Anthony’s gaze lifted toward the indicated direction. Thoms Tor.
“Is the letter ready?” Ames pulled Anthony’s attention back.
Anthony extended it to him, and Ames accepted the missive in his gloved hand and tucked it in his coat.
“I’m going to the village to find the magistrate,” explained Anthony. “It will take you several hours, no doubt, before you return, but we will meet here and proceed together. I’ll ride out to the site to stake it out and see what we’re up against.”
After seeing Ames off to Leeds, Anthony needed to get to the village. He had no idea who the magistrate even was, but he did know that many local magistrates refused to involve themselves in affairs outside of their own jurisdictions, especially ones of this magnitude. Some magistrates would be eager to put their names on a case like this, and others endeavored to keep city business as far from their villages as possible. But one thing was certain: If Mr. Walstead and his men did not arrive in a timely manner, the local magistrate would be imperative.
He gathered his caped greatcoat and hat, but he had to speak with Charlotte before leaving. She’d been angry, and rightfully so, but he didn’t want to depart without checking on her one last time. He climbed the narrow parlor staircase and ducked under a low beam toward her chamber and, once there, knocked on the closed door.
No response.
He knocked again. “Mrs. Prior?”
When no response came the second time, he turned the door handle and pushed it open.
An empty chamber met him.
She was nowhere in sight.
In that moment he knew—she’d gone on her own.
She could be halfway to Thoms Tor by now.
Scenarios rushed him. Did she have a weapon to protect herself? If she did, did she know how to use it? He needed to stop her before another tragedy ensued.
Pulse racing, he spun from the room and sprinted from the house. She’d likely gone on foot, so he ran to the stables for his horse. His task was simple. He’d simply have to get there first.
* * *
Charlotte’s father had always warned her that her temper and impulsiveness would get her in trouble.
She’d spent the bulk of her adolescence fighting her impetuous tendencies, and she’d thought that her marriage, and the strict rules and restrictions Roland had imposed, nullified such inclinations.
But now, as she hurried along the overgrown path that cut through Blight Moor, she realized that was not the case.
For she was impulsive. And she did have a temper. They were as much a part of her character as anything else.
Her gaze fell to the moorland grasses at her feet, and a memory flared bright.
When she was eight years of age, she’d found an injured tawny owl on the moor. She’d brought it back to Hollythorne House and made it a box in the stable, fully intent on nursing it back to health. When her father learned of her actions, he’d insisted that she return it to where she found it, claiming it would die away from its natural surroundings, and explained that nature abided by different laws. Yet she did not heed his warning. Ultimately, the bird perished. She’d cried and bitterly regretted her actions, but regardless of her remorsefulness, the bird would never live again.
Her intentions had been prudent, but they’d not been appropriate.
She had never been good at accepting that some things were simply beyond her control. Roland’s severity almost squelched that part of her, but with her newfound freedom, it came roaring back, breathing life into those aspects of her character.
Anthony’s methodical mannerisms reminded her of her father’s. Steady. Strong. Both men possessed a healthy respect for the laws of nature and humankind. They understood the parameters and worked within them—something she’d never been able to master.
She lifted her skirt to step over a stone.
Was she making the same mistake now?
What could she really do, on her own, to rectify the situation? Just knock on the door and offer the emeralds? Would they give her Henry and let her be on her way? Anthony had tried to explain the order of things. He’d evidently mastered the art of patience, whereas she never had.
Yet the thought of simply waiting for something else to happen sickened her. What if they waited too long? What if they were too late? How could they possibly be idle, waiting for other people to come and help them?
A sharp gust swept in, bringing with it a fresh bout of rain. She’d be soaked through soon if she continued.
But what if her actions made matters worse? What if she knocked on the door and a man took her captive as well? She hated the fact that her impulsive thoughts could endanger Henry further.
She took one step. And then another.
From where she now stood she could see the stony top of Thoms Tor in the distance, and the cottage would be just beyond it, in a small clearing that dipped down to a valley. She was not as familiar with this stretch of Blight Moor. It was much closer to the village of Lamby on the far side, much closer to where Anthony grew up.
This was his area of familiarity. Not hers. His area of expertise. Not hers.
As she took another step, she realized—it would not be wise to continue on her own.
It did not matter how much she wanted it.
It didn’t matter what she was willing to risk or how hard she was willing to work.
Just like with the bird, she did not have the knowledge and expertise necessary.
Before, the scenario had ended in tragedy. And now the stakes were too high.
She stopped in her tracks and pressed her hands against her forehead as thoughts bombarded her.
Everything within her screamed to forge ahead.
Yet she and her small blade would be no match for a large man with a pistol. And where would that leave Henry?
She squeezed her eyes shut and turned into the wind, allowing the earth-scented air to wash over her face. Her neck. Her hands.
Anthony was right.
This was an instance where one needed to think with one’s head and not one’s heart.
Chapter 38
Anthony adjusted his pistol at his waist, tucked an extra pistol in his satchel, hid his blade in the calf of his Wellington boot, and pulled his wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes.
Charlotte could not have gone very far on foot, and he knew exactly where she was headed. He would overtake her, surely.
He guided the horse from the courtyard and out the gate in the direction of Thoms Tor, where he allowed his horse to break free into a canter. Bits of rain pelted his face as he and his horse flew over the grassland and faded heather. A glance up at the sky confirmed that the rain was not likely to end anytime soon. He urged his horse to move faster, all the while scanning the landscape, looking for any sign of her.
He found her quickly, not far outside of Hollythorne’s property. He pulled his horse to a halt and sighed in relief. She was not walking as he’d expected but standing completely still with her back to him, looking out over the broad Blight Moor, with the wind tugging at her cloak and streaming her hair about her. Relief that he’d not found her in a perilous situation prevailed, and he dismounted and led his horse to her.
Neither spoke when he stopped next to her. When she finally turned to him, her face was raised and her eyes direct. “You were right, Anthony. I should have listened, I . . .” Her words fell silent.
But he needed no apology or affirmation. Relief flooded him, and he pulled her close. And this time she did not resist. She melded against his chest, and he tightened his embrace. The nearness and transporting sensation of her in his arms sent fire through him.