7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“ W here the hell is she?”

Thomas’s growl rolled across the expanse of grass that dipped away from the front of the manor house.

A storm brewing angry enough to sink her, and Izzie peeked around one of the fat, ancient oaks that lined the great lawn.

Blast.

The earl was in a near run, his strides eating up the earth as he charged toward the carriage and Hal waiting by the coach where she had left him after he’d climbed down from the driver’s perch to check on her.

A guardian that didn’t miss much, Hal had seen the look of pain on her face when Thomas dragged her out of the castle.

Hal had wanted to force her shoulder back into place himself, but she couldn’t risk Thomas seeing the slightest connection between the two of them.

She turned back toward the tree. She needed to do this fast.

Try number two, for try number one had only sent a painful screech through her lips.

Izzie positioned her out-of-socket shoulder into the bark of the tree, dug her bare feet into the cold hard ground, and with a bracing breath, slammed her body forward, using all her weight as leverage.

A shot of excruciating pain ravaged her, and then a distinctive pop that she knew too well. Instant relief. Her arm wedged back into the socket.

Her chin dropped to her chest as she assessed the pain still coursing through her. It throbbed, raw, along her shoulder, but at least it was an even pain and her arm would work properly again.

“There you are—what the hell are you doing? Trying to run into the woods?” Thomas was on her in the next instant, his arm whipping out and snatching her around the waist, picking her up.

He didn’t wait for an answer—probably thought she couldn’t speak real words—he just lifted her up and dragged her toward the carriage.

Manhandled, but at least he didn’t grab her left wrist and tear the arm out of socket again.

“Damn feral girl,” he muttered as he stomped back toward the carriage.

She feigned struggle, and as he twisted her around, grabbing her more fully under her waist, she glanced back at the Springfell Manor.

She’d stayed there for a few days when Callum and Nemity had briefed her on the assignment and all things Lord Hedstrom. Though they could have told her much, much more about the man’s propensity for tossing women about like a sack of potatoes.

Callum stood at the corner of the manor, mostly out of sight, with a crafty smile on his face. His eyes met hers for one brief moment and he inclined his head at her.

First test of the assignment passed, apparently.

If Callum approved of her performance thus far, then she could very well be on her way to redemption with the Guardians. Hopefully.

Thomas reached the carriage and threw her in, this time onto the front cushion, and then he climbed into the coach, slamming the door closed.

He slammed a fist onto the roof. “Home.”

The carriage started to move directly into a fast clip.

So they weren’t staying.

Izzie hadn’t imagined they would, assuming Callum could intervene upon whatever wild thought Thomas had brewing in his brain that had him bringing her here to Springfell Manor. Most likely Thomas thought to dump her on his cousin and Callum.

It would have been nice to at least have a private moment with Callum, to let him know all was well and going as planned thus far. But their quick exit should be proof enough that she was now Thomas’s ward—exactly as planned.

Izzie curled her legs up in front of her on the bench, sinking back into the corner of the cushions and hiding her face in her skirt about her knees. Both to appear pathetic and to stay warm. The dress that had been tossed onto her was quality, but the thin wool rubbed harsh on her raw skin. In fall and especially in winter, one would normally layer a dress like this over a thick shift, or bury it under a heavy cloak.

She had neither. The dress was the only thing between her and the cold. She couldn’t just reach out and grab the fur he’d draped on her earlier. That would break character.

It’d been a surprise that he had even done it—given a single thought to a feral girl’s comfort.

For she was pretty certain he was the type of man that did what he wanted with little regard for others around him. Why else would he drug her?

“What the hell am I to do with you?” His muttered words seethed out, set under his breath, more for his own ears than hers.

Izzie didn’t look up, only pulled harder into the ball she’d made herself.

At least she was on a cushion now and her arm was back in socket so every single jostle of the carriage wasn’t a jab of torture she had to bear silently.

She’d always been a screamer when pain ravaged her body, and it had taken years to learn how to stifle the sound.

She rode in silence, not daring to look up at Thomas, even as she could feel his stare boring into her.

Barring her arm being ripped out of socket and the vestiges of pain it had left her with, the start of her job at Ravenstone seemed to be plodding along well enough.

She was nothing but a bizarre bundle of pure madness in Thomas’s eyes, just as planned.

Logic would have to guide his next step. She just had to be patient.

They rode in silence for hours, and while she managed to relax her muscles slightly, she kept to her balled up form on the bench opposite Thomas. She’d always done that well—curling up into insignificance and staying that way for long periods of time.

She could tell when the coach turned up onto the drive of Ravenstone Castle. The crunch of the gravel under the carriage wheels was distinct, like the tiny stones were so old, they didn’t so much grind against each other, as they clinked into each other. The carriage leaned to the left, then the right for a long stretch as they hit each twist of the drive.

She’d memorized it when she had arrived with Walt—he’d used the surname Smith as it was his favorite name when he was on assignments. Easy to remember and non-distinct. There had to be thousands of Walt Smiths in the country.

The carriage stopped and Thomas opened the door of the coach. Curious that he hadn’t once waited for his driver or a footman to open his doors for him—like he couldn’t be bothered by their slow sense of time.

Callum and Nemity had told her much about Thomas. About his disappearance from England for six years. About his current suspect state of mind.

But it was the tiny details—such as his general impatience—that she filed away in her mind, as she knew those details would make all the difference in the job she was sent here for. It was always in the details—success. And for the most part in her career as a guardian, she’d had success.

Until she hadn’t.

Which had led her to this job. Her last if she didn’t redeem herself.

It was only by the grace of the saints that Callum asked for her specifically for this assignment. He’d always believed in her, especially when he was training her for the Guardians. Callum was a big man—bigger than most—and she’d been a tiny waif that he’d been trying to teach hand-to-hand combat to. She’d had no hope of ever taking him down. He always knew she could. It wasn’t until he introduced her to leverage and getting someone’s arm in just the right position behind their back that she realized her own power. That move could send anyone to their knees. Even a man twice her size.

Still, even with Callum’s current faith in her, her future was hanging by a thread. A thread so thin, she couldn’t afford to let one brooding, manhandling earl be the end of all her stability in life, even if she’d wanted to walk out on the job the moment she’d realized the bastard had drugged her last night.

Drugged her and done heaven knew what to her body.

She shoved the thought aside. The earl was an ass—she’d already determined that fact.

And she wasn’t so sure Callum’s assessment of the man was solid. Callum and Nemity were convinced that Thomas was going to take a very short walk off the edge of a seaside cliff on his own accord.

She wasn’t convinced—not yet. But she had to stay vigilant—stopping that very thing from happening was the whole reason she had this job.

Thomas jumped down from the carriage, then leaned back in and grabbed her arm, tugging her out of the interior.

He didn’t so much lift her down, as yank her forward like he didn’t want to touch her, and she landed hard on her bare feet on the gravel drive.

Ballocks.

Her right foot had fallen asleep from the cramped position she’d forced it into, and now pins and needles were jabbing up into the bottom of her foot. She kept her head down, her hair covering her face to hide the cringe creasing her eyes.

He released her arm, not taking note that she was unsteady on her feet.

Ravenstone’s butler came tumbling out of the left side of the front doors of the castle just as Thomas strode toward the opening. “Jensen, send for a governess.”

Izzie peeked out between strands of her hair at the inept butler. He’d stopped, staring at Thomas as he passed him. “From London, m’lord?”

“No, I need one quicker than that. One from Edinburgh—that should only take a day.”

“I thought you were to get rid of her.” The butler pointed to Izzie. “Where should I put her?”

Lord Hedstrom’s stride didn’t pause as he stepped onto the wide stone stair below the double doors, then moved into the castle, his words clipped. “I don’t care as long as it isn’t in the barn. I’m not bathing her again.”

Her head dipped, hiding the small smile breaching her lips.

Perfect.