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He hadn’t heard anyone entering the stables, but strong arms grasped his shoulders, wrenching him away from Emily. He’d lost his balance, falling to the stable ground before he felt the crack of his father’s riding crop across his shoulders.
And after that night, he hadn’t seen her again.
Emily huddled beneath her cloak, trudging across the pasture. Years ago, her father had bred horses. Now, there was nothing left but barren land. The grass was damp with frost, and the sky was growing darker, clouded with the portent of snow.
It would take nearly an hour to walk the distance to Falkirk, and she didn’t want to be caught in the darkness.
You could have told Lord Whitmore that you didn’thave a horse. He’d have sent a carriage for you.
She knew that, in her heart. But a little walking never hurt anyone.
The snow began to fall, a veil of flakes coating the grass. The cold didn’t bother her, for the brisk walk kept her spirits high. But when the sky grew even darker, the snow drifting faster, she cast a backward glance at Hollingford House. The manor sat against the hill, a small dot in the distance. Likely by now it was safer to continue toward Falkirk than to turn back. Doggedly, she kept onward, praying that she wouldn’t lose sight of the road.
With one foot in front of the next, she followed the disappearing path. A light note of fear rose up when she realized that within a few more minutes, the road would be gone beneath a blanket of snow.
She peered hard into the distance, hoping for a glimpse of Falkirk. It couldn’t be very far now. Before her anxiety could deepen, she saw a coach approaching. She stepped to the side, intending to let it pass, but instead it came to a stop before her.
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