Page 10 of Magick in the Night
Gabriel, looking far too composed for a man who had just been collided with, raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, Miss Ashcombe, the thought had not occurred to me. And I believe it wasyouwho ran intome.”
“You ought not to skulk about the woods without announcing yourself,” she retorted, still breathless. “I might have been armed.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” he replied, his tone maddeningly even.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you following me?”
“I am not following you,” he said. “However, I did come into the woods with the intention of speaking with you.”
“Well, you have spoken,” she replied sharply. “You may go now.”
“I fear I am not finished.” He folded his arms, regarding her with steady patience. “I wish to know why this arrangement exists between our families — the one that grants you and your grandmother residence upon my land.”
Eliza blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of his question. “I am afraid you will have to direct that inquiry to my grandmother, my lord. She has never explained it to me.”
“Never?”
“Never,” she confirmed. “Whenever I have asked, she has dismissed the question as irrelevant. It was all settled long before either of us was born.”
Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “And you have never felt compelled to learn more?”
“Of course I have,” Eliza said, her voice softening despite herself. “But wondering and knowing are two very different matters.”
For a moment, they stood facing one another, the mist curling about their feet and the scent of damp earth heavy in the air. And then, as it had before, the forest changed.
The birdsong faded into silence. The wind stilled. Even the faint rustling of small creatures in the undergrowth vanished, leaving a hush so profound it pressed against Eliza’s ears.
She felt it before she could name it — that same creeping sensation of being watched, of unseen eyes fixed upon them.
“Do you hear that?” she asked softly.
“I do,” Gabriel replied, his tone suddenly sharp.
The stillness shattered an instant later.
A sharp report split the quiet — louder than thunder and far too close. Gabriel moved before she could so much as draw breath. His arm shot out, seizing her firmly by the waist as he pulled her down into the damp leaf litter just as something hissed past them. The ground jarred her bones, and a cry escaped her lips, but he was already shielding her with his body, his gaze scanning the trees with soldierly precision.
“Do not move,” he ordered quietly. Then another loud crack ripped through the silence, but this time there was no mistaking it for anything else. It was gunfire.
The acrid tang of gunpowder drifted on the cold morning air. Above them, a tree branch splintered and cracked where a pistol ball had embedded itself — scarcely a hand’s breadth above where her head had been moments before. The realization that his quick reaction had likely saved her life was not something Eliza was quite ready to acknowledge yet. Acknowledging it made it real, rather than simply an aberration or mere accident. And she desperately wanted to believe that anyone making such an attempt would surely have to hold in the lowest of regard.
Eliza’s heart thundered so violently she thought it might burst. “Was that?—?”
“Yes, it was,” Gabriel said grimly. “Shots. Two of them.”
They stared into the misty expanse of trees, but nothing stirred. No figure revealed itself. No second shot followed. Only the silence — deep and heavy and more unsettling than the sound of the pistol had been.
“Do you believe…” She swallowed, her voice barely a whisper. “Do you believe the shots were meant for you?”
“I do not know,” he admitted, his jaw tightening. “And that, Miss Ashcombe, is what troubles me most.”
Neither spoke for several moments. The forest remained eerily still, as though holding its breath. Whoever had fired the weapon was either long gone or lying in wait. And whether the intended target had been the Earl of Blackburn or the granddaughter of the village’s infamous witches, one fact was certain — some unknown person for unknown reasons wished one, or possibly both of them, dead.
Chapter
Eight
Helena Ashcombe paced the narrow length of the cottage, her skirts brushing against the worn rug as she passed before the hearth for what must have been the hundredth time. The fire had burned low, reduced to a restless glow that cast flickering shadows along the walls. Her tea sat untouched upon the table beside her chair, the leaves long since gone cold in their cup.
