Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,102

was a fast runner. The skirts slowed her down, but only a little. She’d always been fast, though her mother had told her running was not ladylike. When her mother was busy or not about, Pru had challenged other children in places like Rome and Constantinople to foot races. And she almost always won.

So it surprised her when she heard Northgate behind her. He was chasing her, and she didn’t dare waste a moment by looking back. He didn’t sound too close, but she hadn’t expected him to chase her.

“You stupid bitch!” he called after her, words broken by ragged breaths. Thank God he sounded winded. He wouldn’t be able to sustain his pace for much longer. “You will be sorry. I’ll tell everyone what I saw.”

His voice was fading, but his threats were clear enough.

“You’ll apologize to me. You’ll get on your knees before me or I’ll make sure that sightless monster is taken away within the hour. I can do it.”

His voice was far away now, but Pru didn’t slow. She had met men and women like him before. He was the sort of person who her mother said needed to look hard at the tenth commandment—Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s house. There was something in there about a neighbor’s wife and oxen as well. George Northgate couldn’t stand for anyone to have something he did not. He didn’t want Pru, but he didn’t want Nash to have something he didn’t. He would carry out his threat. People like him always took perverse pleasure in the suffering of others.

The only way to forestall him—and it was a temporary solution—was to do as he asked. She’d have to apologize. He’d said he wanted her on her knees, and she had no illusions what else he’d want when she was on her knees before him. Even if she could stifle her pride and give him what he asked for, she couldn’t be his whore. She had to find another way to save Nash from the asylum.

MR. HIGGINBOTHAM OFFERED to drive Pru to Wentmore the next day. He had a small gig he used once a month to visit the farms the farthest from Milcroft or on the occasion when he was asked to preach at a neighboring congregation because their clergyman was indisposed. The horse who pulled the gig was quite plump, spending most of his time grazing and eating apples Pru fed him, and seemed in no hurry to make the three-mile trek to Wentmore. Pru thought she could have walked the distance faster, but that was probably because she was anxious about what she would find at Wentmore.

She was anxious too at whether or not the earl would tell the vicar that he’d found her in Nash’s bedchamber. She’d considered telling Mr. Higginbotham the night before, but she hadn’t been able to do it. He had been so complimentary of Nash at dinner. He’d gone on and on about the preparations for the festival and how gracious Mr. Pope had been that Pru hadn’t wanted to tarnish the vicar’s good opinion—of Nash or herself. Nash needed all the support he could muster at the moment. He definitely did not need an angry clergyman descending on his home.

If he was still at home.

She hadn’t been able to sleep all night, worrying that Nash had been taken to the asylum under the cover of darkness.

But once the great house came into view and she spotted the maid sweeping the front stoop and a groom smoothing the gravel on the drive, she dared to hope.

“What a pleasant prospect,” Mr. Higginbotham said. “The earl must be very pleased with the work his son has done on the place.”

“I’m certain he is.” She hoped he was. She’d mentioned the earl’s arrival at dinner last night. Being that the earl provided a living to the vicar, the two men were acquainted, but Mr. Higginbotham had not seemed to know any more than Pru herself that the earl had planned to arrive that day.

The groom stopped his work on the drive and took the horse’s reins. “I wrote to Lord Beaufort many times to comfort him concerning Mr. Pope. I told him if we trusted in the Lord and prayed without ceasing, his youngest son would come to see the light—er, figuratively, of course.”

Pru took the vicar’s hand and descended from the gig, keeping her smile pasted on her face. She rather thought Mr. Higginbotham had written to the earl to report on Nash