Praise for Tenderly Betrayed “A riveting, well-written story by a talented author. I look forward to reading more of Hannah’s books.” —Wanda Brunstetter, bestselling author of Amish and historical fiction “Tenderly Betrayed drew me in from the very first chapter with its emotionally rich Regency setting, compelling characters, and heartfelt inspiration. Hannah Linder beautifully weaves romance, mystery, and redemption into a story that promises to linger long after the final page. Well written and highly recommended.” —Carrie Turansky, award-winning author of A Token of Love and Echoes Across the Moors “You know that rare sort of book that grabs you by the throat, flings you onto the couch, and doesn’t let up until you finish the last page? The kind that torments you to linger over every single word while at the same time forces you to race to the end to make sure everything is going to work into a smile? Yeah. Tenderly Betrayed is that book . . . and you need it. The characters are heart-wrenchingly real, the story hauntingly romantic, and the beauty of hope shines through this gripping Regency tale.” —Michelle Griep, Christy Award-winning author of The Bird of Bedford Manor “From the very first page, I was captivated by this story of justice, love, and the tension between the two. In Tenderly Betrayed, Hannah Linder weaves an unforgettable book with characters who feel like old friends, a richly immersive setting, and a conflict explored with both depth and compassion. It’s a must-read for fans of Joanna Davidson Politano and Michelle Griep.” —Kimberly Duffy, historical author of The Weight of Air and Every Word Unsaid “Tenderly Betrayed brings readers through the full experience of human emotion, all with honesty, depth, and—ultimately—redemption. This was a book that stayed with me!” —Callie Murray, ECPA best-selling author of The Brunswick
“Tenderly Betrayed by Hannah Linder is an intense, engrossing Regency era novel. It is not your usual romance! The characters are well drawn, poignant, and their story transports you on a dark, twisting journey to redemption. Filled with heartache, shattered dreams, and an impassioned desire for revenge—all ultimately transformed by the power of a deep faith and love—Tenderly Betrayed will remain with you long after you finish the final pages. Meticulously researched, Tenderly Betrayed immerses you in the tale, both opulent and brutally squalid, of a sweetly innocent heroine and a dark, very tormented hero. This is a talented author with a strong, unique voice!” —Kathleen Morgan, best-selling author of A Heart Divided and A Fire Within “Tenderly Betrayed is another stand-out story from Carol Award winner Hannah Linder! Her newest novel sweeps readers back in time with its vivid descriptions and page-turning suspense. The rough and handsome hero is sure to win hearts with his hidden softness. The sassy heroine will have readers cheering for her perseverance. Together, the two characters must face the dark secrets of their past if they want any hope for their future—especially a future together. Hannah Linder writes with evocative detail and gripping excitement that is downright cinematic. Fast-paced from the very first chapter, this unputdownable story will have readers hooked with its effervescent imagery and swoony romance.” —Ashley Clark, acclaimed author of the Heirloom Secrets series “A captivating tale of love and loss featuring flawed characters who learn the power of forgiveness. Tenderly Betrayed will warrant your tissue box and leave you breathless. You’ll want to make room for Linder on your bookshelf !” —Laura Conaway, bestselling author of Silencing the Witness “Tenderly Betrayed is the kind of novel that keeps you turning pages long past bedtime—I found myself reading at 4 a.m. because I simply couldn’t put it down. Hannah Linder masterfully weaves romance, heartfelt emotion, and a touch of suspense into a story that captivated me from beginning to end. The twists kept me guessing, and the ending genuinely surprised me. Best of all, the conflict was authentic and deeply rooted in the characters’ circumstances. Richly layered and beautifully told, Tenderly Betrayed is an unforgettable read that fans of regency romance won’t want to miss.” —Robin Patchen, USA Today bestselling and award-winning author
T E N D E R LY B E T R AY E D H annah
L inde r
YOU are the reason we do what we do here at Barbour Publishing. We promise that we will always use our God-given talents to produce content with you in mind—and that we will remain biblically faithful, no matter what. Thank you for being the heart of our business. Tenderly Betrayed ©2026 by Hannah Linder Print ISBN 979-8-89151-436-2 Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 979-8-89151-437-9 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher. Reproduced text may not be used on the World Wide Web. No Barbour Publishing content may be used as artificial intelligence training data for machine learning, or in any similar software development. Unless otherwise indicated, all scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental. Cover Design: Hannah Linder Designs Cover Image: © Dorota Gorecka / Trevillion Images Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
Dedication To George, kind-hearted George.
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PROLO GUE January 1815 Dear W,
He found me. I think it strange that I did not hide myself. After all these letters of resolve, I stood in the window anyway, with my forehead against the frozen glass, and waited until he looked at me. In everything, he is the same. He wore the coat I mended and swept off the hat I played with. I was not certain he would know me—I am changed—but even through the grime-smudged glass, I saw his jaw clench in recognition. Perhaps in horror. I pray, more than anything, regret. I do not know why, but I smooth the dirty curls back behind my ears. I try to flake the blood from my fingers. I wish I had more strength, but he will notice the bones staring through my skin and the quiver to my steps. I am so hungry. Every night, I dream of Mamma’s gooseberry tarts and Papa’s pigeon pie. I dream of Jericho too. His voice roams my slumber, soft and husky, so real that I can smell horse liniment on his shirt and feel the prickling scrape of his cheek against my hand. I wake up crying for him sometimes. 7
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Then I remember. Footsteps are coming now, and I know they are looking for me. I wish you were here. You would be resilient. You would know how to bear this. I do not think I can hold up my head, nor my legs, nor my heart—because I never wanted to stand face-to-face with him again. I do not know what to say except I hate him. I think he already knows.
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CHAP TER 1 March 1815 Fallowspring Village Hampshire, England Shouts roared in Jericho’s ears, muffled, as another blow pummeled his rib cage. All his muscles hardened. Sweat stung his eyes as he crouched and swung with air-whistling speed. His fist cracked cartilage. Shipley staggered. More yells. He’s down. Jericho dragged a swollen hand across his mouth, stumbling back, as Shipley’s body collapsed center of the wooden platform. The butcher’s eyes rolled back, mouth gaping, as if he were dead. He wasn’t. Too much devil and rum in the varmint for that. But the ghosts whipped through Jericho anyway—always now, and here—when everything was hazy and his head bellowed in a current of pain. He counted the seconds inside the ring instead of the weakening heartbeat beneath Father’s banyan. “Wake up.” The foyer, black and cold and soundless, save for Mother’s bare feet shuffling across the elm floor. The smell of gunpowder. The haze of smoke. The puddle of red, cold and soaking into the knees of his childhood nightgown— 9
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Blast, enough. Jericho ground his teeth and spit blood out of the ring. Years ago, that. Something he didn’t think about. Something he wouldn’t think about. Those terrors belonged to an eleven-year-old boy with a blue silk suit, who had a mother, father, and brother. He’d had a home too. A brick, three-story house with wisteria climbing the porch pillars, and three greyhounds who yapped at the geese every summer at eve. Everything—all of it—was gone. Jericho had nothing. No one. He roamed the empty world over, untethered to anyone, a name some knew with a face no one remembered. Better this way. Nothing to lose. No reason to hear himself scream, like he’d screamed in that foyer. “The victor!” Climbing through the ropes, a local patron strode across the elevated platform and thumped Jericho on the back. “Wave to your coliseum, my friend. Smile.” Smile? Never. Jericho lifted throbbing eyes across the field, dotted with lime trees and thirty-some carriages and wagons. The wave of colors, top hats, lifted canes, and pumping fists all settled across his awareness without appeal. His name rippled throughout the crowd. A fawning chant that nourished his pride like watered broth. He didn’t need their praise. He only needed to fight. “Give them something, good man.” The patron leaned closer with cheroot breath. “Give them anything. You’ve just earned their children bread and their wives’ bonnets, eh?” Somewhere in the sea of faces, a flutter of blond curls caught his eye. She was gone. Then back again, this time closer to the ring as she squeezed between two boisterous gentlemen with chin-raised determinedness. Her eyes snagged his. They were rapt, wild, and hazel—and she shaded her forehead, squinting, as she stared at him. “Go on,” the patron hissed. Jericho lifted a hand. The crowd roared. And the woman, jostled by the people all around her, clapped her hands and grinned. 10
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So this was Jericho Easton. A hint of mirth gathered at the base of Iris’ throat as she fished for the newspaper clipping inside her reticule. She glanced at the drawing again. The bulky, crudely printed figure was an absolute ape, with tufts of wild hair and an exaggerated Greek-statue face. Jericho Easton was. . . Well. He was not an ape, for certain. “Och, Miss Gregory. That ye?” For the fifth time, a shoulder bumped her from behind, and Iris was shoved into someone’s back. She righted herself, apologized, then turned to the voice. Mr. Barclay, the local tallow chandler, waggled a finger at her. “Yer faither”—he hiccuped—“catch ye here, and he’ll be giving ye no braw speech. ’Tis no place for a wee lass.” “I am hardly wee, sir.” She straightened the lapel of his port-stained coat, patted him, and smiled. “Now, if you shall excuse me.” “Where are ye going?” “To speak with Mr. Easton.” With another duck between spectators, she escaped before Mr. Barclay could do what Papa would do soon enough—scold her. ’Twas not as if he had not attended the mills before. Besides, once was enough. Now that she’d come and could scribble the venture into her letters, she was satisfied. Papa need not fret. With the wind fluttering curls across her face, Iris approached the twenty-foot rope ring with a slight skip in her chest. The air was heavy, the temperature brisk, and despite the sun beaming down, it smelled of impending rain. Where was her sense? She would be soaked by the time she made the two-mile trek to the village. She’d be a drowned rat if Papa had already left. “Ahem.” Several gentlemen gathered around the butcher, having already dragged him down to the grass. One slapped at his face, while two more waved a 11
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tobacco box of smelling salts under his puffy nose. Poor man. ’Twould be a fortnight, she’d wager, before he’d be chopping lamb again. Without glancing up at Iris’ approach, the man called Jericho descended the platform alone. Had he no one to commend him? Nary a comrade? She would have imagined otherwise. Especially after the newspaper. “Mr. Easton?” Grabbing a copper bucket from the grass, he tipped it upside down and dumped water over his face. The splash bespattered her dress. Well. He may not look like an ape, but the same could not be said of his manners. Shaking his wet and scruffy brown hair, he dabbed a cloth at the cut below his eye and reached for a shirt. He yanked it over himself. White fabric clung to his carved chest, his solid arms, as he finally spared her a glance. “What?” “I presume you are only so disagreeable after exertion.” “I know you?” “Miss Iris Mae Gregory.” She extended her hand. Without gloves, but only because she’d forgotten them in Papa’s wagon. His eyes—an amber brown, soft a little, she thought—traveled from her hand to her face in question. He frowned. “Speak fast. My ride is leaving.” “If you are so much in haste, I fear my matter will mean very little to you.” “What matter?” “I am quite indignant to tell you after”—she made a sweeping motion down her splattered dress—“your disagreeable show of incivility.” He grabbed his hat. Crushed it onto his head. “Say it or don’t, Miss—” “Gregory.” “Gregory.” He was closer now, a step nearer to her face, and the full effect of both his height and his breadth rushed warmth to her cheeks. Stubble accented his fine jaw, darkening around his lips, and a light scar angled between his brows. His skin glowed a healthy brown, likely from too many hours in the sun. Too many times in the ring. “You were watching me. Out there.” He nodded to where the new spring grass had been trampled under hundreds of boots. “Why?” “Everyone observes you, Mr. Easton. I have no greater fascination than any other spectator, save that I shall never attend a mill again and. . .well, 12
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this.” She slipped into her reticule and produced the ridiculous newspaper. He narrowed his eyes, turned it over, all without expression. She nearly laughed. “I thought you would like to know what sort of fright they have made of your face.” “Don’t read these anyway.” “You should know they have been cut and pasted upon endless shop windows, along with the most horrendous caricatures.” “Don’t shop either.” “I see.” She retreated a step, tried to bite back another smile. “In any case, I thought perhaps you encountered an artist among your travels, made him very angry, and have thus been the object of his revenge. In which case, I presumed, you would wish to know so that you may extract your own reprisal by throwing him into one of your rings.” With all the grace Mamma had ever whispered in Iris’ ear, she curtsied, dipped her head, and met his eyes once more in a farewell smile. One he did not return. Even a little. Lifting her hem above the muddy grass, she departed for the road, already teeming with carriages. Her heartbeat scurried. When she was certain she was far enough away, she placed a quick hand to both of her cheeks. They burned beneath her touch. For no reason at all. Except that she almost, almost could not resist the urge to look back. Jericho Easton was ill-mannered, uncouth, and altogether the sort of creature Mamma would scoff at. But he was also the most handsome man Iris had ever seen in her life.
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The thick, scalding cider trailed heat down Jericho’s throat, the tease of apple and clove making his stomach rumble. He winced, ribs aching beneath his damp shirt, as he scooted the tankard across the bar. “Again.” “Wot ev’a the man wants, the man gets.” This from a local fishmonger, who draped his bone-thin arm across Jericho’s shoulder. What he wanted was to be left alone. Find something to eat. Then sleep until the staves stopped drilling into his temples. 13
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“Eh, guvs.” The fishmonger’s clothes reeked of raw fish and whatever stew he’d slopped onto his coat as he turned to the occupants of Ye Olde Blackwool. The tavern smoke rasped his voice. “We goings to lets our victor be drinkin’ by his lonesome?” More elbowed in. One crowed the number of rounds—“Sixty-eight! Sixty-eight and woebegone is Shipley!”—while another hopped onto the tavern bar, motioned to the fiddler, and kicked his legs in an Irish jig. The wood shimmied beneath him. Ale sloshed as the music hammered through Jericho’s eardrums. Then a round of claps smacked his back, awaking new pain throughout his bruises and flaring his gut with irritation. The devil with cider. He shoved away from the bar. “Not takin’ a leave yet, are you, guv’na?” The fishmonger hurried to block him. “I been ramblin’ about the village, I have. Talkin’ to folks wot want to see another mill.” “I leave come morn.” “Barmy, barmy. With Shipley under, ain’t a bloke in the parish the likes o’ you couldn’t down.” Grunting, Jericho brushed the man aside, headed for the door. “More’n fifty pounds aside, I’d wager. And folks wot will brawl. Plenty, guv. Leave it to ol’ Rooker here an’ I’ll be findin’ you—” “I’ll fight.” This came from across the room, quiet, from a figure who rose from one of the mismatched tables. He was tall, blond, with a gut-smeared apron around his waist and features that resembled Shipley, albeit younger. Jericho sized him up. He could take the man down. Under thirty rounds. If he had time—which he didn’t. “I leave at morn.” “But you’ll be back.” “Maybe.” “And then we’ll fight.” Jericho swept a slow glance throughout the room. Everyone was still, tankards suspended, as their eyes darted between him and young Shipley back of the room. With a slight nod of agreement, Jericho departed the tavern. Cool spring air blasted him, scented with wet mud and fauna and horse dung. He wiped the mist from his face. Truth was, he wasn’t certain if he’d be back or not. Fallowspring was the same as anywhere else. Puddled cobblestone streets. 14
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Grey limestone buildings, thatched roofs, smoking chimneys, scraggly boxwoods, and— Her. The woman from the mill. Across the street, she climbed into the back of a peeling green-painted wagon and situated herself atop what appeared to be cotton sacks of salt. Her yellow-white curls were drenched, sticking to her face, and with careless movements, she wrung rain from the skirt of her dress. And then by curst chance, she glanced up. He looked away, frowned, but a small lick of amusement fanned through him. Blast, had she grinned at him? Again? He still had the newspaper clipping inside his wet trouser pocket. Wasn’t certain why. Except that maybe. . .well, maybe nothing. He’d toss it in the hearth fire, soon as he found a chamber. Which was exactly what he was about to do. Turning left down the street, he blinked against the fading drizzle of rain and would not have glanced over again had the sound of a tiny brass bell not garnered his attention. Behind the wagon, a man emerged from the whitewashed cooper’s shop, lugging a new barrel. He spoke to the girl in the wagon. Then hoisted up his load. Then turned, ever so slightly, until more of his face was visible beyond the brim of his straw hat. Every nerve in Jericho’s body blazed to fire. Then ice. Then numbness. Him. The man from the foyer, in the darkness, with the stealthy movements and the gold-trimmed tricorn. The one who demonized Jericho’s dreams. Then killed the wisteria on the porch pillars. Then doused a candle and made the world turn black. The one Jericho had been searching for in every village all these years. The one who made him fight.
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“You are very foul of temperament.” Iris climbed to the front of the wagon, stood next to Papa, and locked her knees against the rattling wood. For the second time, a faint, yeasty scent drifted to her like a nerve-pinching omen. Papa never drank. Not anymore. 15
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“When you want to talk about what you done, we can get this over with,” he said in an even tone. “I did nothing worthy of rebuke.” “Humph.” “Papa—” “People like us don’t afford mistakes. I told you that. Mamma’s told you that.” Something about his words, the despondency in his voice, drained the retort already building in her chest. She gripped the edge of the wagon as the two grey Clydesdales plodded through another rut, splashing muddy water. Countryside swept around them. Muted colors, a brewing sky, bare trees that creaked with every new howl of wind. She shuddered. Papa must have noticed. He stripped off his coat, handed it over, all without looking at her. “You shall not be so unkind as to tell Mamma, of course.” Iris swallowed herself in the smell of wool, pipe smoke, sweat, barley—and an odd emotion wriggled through her. She blinked away memories of sleeping in his arms. She’d had to fight to stay curled on one leg, because there wasn’t enough room. Not for two of them. Strange, because the night his other leg became empty was the same night he ceased holding her at all. “Mamma knows how to learn you.” “She will cry.” “Should have thought of that before you went traipsing into menfolk affairs.” Almost in sight of the arched wooden bridge, he wiped his face, splotches of new rain landing on his forehead. Then, almost so quickly she didn’t notice, he stuffed a peak of paper farther into his vest pocket. “You received a letter?” A mumble of acknowledgment. “From whom?” “No one.” “If no one can write letters, I am determined to read it indeed.” Hair beat across her face, and she raised her words above the new downpour. “We must all sit by the hearth, and I shall brew tea, and then you may read aloud this terrible mystery—” 16
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The wagon lurched, thrusting Iris forward at the same time Papa’s arm swung out to steady her. Thunder reverberated across the sky. The horses pranced, snorting, as they backed farther away from the pebbled edge of Weybriar Stream. Only then, shielding her eyes, did Iris see why Papa had yanked back the reins. Apprehension lined her stomach. The bridge was gone.
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He’d kill him. Like fire sputtering along a line of gunpowder, the words trailed closer and closer to the dormant parts of Jericho. The parts he tamped down. The parts he controlled. The parts he only unleashed in the ring. Blast. He nudged his heel into Hannibal’s side, the sting of hard rain pelting him in the face. The wet leather reins chafed his palms. He couldn’t see. Water blinded him, but the rage blinded him too. “Wake up.” Seventeen years ago, he’d ripped off the green, satin-covered buttons on the banyan. He still wasn’t certain why. . .because Father bled from his head, from his face, not his chest. But Jericho had slipped his fingers beneath the fabric anyway. He’d splayed them across Father’s skin, next to his heart, where those final seconds of life throbbed, throbbed, then stopped. Leaning forward, Jericho kicked the stallion faster. He’d waited too long. He’d searched too far. Somewhere inside him, a voice—hushed and void, a little like his mother’s—warned him back. But it was too late. The fury reached too deep. He exploded.
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“We have to go back.” “I can make it.” “Papa, the horses cannot—”
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“I know what I’m doing, Willa.” The name sucked the wind from Iris’ lungs as she stared up at his tight, bearded face. Red lined his eyes, puffed his skin. He’d been in the tavern longer than she realized. Which would not have happened if she had stayed put. If she’d done what Mamma said. “I realize you are distressed, but the current is too strong. You are not yourself—” “No, I am myself !” The shout came out hoarse, and she flinched as his finger jutted in her face. “I take care of this family. I make the decisions. I know this river; I know this team; and we are going in. Do you understand me?” A wave of weakness churned through her, grappling at her throat, until she couldn’t answer. She scrambled through her memory, searching for a time she’d heard him yell. She couldn’t find one. “Papa, please—” He whipped the reins, and the wagon surged forward, water gurgling as the wheels pitched into the brown flow. The horses screamed. Papa’s shoulders hunched over, his gaze fixed, as he thwacked the reins in vicious motions. Like a cradle, the wagon rocked. Her pulse leapt in a helter-skelter beat as she clung to the wood, water already rising above her knees. No, no. “Papa, we’re sinking.” “Stay put.” “We have to leave.” Seizing his arm, she yanked and scampered over the water-softened sacks of sugar and salt. “Papa! Please!” Hysteria clamped her chest and another dip of the wagon ripped her fingers from his shirt. Her body rolled, plunged, then was swallowed in frigid water and the oversized coat. Help. The taste of mud and fish choked her like a death potion. Something struck her shoulder. Then ripped her dress. Then bludgeoned the side of her face with a force so solid it pinned her flat. Breaking the surface, she gagged and clawed at splintery wood. The bridge. Underbelly of the bridge. God, thank You. Muscles quivering, she draped herself across the fractured wood. Everything was hazy. A blur of brown and pewter clouds and naked bushes. She should have stopped him. She could have. 18
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Mamma would never live through this again. Panting, she eased herself down the length of the bridge, which had lodged itself between the bank and a fallen beech. Her legs numbed as she reached the rocks and clawed her way back to the grass. Everything careened. The soft, muddy earth caught her fall. Breathe. In, out, choking. Then in and out again. When she finally had the strength to lift her head, a sob withered in her soul. The wagon—and Papa—were gone.
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CHAP TER 2 What the devil? Thunder roared in his brain, rattling his head, as Jericho jerked Hannibal’s reins to his chest. The stallion rose on hind legs, then stomped to the ground the same time a flash of lightning split the sky. Was that a woman? Hands lifted, waving above her head. The movements were frantic enough it spurred him faster toward the swelling stream. Only when he was closer did his gut hitch. The chit from the fight. The one whose wagon tracks he’d followed like a bloodthirsty boar. “My papa.” The words were shrill as she limped over to him, hair and clothes plastered to her like cobwebs on a pitchfork. He tried not to notice the whiteness of her skin. The blood at her hairline. The way it propelled his instincts into a duty of protection. “Where is he?” “The wagon went down in the water. I cannot see him—” “Stay here.” “The water is too strong to—” “Stay here.” Clutching his legs around Hannibal, Jericho raced along the bank, leapt the fallen beech tree, and searched. Eventually he spotted a head bobbing in and out of the waves. “In, boy.” Jericho urged the animal into the current. Water raced around him, frigid as it slammed his stomach, sending shocks of icy annoyance 20
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through his nerve endings. Blast, what was he doing? Ought to turn around. Say he couldn’t find the body. But when the demon, nightmarish face surfaced again and the arms flailed, Jericho leaned forward and groped. “Grab my hand!” Gurgling noises. The man floundered, spewed water from his mouth, then went under again. Seconds later, when he popped back up, his body floated upside down. Curse it. Jericho whipped off the saddle, dove under, and swam with strides so fast his muscles seethed in protest. A rock must have caught the body, because Jericho reached the man quicker than he’d expected. He thrust the varmint right side up. Water beat at Jericho’s back, thumping, thumping, as he clung to the rock and tried to get his bearings. About five feet to land. Hannibal was already gone. If he could hoist the scoundrel on his back, he might make it from rock to rock until he made it across. Or Jericho could drop the man back where he’d found him. Better yet, drown the blackguard himself.
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He was dead. She knew, not because she’d glimpsed Papa’s body snagged upside down in the muddy stream, but because anguish coiled around her lungs, stopping her breath. Grief was paralyzing. She remembered. Like a disease, it ravaged from the inside, pecking away pieces of her, until little was left. I refuse. Her knees wobbled as she sat on the rotten log and ripped away soft patches of bark. She slung them toward the stream in defiance. I refuse to lose anyone else. She needed Papa. Mamma needed him. Their entire family, all these years, had dangled on survival by an unravelling thread. Now was too soon for it to snap. For the world to end again. Please, God, please. Darkness thickened around her, whether from the roiling sky or eventide 21
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she wasn’t certain. The rain slackened. Fog rose from the earth, moist and engrossing, while an unseen frog croaked away the minutes. How long had it been? She wasn’t certain Jericho Easton would come back. Had he even ridden after Papa? Or had he surmised the situation, found the risk too great, and left? Perhaps the newspaper artist was right. Perhaps he was a ghastly ape. Numbness needled her toes first. Then her fingers, her nose, her ears. Why had she never realized that coldness was pain? Rubbing her face, she stood to pace, but the frost was so crippling she huddled on the ground instead. She drew her legs to her chest, laid her head on her knees, and bit her finger to keep her teeth from clattering. Had Mamma already taken to looking out the window? She’d watch all night. Maybe send Gerty to look for them. What a horror. The dog would find no one. Not this time. Not alive. Blackness fell, lit only by a slivered, yellow moon. Her eyelids weighted with exhaustion. Maybe shock. She didn’t know. Stay awake. But she slumped back against the log anyway, the shadows dimming, everything blurring, listening to the sound of rain drizzling death onto her skin. A noise carried across the stream, trapping her breath. Papa? Splashing, horse hooves plucking in and out of mud, then a silhouetted rider trotted up to her. A figure swung down. The back of his fingers brushed up and down both sides of her cheeks, warm; then he disappeared back to his horse. When he returned, he draped his coat around her shoulders. The fabric smelled strange. Like springtime hay and tilled soil. A comforting scent. “P–papa?” “He’s safe.” “Is he hu—” “Shhh. We have to go.” Without permission, his arms slipped under her, cradling her deep into his chest, as he swung them both atop his horse. She had the faint thought that Mamma would rebuke her for this. Then everything whispered to black. 22
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He couldn’t remember her last name. That niggled him, because a man should know the name of the blackguard who murdered his father. For the second time, her head stirred against his shoulder. “Come on.” He jiggled her a little. “Need to know where to head.” “Wh–what?” “I need to know where to take you.” “Oh.” Her body gave another hard shiver, and for no reason at all, her fingers seized the worn collar of his coat. Did she fear he’d drop her? “O–over there.” Her skin was frigid against his neck, and a rare sensation bolted down his spine. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched. Gently, that is. “Y–you can s–see the light.” He could not, in fact, see the light, but he trusted her instincts—if not her eyes—and spurred Hannibal faster down the mud-puddled road. Ripples of pain worked through his back and rib cage. He’d have bruises on bruises after his beating from the stream. But bruises he knew. He could heal from. Not this. Not the face. Again. Shrouded in amber moonlight and heavy fog, dim lights flickered from windows in a distant house. Crows cawed into the silence. The stone fence, parallel with the road, was divided by a creaking wooden gate. “It’s open.” The girl lifted herself up in his arms, and her voice pitched an octave higher. “Let me down. You must return for—” “I’ll see you to the house.” “No. I—” “I’ll see you to the house.” With a grunt of frustration, she pried at his arm around her waist, wriggling against his hold as if she really thought she could do anything against him. That almost made him smile. If he didn’t hurt so much. If he didn’t know—in the pit of his gut—what he was about to ride back and do. 23
Hannah Linder
Hannibal pushed through the gate, tromped faster down the rock-pebbled drive, until they reached a two-story limestone house. Tiny orange candles cast light into fog, like beacons, like home. He hardened his jaw and finally loosened his grip. She slipped off the horse without a hint of grace, stumbled a couple steps, then righted herself with a quick swipe to both of her eyes. She’d been crying? “Go get Papa. Please. Hurry.” He didn’t say anything. Just turned and rode Hannibal like the devil was biting his heels.
h
He would come back. Papa was unharmed, of course. The stranger would have told her if Papa was. . . well, if anything was wrong. It was not. “Hold still.” Iris leaned her head away from Mamma’s cold fingers and moist, comfrey poultice. The grassy odor nauseated her stomach. “It is not severe, I assure you.” “You assure many things, Iris Mae, none of which you have power to determine. Now hold still.” She obeyed. That is, as well as she was able. Her legs jittered of their own accord, and the fist in her throat worked up and down, over and over, until she wanted to scream it away. The second Mamma took a step from the table, Iris bounded to her feet. She hurried to the window, braced her hands on the wooden jambs as water slashed against the glass. “The deuce with this rain,” she muttered. Mamma must not have heard. She would have lamented if she had. What an oddity. That Mamma could move about the room, putting away the medicine chest, cleaning the mortar and pestle, all with lagging movements—while her husband was drenched and missing somewhere outside. But the second Iris breathed something uncouth, the world would upend. Nonsense. Deuced nonsense. “I think I shall go and look for them.” Iris spun to the peg on the opposite stone-hewed wall. She grabbed her brown chintz cloak, draped it over her 24
TENDERLY BETRAYED
chilled shoulders, as Mamma stiffened with alert. “You shall do no such thing. Come sit down.” “They should have returned.” “And they shall. One must exercise patience.” “Was that what you did when—” Iris clamped her tongue with her teeth, but it was too late. The pallor returned, sweeping over Mamma’s creamy cheeks, and her mouth did that familiar, saddening twitch. She turned back to the medicine chest, then rearranged bottles that didn’t need to be moved. Iris swallowed. What kind of daughter was she? “Mamma—” The door burst open, air and rain gusting throughout the room. Some of the candles extinguished. Terror smote Iris’ chest as Jericho Easton filled the doorway, carrying a body. No. The fist in her airway tightened. She couldn’t breathe. “Samuel.” Mamma moved first, her poise intact, only her voice a little frayed. “Carry him up the stairs, sir, if you please. He must be laid to bed.” Jericho Easton marched inside, tracking mud across the rug, knocking over a chair with Papa’s legs. Everything about the stranger was terrifying, strong, overpowering, like a maelstrom. “Careful now.” Mamma’s dull warning. The stairs creaked. Pulse rapid, Iris scampered after them in the shadows. “He is injured?” Mr. Easton ignored her. He must be tall—taller than she’d realized— because he had to stoop as they reached the landing. Inside the tiny candlelit chamber, he dropped Papa onto the bed. Hard. Mamma gasped and Iris ran to him, dove to her knees by the bed, and wiped the dark hair from his groggy face. “Papa, can you hear me?” His beard was matted with blood. All the color gone from his face. Except his lips. They were motionless, an alarming blue, as if— “Give him a draught of ale. Warm bricks in the bed. He’ll be fine come morn.” Jericho’s words were quiet but assertive. He seemed certain. Enough so that she. . .well, she believed him. Her heart stuttered in relief. Breathing a sob, then a laugh, she pecked kiss after kiss upon Papa’s cheek, her tears mingling with the rain already on his face. Mamma fussed. Something about dry clothes. Wind whistled outside and rattled the upstairs 25