Page 58 of The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh

Her first step had to be breaking from Mayhew’s hold.

Drawing every bit of determination she possessed to her, she focused her mind on the path. She traced it in her memory.

Thus far, the path had been more or less level, but not far ahead, there was a left turn where the lie of the land was deceptive. Beyond the turn, the path sloped steeply downward. And at the lower end of the incline, where the path swung right, a huge beech, standing above the path to the left, had spread a tangle of roots over and across the path. The roots were usually at least half buried by leaf mold, but the hard, contorted lumps were there, just below the loose surface.

If she could manage to unbalance Mayhew just there…

She held herself back, conserving her strength, yet she didn’t cease her ineffectual resistance. Didn’t make his task any easier. If she had, he might have started to suspect she was planning something, so she still pushed back against him, forcing him to exert his strength to keep her staggering and stumbling on before him.

The crucial bend in the path drew nearer. She strained her ears, but could still detect no hint of pursuit.

They reached the turn. She drew breath and dug in her heels, balking for all she was worth—Mayhew hissed through his teeth and shoved her on, following close on her heels.

As she’d hoped, the incline caught him by surprise.

Instinctively, his feet moved faster as he tried to catch his balance. She added to their momentum by forging ahead herself, pulling him further off balance, until they were rushing toward the end of the incline and the looming beech.

In a skidding swoosh of dead leaves, they reached the crucial spot beside the beech.

The instant she felt the hardness of a root beneath the leaves, she wrenched to the side, flinging all her remaining strength into twisting from Mayhew’s hold.

He didn’t let go. He clutched her tighter.

His boot soles skidded on the buried roots, and he fell.

Felicia fell on top of him. One of her elbows drove deep into his midsection, her knee came down between his legs, and he gasped and hawed.

Then his hands were desperately pushing her up and off him.

She grabbed up her skirts, scrambled to her feet, and fled.

Back up the incline, back onto the flat, then she was racing along the path toward the Hall.

Behind, she heard a furious, if gasping, bellow, and then, far too soon, Mayhew was pounding after her.

Desperately clutching her skirts high, she raced across a clearing and on along the path. Her lead over Mayhew wasn’t enough. After struggling with him for so long, her strength was gone; she was already flagging. He would catch her before she could break free of the woods.

Was there anywhere she could hide?

She frantically searched her memories, but couldn’t think of any place safe enough.

A stitch in her side jabbed painfully. Panting, she flung herself across another clearing and raced blindly into the next bend—and ran headlong into Rand.

He staggered under the impact, but his hands clapped about her shoulders, and he caught her. Held her.

“Thank God! Are you all right?” Relief nearly drove Rand to his knees. Inanely, he blurted out, “I thought I’d lost you.”

Felicia was gasping, swaying between his hands. She shook her head. One hand at her breast, she managed to gasp, “Mayhew.” She swung and pointed. “He’s coming.”

Their collision had pushed her back around the bend. Rand looked in the direction she pointed—across the clearing she’d just traversed—as Mayhew skidded to a halt on the far side.

For a second, Mayhew stared at them—at Rand. Mayhew’s expression blanked. Then he turned and fled.

Rand tensed to give chase, but he glanced at Felicia, and his feet didn’t move.

He thought he’d lost her, but she’d found him—she’d fought and striven to run back to him—and he had her beside him again.

He wasn’t going to—couldn’t make himself—quit her side.