Heiress On The Run. Laura Martin

Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Chapter Twenty-Seven

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Amelia ran through the trees, ignoring the branches that whipped at her face and the brambles that caught at her skirts. She was exhausted, her lungs felt as though they were on fire and the muscles in her legs protested with every stride, but still she kept running. Risking a glance over her shoulder, Amelia stumbled, her ankle twisting dangerously to one side, but she caught herself and managed to stay on her feet.

      A loud clap of thunder sounded overhead and seconds later the sky lit up with a fork of brilliant white lightning. Amelia felt exposed in the bright light, despite the camouflage of the trees, and was glad when the world returned to darkness again. Now the rain started in earnest, big droplets of water that pounded against Amelia’s skin and soaked her within minutes. Her dress hung heavily against her, rubbing like sandpaper with every movement, and for once she wished she was wearing something more practical, less pretty, something that might keep her a little warm in this awful climate.

      Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, Amelia listened carefully. She’d been walking over these Godforsaken Downs for the past two days, unsure where to go, where would be safe and offer her sanctuary. It had been bad enough when it was just cold and windy, but now, with the storm raging overhead, Amelia wondered whether she might die out here on these hills.

      At least the village was far behind her now, the village that she had hoped might give her shelter for the cold night. That had been a bad idea. The first person that had caught a glimpse of her bloodstained dress and windswept hair had backed away, calling for her to keep her distance, and alerting the entire population to her arrival. She’d fled quickly, sparing a glance for the warm glow coming from the roadside inn, and continued her dash over the sodden hills.

      Amelia was convinced the villagers would have sent people to follow her. Her face was probably on posters by now, her crime known far beyond the seaside resort of Brighton where it had been committed. She let out a small sob, wondering where everything had gone so wrong, and allowed herself a moment of self-pity. This was not how her life was supposed to be. Four days ago she’d had everything to look forward to: a new life in England, a reunion with the man she loved and a Season in London, whirling through ballrooms and sparkling in pretty new dresses. She had imagined being complimented and courted, not condemned and chased.

      Straightening up, Amelia noticed a low wall on her left and a little further on a set of wrought-iron gates, easy to miss as they were so overgrown with curls of ivy and creepers. It only took her a second to decide what to do. Her feet were hurting, her entire body shivering and she hadn’t slept for two days. The gates looked as though they belonged to an abandoned estate. If she was lucky there might be a barn or outbuilding still standing, somewhere to provide her shelter from the elements and to rest.

      Cautiously she pushed open the gates and slipped through. As Amelia walked up the driveway a sense of unease began to uncurl inside her. The place had a ghostly feel to it and, if she wasn’t so desperate to stop for the night, she might have turned back to look for alternative shelter.

      The house was magnificent, in a dark and Gothic sort of way. Gargoyles loomed from precipices and the windows all tapered to elegant arched points. Statues and carvings decorated the spaces around the windows and doors, and towards the back of the house Amelia could see two imposing towers climbing up into the sky.

      The estate was abandoned, Amelia could see that straight away. The house had an empty, disused feel about it even from this distance and the east side was blackened by fire damage. She wondered how long ago it had been abandoned and whether there might still be a soft bed to rest on inside.

      Cautiously Amelia approached the front door and pushed it open, surprised to find it swung inwards without a creak or protest, revealing an empty hallway.

      ‘Hello?’ she called out before stepping over the threshold. ‘Is anyone here?’

      She waited for a second and then, hearing only the howling of the wind outside, she chided herself for the unease that prevented her from pushing the door closed behind her.

      After another minute of silence she shut the door and stepped further into the hall. She had to wait for a moment until her vision had adjusted to the darkness before she could see anything properly. Summoning her courage, she walked down the hall, selected a door and pushed it open.

      Amelia could see the room beyond must have once been a drawing room, or maybe a sitting room. A comfortable-looking armchair tempted her to take a step inside and once she was in the room she could make out the other contents. Most of the furniture had been covered over with white sheets, designed to keep the thick dust at bay, and on the floor was a heavy, luxurious rug covering the floorboards.

      Her eyes skimmed over the details of the room and came to rest on the large fireplace set into one of the walls. A spark of hope flared inside her as she saw the basket of wood sitting beside it and visions of a roaring fire, warming her frozen limbs and drying her sopping toes, sprang into her mind. She almost cried with relief when she saw the tinderbox sitting on top of the mantelpiece. Finally her luck was beginning to change.

      The practicalities of starting a fire were much more difficult than Amelia had first envisioned. She’d seen fires laid before—even in India they had needed fires in the kitchen and sometimes in monsoon season a fire would be lit to help dry out the clothes—but she’d never actually taken much notice of what the servants were doing. Hesitantly she piled some wood in the grate, ensuring there were some small pieces at the top, and then she set to work on the tinder box.

      * * *

      Fifteen minutes later and she was just about ready to throw the infuriating little box across the room. Her fingers were aching from trying to strike up a spark into the tinder and she had begun to shiver almost uncontrollably, which didn’t help with the delicate manoeuvres needed. With a growl of frustration she struck the steel against the flint one last time and almost cried with relief as a few sparks flew out and ignited the tinder. Carefully she fanned the flames, blowing softly, then touched the sulphur match to ignite it, before lighting the taper. With delicate movements Amelia knelt down in front of the fireplace and set about coaxing the wood to begin burning, feeling an unparalleled sense of satisfaction as slowly the wood began to blacken and the flames danced brightly in the grate.

      Amelia almost flopped to the floor in exhaustion. The last few days had taken their toll on her not only physically but emotionally,