The Battle for a Family
The travel from Thornwood Lodge, a fortified stone house deep in Sherwood Forest to Thornwood Lodge’s root cellar and escape tunnel consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The grandfather clock in the study struck eleven, its chime swallowed by the drumming rain. Rowan stood at the window, watching the orange lights flicker through the trees like fevered stars. Twenty torches, Jasper had said. A cannon. The militia depot had been raided three days prior—he’d read about it in the morning papers, never imagining the Aldridges had been the ones to plunder it for their private army.
Elena appeared in the doorway, Toby pressed close to her side. The boy clutched a leather-bound journal—one of Rowan’s old field logs, filled with sketches of battlements he’d never had the chance to build. His son’s fingers traced the spine as if memorizing the feel of it.
“Jasper says we go through the root cellar,” Elena said. Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled where it rested on Toby’s shoulder. “There’s a tunnel to the river. He’s rigged the outer fence with gunpowder charges.”
“He told me.” Rowan turned from the window. “He’ll draw them to the east wall. We have perhaps ninety seconds once the first charge goes.”
Toby looked up at him, eyes too old for his eight years. “Will you come with us, Father?”
The word cut through Rowan’s chest like a blade he hadn’t seen coming. He crossed the room and knelt, bringing himself level with his son. “I will never leave you again, Toby. Not for anything. Do you understand?”
The boy nodded, and Rowan pulled him into an embrace that lasted three seconds—long enough for him to memorize the weight of his son’s small frame, the scent of rain and ink that clung to his hair.
Elena placed her hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “We need to move.”
They went through the kitchen, past the cold hearth where Quinn stood stuffing papers into a leather satchel. Her spectacles had fogged from the damp, and she pushed them up her nose with the back of her hand. “I’ve got the correspondence from General Whitmore. His seal, his signature, his account of the Aldridges’ fraudulent disbursement of army funds.” She patted the satchel. “This is our insurance policy, Rowan. If we can get this to London, to the right hands, your name is cleared.”
“And if we don’t make it to London?”
Quinn’s smile was thin. “Then I’ll burn it before they find it. They won’t get the satisfaction of silencing the truth.”
Jasper appeared from the back hallway, his greatcoat dripping onto the flagstones. The pistol at his belt had been joined by a second, tucked into his waistband. At his signal, they moved.
The root cellar smelled of earth and potatoes and something metallic—old iron, perhaps, from the tunnel’s supports. A single lantern cast wavering shadows as Jasper lifted the trapdoor near the far wall. Below, the sound of running water echoed up.
“Tunnel runs two hundred yards to a cave at the river’s edge,” Jasper said, his voice low. “From there, follow the bank north for half a mile. There’s a fishing village with a man named Corbin who owes me a favor. He’ll row you across the inlet.”
“The charges,” Rowan said. “How long?”
Jasper checked his pocket watch. “I set them for thirty minutes past the hour. That gives us six minutes to get you into the tunnel before I light the fuses.”
Elena helped Toby down the ladder first, her hands steady on his small shoulders. Rowan followed, the damp rising to meet him. The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast. Water seeped through the stone walls, cold and persistent.
The first charge went off at eleven-twelve, exactly on schedule.
The ground shuddered. Dirt cascaded from the ceiling, and Toby cried out, clamping his hands over his ears. Rowan scooped him up, cradling his son’s head against his chest. “It’s all right. It’s just Jasper.”
Elena’s hand found his arm in the darkness. Her fingers were cold, but her grip was fierce. “Keep moving.”
They followed the tunnel’s curve, the sound of the river growing louder. The second charge followed the first by fifteen seconds, and then a third, the concussions rolling through the earth like thunder. Above them, Rowan imagined the scene: Jasper racing through the rain, touching his matches to the fuses, the Aldridge men scattering as the fence exploded into splinters and flame.
They emerged into a limestone cave, the river mouth black and swollen with rain. The current ran fast, greedy. Rowan scanned the shoreline, searching for any sign of Corbin’s fishing boat.
That’s when he saw the constable.
The man stood at the cave’s entrance, his musket raised, his face half-hidden beneath the brim of a dripping hat. Behind him, torches. More men. Too many.
“That’s far enough, Crane,” the constable called. “Lord Aldridge has issued a warrant for your arrest. Theft of army funds. Desertion. Kidnapping of a minor child.”
“The child is mine,” Rowan said, his voice flat. “I’ve a document that proves it.”
“You’ve a document that proves you forged a birth record.” The constable waved his musket toward the cave mouth. “Step away from the boy. We’ll sort this in the magistrate’s court.”
Toby buried his face in Rowan’s neck, his small body trembling. Elena stepped forward, positioning herself between the constable and her son. “You have no authority here. This is private land.”
“The Earl’s authority supersedes yours, madam.” The constable’s thumb rested on the musket’s hammer. “Now step aside, or I’ll have you taken for obstruction.”
Rowan calculated the distance to the water, the number of men behind the constable, the weight of Toby in his arms. He had twelve seconds to make a decision.
The charging shatter came from above.
The constable’s musket fire—muffled by the roaring rain—was followed by a cry of unmistakably feminine anger. Quinn had somehow emerged from the tunnel, still clutching her satchel. A second constable fired into the smoke.
The bullet passed through the leather and the paper, turning General Whitmore’s letter into confetti.
The answer crashed into Rowan’s mind.
Elena pitched forward, a crimson bloom spreading across her shoulder. The sound of the second constable’s shot. The muzzle flash catching the limestone. She fell to her knees, her hand pressed to the wound, blood seeping between her fingers.
“Elena!”
“I’m fine,” she gasped, but her face had gone the color of chalk. “Get Toby to the boat.”
Rowan handed his son to Quinn, who had dropped to her knees beside Elena, her expression white. “Take him. Get him to Corbin.”
“Rowan, I can’t—”
“You can.” He was already moving, lifting Elena into his arms. She was lighter than he expected, her body trembling against his chest. “Quinn, the satchel. Is any of it intact?”
Quinn fumbled with the ruined leather, pulling out shreds of paper. A single sheet remained whole—the outer envelope, bearing General Whitmore’s seal. “Just the envelope. The seal is still legible.”
“It’s enough.” Rowan’s arms ached with the weight of the woman he loved, his eyes holding Quinn’s with a prayer. “Get Toby to the boat. I’ll follow.”
The tunnel entrance filled with constables. The charges had distracted the Aldridge men, but not for long. Reid and Beckett would be here soon, and with them came the cannon.
Jasper emerged from the tunnel, blood streaming from a gash on his temple. His pistols were drawn, his gaze sweeping the cave in a tactical count. He shot one constable in the leg, another in the shoulder, before his weapons clicked empty.
“Rowan,” he said, his voice calm despite the carnage, “you must go. I’ll hold them here.”
“You’ll die.”
“Better me than your son.” Jasper drew a knife. “Go.”
Rowan carried Elena toward the river’s edge. The current was swift and dark, but he could see a shape on the opposite bank—a small fishing boat, and a man waving a lantern.
Corbin.
“Rowan.” Elena’s voice was barely a whisper against his neck. “Put me down. I’m slowing you.”
“No.”
“The boy needs you. Not me.”
“The boy needs his mother.” Rowan waded into the water, the cold biting at his legs. “And I need you, Elena. I’ve spent eight years running from the memory of you. I won’t spend another minute without you.”
She was silent, her hand pressed against her shoulder, her breath shallow.
He saw them in the fog: several horses, moving fast. The riders were shouting, torchlight glinting off polished brass.
Beckett Aldridge had arrived.
The cannon on the bluff fired, its thunderous roar splitting the rain.
The shot landed short: catching the fishing boat at the bow, splintering the wood into jagged ribbons. Corbin was thrown into the water. The lantern fell, the flame hissing against the river.
Rowan’s hope died in the darkness.
He reached the far bank, his boots sinking into the mud. Elena’s weight dragged at him, her blood warm against his chest. He laid her down beneath the overhang of an oak, pressing his hand to her wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.
“Stay with me,” he said, her blood warm on his hands. “Stay with me, Elena.”
Her hand found his, squeezing weakly. “Toby?”
“Quinn has her. They’re safe.”
A lie. He didn’t know where Quinn was, didn’t know if Jasper had held the tunnel, didn’t know anything except that Elena was dying beneath his hands and he had nothing left to offer but his own body as a shield.
The horses had crossed the river. He could hear their hoofbeats in the shallows, the jingle of tack, the low murmur of men’s voices.
And then, a voice he knew.
“Let the boy go, Crane. Your bloodline ends tonight.”
Rowan looked up, his hand still pressed to Elena’s shoulder to stop the blood. He could not fix this—not with his hands, not with his perfect titles, not with any power in the world. He could only stand in front of this family he had only just learned to hold.
He let his hand fall from Elena’s shoulder. His voice tore out of him, raw and final.
Then you’ll have to kill me first, Beckett. And I promise you—I will take you to hell with me.