Dawn at Emberwilde (22 page)

He winced at her statement. “What made you think there were ghosts in here?”

She felt as if she had been caught saying something she should
not have. “Oh, nothing, just something Burns said. You know the stories.”

She looked up at the brilliant canopy. Part of her wanted to tell him what had happened, as if doing so would somehow expel her fear. After all, he was the magistrate. This was something he would be interested in, wasn't it?

But she recalled the man's threat and remained silent. She wondered if he knew Mr. Galloway.

Nevertheless, he was calm and still, and she shook like a leaf quivering in the wind. In the magistrate's presence she felt safer. More confident.

“I must advise you to stay clear of the forest, Miss Creston,” he said, his voice rough and low. “It's a dangerous place, and not because of ghosts.” His deep voice was strangely comforting. “Mr. Ellison's gamekeeper set traps again last night. One could become injured if not careful.”

She nodded and remained silent as they approached the fence, where she cast a sideways glance at her escort.

His hat was pulled low over his eyes, and the wind had blown his dark hair in reckless disarray. A day's worth of stubble framed his strong, square jaw, and side whiskers set off the brightness of his eyes. He certainly was not as polished or refined as the fashionable Mr. Bradford, but Mr. Galloway was attractive in his own right. She had never encountered a man quite like him—rugged, strong . . . and slightly intimidating.

His steps slowed as they approached the gate. “I will escort you back to the house if you like.”

“No, sir. That is not necessary.” Her words were clipped, and as they left her mouth she regretted their curtness. In truth, she would like nothing more than to have Mr. Galloway remain by her side, but the memory of her aunt's harsh reprimand prompted her to err on the side of caution. “I've no wish to distract you from your task.”

“Not at all, Miss Creston. I am happy to be of service.”

“No, sir. I thank you, but it is not necessary.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if hesitant to leave, and looked toward Emberwilde before fixing his eyes once again on her. “Very well, but perhaps it would be best if you did not mention this encounter to your aunt.”

His gaze was so direct, his expression so poignant, that she could not look away. “Of course not.”

He offered a hint of a smile, then bowed. “Good day, Miss Creston.”

She opened her mouth to offer her farewell, but he was already walking back into the forest, his broad shoulders bushing against wayward branches, his boots crushing bits of leaves and sticks.

It was an odd request for her not to mention their meeting to her aunt, but given Aunt Margaret's treatment of the man, it was not entirely surprising. Isabel would not say anything about her encounter with Mr. Galloway, more to protect her own indiscretion than to expose his.

Regardless, that did not answer the question burning within her.

If the Black Wood Forest was so dangerous, what was Mr. Galloway doing there?

Chapter Twenty-Two

C
olin was distracted.

He recognized the panic in Isabel's eyes. Having once seen it, fear was easily recognizable.

He watched her walk toward Emberwilde. Even though her bonnet was tied around her neck, it hung down her back, bouncing slightly with each step. She walked over the grass, her movements dainty, her figure swaying slightly. Her unforgettably blonde hair—the fairest he had ever seen—blew in wisps about her.

Beautiful.

How distraught she had seemed. She had tears in her eyes. A scratch on her flawless cheek. Her skin had been impossibly pale, making him wonder what exactly had happened to her in the forest. How odd that she should be drawn there. Most people ran from it.

Colin did believe her story. What reason could she have to lie?

Miss Creston was becoming a mystery.

A mystery he wanted to solve.

He turned his attention back to Sampson and patted his neck.

“Well, boy, what do you make of her?”

The dappled horse nudged at his coat, searching for sugar or oats.

He slackened the reins and started walking to Emberwilde's main gate, where he had planned to meet Henry and McKinney. He arrived first, the sun high above him, vibrant in a clear blue sky.

“You're late,” Colin exclaimed when the two men finally came into view.

“Sorry, Cousin. Couldn't get away. Business, you know,” Henry
said with a shrug, hopping down from the cart they had used to get there.

Colin looked up at the sky. He wanted to take advantage of the daylight. “At least you are here now. We'd best be moving if we don't want to be in the forest when the sun starts to go down.”

Once the men were both free from the cart and had secured the animal, Colin began. “This is the plan. We've been unsuccessful to this point in our efforts to gain any undeniable evidence, and yet the activity has continued. We will confiscate the casks and crates and take them to the jail for the time being. Either those responsible will retaliate, which I suspect will be the case, or they will abandon the project. Either way, we will make progress. We'll bring Sampson to help us clear the crates. Come on, we've got work to do.”

“What about Ellison? Or the gamekeeper?” Henry adjusted his hat on his head. “I thought they were going to join us.”

Colin looked back toward Emberwilde. Yes, he had thought that Ellison was going to join them as well, but as it turned out, he was nowhere to be found. The scenario was growing more and more odd. For a man so intent on finding the source of the problem, Ellison had been curiously absent. It was unlike the older man to be forgetful or unreliable. But then again, perhaps it was unfair to judge a man in the midst of a financial crisis.

McKinney's steps were slow as he fell in next to Colin. “I don't see how I get roped into these things. I told you I wouldn't step foot in this place.”

“You're too old to believe in such fairy tales. Stop your complaining. And remember—there's fifty pounds at stake.”

The reminder perked McKinney's waning energy. “And it's all mine, mind you, if these are the kind of antics I have to put up with.”

The men stepped into the forest and followed the path that had been worn into the soft earth. They made no effort to hide the
fact that they were there. Someone did not want them around and had been willing to attack Colin to prove a point. But he did not frighten that easily. And something had spooked Miss Creston, he was sure of it. At least their actions today would incite a reaction—what kind of reaction remained to be seen.

They arrived at the cavern. Colin handed Sampson's reins to Henry and retrieved his lantern from the saddle. He opened the small door and entered the space. The scents of damp earth and wet wood surrounded him.

He raised the lantern high. The size of the crates struck him as odd. They were too large to fit through the entrance. The crates could have been constructed inside the cavern, but that seemed unlikely.

The soles of his boots sank into the soft mud. He noted how loose the dirt seemed, as if it had been disturbed recently. He pried the lid off one of the crates. Inside, glass bottles rested on tightly packed straw.

He investigated the rest of the small cavern. Stones provided the walls, and thick vines formed a roof. A patch of dirt in the wall caught his eye, glaringly different from the rest of the surroundings.

His imagination leaped to life as possible scenarios rushed him. Smugglers were a clever lot. From false-bottom boxes to hidden chambers, he was constantly amazed at the lengths to which these men—and women—would go to transport and hide contraband.

With his gloved hand, he reached out and scratched at the wall. It crumbled before him, and bits of rock fell to his feet.

“McKinney!” he called as the wall gave way. “McKinney! Get in here!”

A shuffling behind him signaled McKinney's arrival. “Hold on, mate. I don't fit in here too well.” After a great bit of shuffling, McKinney muttered, “Well, I'll be. What is it?”

“It's got to be another cavern or a tunnel of some sort.”

Colin knocked the opening free of hanging vines, then stuck his lantern through. Old bricks formed an arched ceiling.

“Where do you think it leads?”

“Hard to tell. I'm about to find out, though. Stay here,” Colin said. “You and Henry watch this entrance.”

“Where you going?” McKinney demanded.

“To see where this leads.”

“Not so sure that is a great idea,” his colleague warned. “Why don't you wait and—”

“I'm just taking a look. Wait here for me. Signal if anything odd happens.”

He ignored McKinney's grumbling protests and stepped through the opening. As he did, his boot sank in several inches of mud. He pitched forward, almost falling over. Once steady, Colin lifted his lantern and stretched his frame. The space was wide enough for several men, yet he could not stand up to his full height.

Bits of vines, crumbling stones, and the stench of stagnant water verified that this was not a new tunnel. Far from it. Crudely cut stones had fallen from their positions in the wall and were treacherous in the darkness.

He lifted his sleeve to his nose. An animal had no doubt met its fate in here. He paused, jerked his neck cloth free, then tied it around his mouth and nose to block the stench. He rounded the bend, and the faint light behind him disappeared. He forged ahead, following an intricate series of bends and turns until he was quite turned around.

How odd to have spent so much time in this forest as a youth and not even know this tunnel existed. For, judging by what he saw, this passageway predated him by many years. Could this be the handiwork of the gypsies who were the basis of the local folklore?

He lost sense of how long he'd been walking. His back was
beginning to ache from his hunched position, and he reprimanded himself for not counting his steps to track how far he'd traveled.

Just when he was about to give up and turn around, a faint, white light glimmered ahead. He headed toward the spot and stopped in surprise. The tunnel forked into two different directions. He squinted as he looked down the left branch. The ceiling had given away. Grass and trees filtered down into the empty space, clinging to the sides and blocking the path. The opening to the ground above was a small one, but if he tried, he could work his way through. By his lantern's light, he studied the space for signs of activity, but a couple of inches of water stood on the crude floor. The foliage and surrounding dirt appeared undisturbed.

He backtracked to the main tunnel and took the other path. He walked for what he guessed to be several hundred feet until the tunnel finally came to an end with a series of steps that led up to a door in the tunnel's ceiling.

At the sight, his heart picked up its pace, not only at the excitement of a discovery, but also at the uncertainty of what was behind the door.

He climbed the short, narrow stairs and assessed the latch. As he was doing so, he noticed the light from his lantern catching on something shiny at his feet. He bent and picked up the object and held it to the light. A pocket watch. It was crusted with mud, but when he clicked it open, it was keeping time, indicating it had been wound at some point in the not-too-distant past.

He closed it, tucked the watch into his pocket to study at another time, and returned his attention to the door. It was fashioned so that it would open upward. For several moments he remained still, uncertain how to proceed. This door would open somewhere. But where? He had no pistol. He didn't even have a knife on his person—he'd left it on his saddle.

He had two choices. He could either open the door and see where it led, or head back for a weapon.

He sat for several moments and listened. Sounds of muffled dripping water met his ear, but other than that, silence prevailed.

He studied the door more closely and noticed a knothole in the wood. He poked his finger through it and felt heavy fabric.

He pushed at it, and it moved.

After considering his options, he decided to lift the door. He could feel something on top of the door shift. He moved it less than an inch.

He waited. No noise. No response.

He pushed it up just a bit farther and lifted his head. He blinked at the sudden onslaught of light. He could see a rough wood floor. It was dusty and dirty, but all was quiet. Slowly, he lifted the door the rest of the way.

He was alone in what appeared to be a toolshed.

He managed to climb through the door, careful to stay below the shed's window. His boots were wet and muddy. He would not be able to move in the space without leaving marks. If this was indeed an entry point for the smuggling activity, someone would be back.

He looked around and craned his neck so he could see out of the shed's single window. And then he saw it.

The back of the foundling home.

It made sense. The foundling home was on Emberwilde property, just like the forest. But why would a tunnel emerge here, in a toolshed of all places?

He returned to the steps and descended into the tunnel, letting the door drop slowly, hoping the cloth atop it would fall back into place.

He was growing weary of the stench. The murky floor. The tight walls. Carefully, slowly, he made his way back, past the fork to
the other tunnel, past the rocks. Relief rushed him when he beheld the opening to the cavern.

“Well, you're a sight for sore eyes,” exclaimed McKinney as Colin stepped back through.

Colin did not respond. He went straight to the door leading to the forest and burst through. He set the lantern aside and stretched his burning muscles.

“Was about to go in after you, not sure where you had gotten to. But the smell was so foul I decided against it.”