were—that sliced her in two, quite clearly already plotting her demise.
His arms crossed against his chest. “So you did see me.”
Her left hand flew up in the air. “Of course I saw you—how could anyone ever miss an ogre like you? And what do you think you’re doing—manhandling me as you just did? You have no blasted right to me or to setting your meaty paws upon my body.”
His head shook, the barbs not setting the slightest