Page 77 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

Eliza blinked against the sting in her eyes. She had not noticed the passage of time until her body protested, stiff fingers, aching spine, a deep chill that would not lift. Still, she did not move away from Sammy.

Outside, the storm weakened. The rain softened. The wind eased to a restless sigh.

A faint but unmistakable sound reached her ear.

A hoofbeat.

Her breath caught. She rose without thinking, the motion stealing her balance for a moment before she steadied. She pressed her ear to the crypt door.

Footsteps approached. One set.

Boots she knew by cadence alone. Heavy with fatigue, the rhythm familiar.

Thomas.

Relief moved through her, warm and immediate, not loosening her resolve, but strengthening it.

Still, she did not open the door. Not yet. Not with Sammy hidden below and too many questions unanswered.

She slipped up the crypt steps and eased through the door, closing it behind her with care. The night air struck her face, sharp and cold, clearing the ache from her lungs.

She reached the chapel terrace just as Thomas crossed the courtyard from the stable, rain still clinging to him.

He was drenched, mud splattered to his knees, hair plastered to his brow. Exhaustion bent his shoulders.

Thomas slowed, sensing her before he saw her. He lifted his head.

Their gazes met across the rain-swept stones.

“Eliza?” His voice was rough. “Why are you—”

“There is something you must hear,” she said. “And you cannot go to your cottage.”

He stopped at once.

“Eliza.” His tone sharpened. “What’s happened?”

She stepped closer, her shawl damp, her hair loosened by the long night, her steadiness intact despite it.

“Come with me,” she said quietly. “Please. There is no time to lose.”

The wind lifted briefly between them, catching the edge of her shawl as though urging them forward.

Thomas did not hesitate.

He followed.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Thomas followed Eliza across the slick courtyard stones without protest, though every muscle in his body ached from the storm and the long ride. Mud clung to his boots, marking each step behind him, but she did not slow or glance back. Her pace was swift, purposeful, her shawl damp and drawn tight around her shoulders.

He had never seen her like this.

“Eliza,” he tried again, low and controlled, “what has happened?”

She shook her head without slowing. “Not here. Please.”

She led him toward the chapel terrace. Not toward the manor. Not toward his cottage. That alone sharpened every instinct he had.