Chapter Seven

H e warned the innkeeper about Mr. Dawson.

For fun, he lined a string up across the road so that when the men rode out, hell-for-leather, at least one if not both would have an unpleasant time.

Then he settled into his vantage point, completely hidden. Today was supposed to be his last day here before he had to see to other matters. He would enact his final plan tonight and then be on his way.

He wasn't sure he was ready to leave Miss Innsworth behind. If he had taken in every stray kitten he came across he would be overrun and useless. An unfortunate part of living in a world full of misery was that he had come to terms with it.

But Miss Innsworth didn't deserve misery. He didn't want that for her and the thought of living the rest of his life knowing how she lived hers made him question all his carefully laid plans.

To take his mind off matters he didn't want to think about, he opened the chest he had stolen, hoping for a pile of valuables. The chest was full of paper and with a sigh, he pulled out the first thing. An account ledger. He flipped through its pages, satisfied that it showed steady losses. Mr. Dawson had no idea how to run his estate and his inability was showing in his accounts. He took in too little, spent too much, and from the neat handwriting, he wasn't even the one keeping track of the accounts.

Mr. Dawson only had one source of income that worked in his favor, some estate far away that regularly deposited every quarter.

Next in the chest, he rifled through some bills and notices. They had stayed at a house in London but had to vacate due to unpaid rent.

The notices filled him with a bit of glee. He grinned, reaching in for the next delightful source of bad news. What would be next? Unpaid gambling debts? An investment gone wrong?

If Mr. Dawson didn't get his act together, he would soon be ruined. He should take the income from his only prosperous estate and invest it back into his land here. From riding about the estate, he could tell Mr. Dawson's tenant farmers had outdated equipment and methods and needed better resources for enriching the land.

Instead, the limited income had gone to a frivolous stay in London that had accrued, as he pulled out the next stack of papers and grinned, gambling debts.

At the bottom of the chest were legal documents. The very last one was for the infamous property. Wouldn't it be interesting if there was a way to take that property away from Mr. Dawson? It would completely ruin the man.

He gripped another piece of paper and scanned his eyes over the document again, and a third time, blinking and unbelieving at the name on it.

Miss Elizabeth Innsworth.

The prosperous land was hers. It was held in trust until she turned six-and-twenty or until she married.

He flipped through some of the other legal documents, information about the trust, a copy of Mr. Innsworth's will, and some more pertinent details all coming together to admit one thing.

The Dawsons were taking advantage of Miss Innsworth and, from the sound of it, she had no idea that the money going into Mr. Dawson's account every quarter was rightfully hers.

Until she married.

*

He said he would be gone tonight. She couldn't help but approach her clearing with a bit of sorrow that she would truly be alone again.

If her clearing had taught her anything, it was that she was capable of finding solace from within herself. This was the only place she had been allowed to fully grieve the loss of her father and she had done all of it alone.

Over the past year, she had tried to escape from the Dawsons. She had written to old friends of her father, asking to visit, inquiring whether they were hiring for any positions, needed any assistance, anything. She had been desperate.

No one wanted her. No one could help.

Mrs. Dawson had been a cousin of her mother and the only female relation Elizabeth knew of. She had thought when Mrs. Dawson took her in, that she would act as a companion to the older woman. Elizabeth did perform many of the duties of a companion, but she never imagined the soul crushing ownership the Dawsons would place over her.

Even though they waited for her to have one year of mourning, her year was up. They expected her to marry Mr. Dawson or leave.

Except Mr. Dawson had made it clear that he wouldn't tolerate her leaving. He had trapped her against the wall today with the reek of alcohol on his breath, and threatened, "I would drag you back kicking and screaming."

He meant it.

He knew about her clearing. She wasn't truly safe here. Normally when she visited, stepping into her clearing felt like taking off a damp cloak and stepping up to a warm hearth. It was a relief, it was a weight off her shoulders, it was inviting.

Now, the weight never lifted. This place was different and tainted.

Just like everything else in her life.

She sat on her log and shoved her fingers into the hair above her temples, dropping her head low. How could she be so far gone from the woman she had been just a couple of years ago? Living with her father, she had been so happy and carefree. What had she done wrong that life would punish her with people like the Dawsons?

Had she taken her life for granted?

A hand stroked over the side of her head and shushed her. She startled and opened her eyes, staring at a familiar pair of high, leather boots. She followed the boots up to a pair of muscular legs, then a broad chest, and into the concerned eyes of her highwayman.

He knelt in front of her. "I thought we had dried all your tears last night."

She sniffled and wiped at her wet face. "I thought you were gone."

"I had to come back." He stroked his hand down her head again and the soft sensation sent soothing ripples of pleasure down her body. She took a deep breath. He added, "For you."

Her breath caught in her throat and she stared at him. She stared at the dark lashes rimming his hooded eyes, the high line of his cheekbone that made his angular face look wide until it cut down to a pair of soft lips.

He smiled at her.

She struggled to haul her thoughts together into a coherent line of thinking but her emotions were too jumbled and it was difficult to discern what exactly she should be feeling right now.

He sat next to her on the log and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. It was instinctual to lean into him, as if her soul could drink in his sturdy exterior and use it to calm her disorganized mind.

His words, For you , swirled around in her head. They sparked a momentary warmth because they persuaded her to believe for a moment that he meant them. Perhaps she was special enough to him that he came back for her.

That was delusional.

His arms and his warmth surrounded her and he smelled like the deepest parts of the forest and something musky. If she ever smelled it again she would immediately and forever associate it with him.

Her highwayman.

He breathed deep against her hair and said, "You smell like heaven."

She wanted to giggle. Were they both truly sitting on a log and smelling each other?

But then his lips pressed against her temple. "Do you feel any better now?"

She did. He put his arms around her and everything felt better. She didn't feel alone, she didn't feel as if the weight of her entire world was crushing her, and she didn't worry about tomorrow because this exact moment felt so right. With her voice scratchy from crying, she said, "I do." She sniffled an awkward laugh. "I think I am starting to like you more than I should, considering our circumstances."

He chuckled and she liked the feel of the sound reverberating through his chest while he held her. He said, "You mean that I am a highwayman and you are," he paused and looked down at her, "too beautiful for me."

It was ridiculous that something so overtly flirtatious should wind its way around her, lifting her melancholy. His hand stroked up and down her side and she sighed and snuggled against him, never imagining that this was where her night would end.

She said, "I don't know anything about you."

"It is probably safer for you that you do not."

"You were supposed to be gone already. I was going to forget about you like a strange dream."

He looked down at her and she could sense the change in the direction of his voice. "Would you have forgotten me?"

She sighed. "Probably not. I do not think I could ever forget about you."

His voice caught as he started to mutter something and then stopped. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Lysander."

She felt her brows scrunch as she thought over the sounds he had just given her. Lysander. It wasn't the name of a type of plant. No. It was his name.

She repeated it. "Lysander."

It tasted delicious on her tongue, a little naughty and secretive and something personal that she would hold onto forever.

His voice husky and his warm breath on her cheek, he said, "Elizabeth."

She looked up at him, taking in the way his head dipped forward and his lips were a breath away from hers. He was going to kiss her. She stared at his lips, waiting. Wishing. Hoping.

He asked, "If you could live anywhere besides here, what would you want to do? Where would you be?"

Questioning why she felt so dismayed, she answered, "I would live in a cottage by the woods and continue working on the things my father had studied."

His finger traced down the side of her face. "He taught you a lot."

It wasn't a question but she nodded anyway.

"What would you work at?"

"Making things from the forest and continuing to study the things my father loved. I have learned a lot about plants and medicine, collected information on what is edible or not. My father wrote a book about what he knew and eventually, I would work and learn and do the same."

He nuzzled his nose into her hair. "A woman of science."

She breathed, surprised at how much the phrase pleased her. "Precisely." She looked up at him to study his face. "I have never had anyone say it like that before."

His arm dropped to slide around her waist, his expression soft, holding not even a hint of teasing. He asked, "Would you like me to say it again?"

She said it herself, "A woman of science."

Mr. Dawson would ridicule her for saying something like that. Mrs. Dawson would berate her until the older woman thought Elizabeth was sufficiently cowed. Her head dipped forward and she sighed. "Only in my imagination."

He said, "Miss Innsworth."

"Yes?"

"Is that what you want? A simple cottage? Don't you want fine dresses or fancy fans or a new pair of yellow slippers?"

She laughed, the sound hollow as she would never have any of the things they discussed. "I like those things, but they aren't practical. What I need are sturdy boots and work aprons with large pockets."

She looked back up to watch him. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with the exaggerated motion. His hesitancy softened his harshness. He wasn't the violently precise highwayman, he was a man and he was struggling to tell her something.

Finally, he said, "I can take you away from here."