faded into hoarse, animal sounds. Still, no one came. Her face wet with tears, she slumped against the tree. The pounding at her temple spread to the rest of her head, blackness flickering at the edges of her vision.
“Miss Sheridan, I’ve got you.”
Her head was tipped back, and she stared up woozily…at Severin Knight? He wasn’t his usual impeccable self. His head was bare, his black hair disheveled, his jaw shadowed with a night beard. His eyes weren’t remote as they scanned her face; they were stormy, emotion flashing like lightning.
He finished freeing her from her bonds and held her by the shoulders, his grip gentle but firm.
“Are you all right?” he asked tersely.
The relief was overwhelming, her answer emerging as a sob. “I think so…”
“You are safe now, sweeting.” He swept her up in his arms, against his thundering heart. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She clung to his words and his strength as he carried her out of the woods.
6
“We must put an end to this,” Wickham Murray declared as he paced in front of the fire.
Severin shared the sentiment, yet he contained himself, remaining seated in a wingchair while the Scot prowled in front of him. They were in an upstairs parlor of Lady Beatrice’s manor, and the other occupant was Fancy’s father. Milton Sheridan sat on a nearby divan, his bearded face ashen and blank.
Poor bastard’s in shock, Severin thought grimly.
At the moment, a physician was examining Miss Sheridan, Lady Beatrice staying with her friend. Severin knew the question that would haunt any father when his daughter was abducted, beaten, and found in the woods. The doctor would undoubtedly give them an assessment soon. The tension that pervaded the room was that of men who can do nothing but wait.
“Whoever is behind this will pay for what they did,” Murray said, raking a hand through his disheveled bronze hair.
Severin gripped the arms of his chair. Again, he didn’t disagree. He flashed back to how he had discovered Miss Sheridan: slumped against a tree, trussed like the trophy of some sick hunt. His heart had punched his ribs when he saw her bloodied temple, the purplish swelling, the paleness of her lips. Then she had raised her head, and icy rage had flooded his veins at the terror in her brown eyes. And on her face…
Her bloody assailant had painted a curving red line over her right cheek. A grotesque parody of Lady Beatrice’s scar. In the carriage, Severin had wiped away the ghastly mark on the pretense of drying Miss Sheridan’s tears. In her state, the last thing she’d needed was more of a shock. Yet the crude marking, along with a note pinned to her skirts, had revealed the motive of the assault:
Friends of the Bitch Beware.
Fancy had been targeted because she was Lady Beatrice’s bosom chum. Whoever was trying to scare Lady Beatrice into selling her land hadn’t hesitated to make the tinker’s daughter into collateral damage…and Severin wanted to rip whoever the bastard was from limb to limb.
How dare someone hurt a woman as sweet and vulnerable as Fancy Sheridan? His fingertips dug into the leather, the chair’s frame creaking. What if I hadn’t found her? What happened before I got there?
Helpless anger roared over him. He couldn’t let himself think of the possibilities. Had to concentrate on the fact that she seemed unhurt. He inhaled, trying to gain control of himself. Trying to block out unbidden memories of another time, his mother’s bruises and tears.
His chest burned. He’d failed his maman because he’d been a boy. Now he was a man, and he was no longer powerless.
“What progress have you made with identifying Lady Beatrice’s enemies?” he demanded.
Murray continued pacing. “We’ve interrogated most of the obvious culprits behind the barn fire: the neighboring squire who is after her land, the village rector who wants her and her tenants gone, and the factory owners who want to transport their goods over her property. All the men have motive, yet we have no proof of anyone’s wrongdoing. I will not rest until I find and stop the villain behind this,” he vowed grimly.
Severin did not doubt the Scotsman. It was clear to him now that Lady Beatrice and Wickham Murray had sunk their hooks equally into one another. Which boded well for Lady Beatrice’s safety…but what about Miss Sheridan? Who would look after her?
Clenching his jaw, Severin glanced at her father. The tinker was incapable of hurting a fly, let alone protecting his