Within the next hour, Fred would return with the magistrate. And then Nicholas would be hauled off to jail. From there, he imagined Fred would see that things proceeded with the utmost haste. The Burton-Smythes had a great deal of influence in the West Country. There would be no delays in judgment, no last-minute reprieves.

How soon would they hang him? A week? Ten days?

Nicholas covered his face with his hands, feeling as if he’d been cast into a black pit of despair.

And then, the sound of creaking wood rent the darkness.

He sprang to his feet, instinctively backing as far away from the doors of the loose box as he could get.

Another creak.

Fred had returned with the magistrate.

Nicholas listened hard, ignoring the sound of his pulse pounding in his veins and the cold sweat that caused his torn linen shirt to cling to his back. Any moment now, the bolt would be thrown open and they’d try to take him.

Would he fight to his last breath?

Or would he go with them meekly and quietly, like a lamb to the slaughter?

He clenched his fists.

There was a soft rap at the wooden doors of the loose box. “Nicholas?” a voice whispered urgently.

Nicholas stood stock-still, not able to believe the evidence of his own ears. “Maggie?”

The bolts slid back and the doors to the loose box swung open.

Maggie Honeywell stood there, the dearest sight in the whole world.

She was wrapped in a red woolen cloak, and her dark hair, unpinned, tumbled about her shoulders in magnificent disarray. She held a lamp aloft in one hand, illuminating her pale, fiercely determined face.

He closed the short distance between them.

She set the lantern on the ground as he approached. And then her arms were around his neck, and Nicholas was embracing her so tightly that he feared he might crush her.

When he at last loosened his hold, she drew back just enough to bring her hands to his bloodied face. With excruciating care, she inspected him for injury, her hands moving lightly from his forehead, to his jaw, to his broad shoulders and chest.

“My God,” she breathed. “What has he done to you?”

Nicholas caught her busy hands and held them firmly in his, preventing her from delving beneath his torn shirt. To his mortification, he felt tears stinging at the backs of his eyes. No one, not even his mother, had ever shown him the tenderness and concern that Maggie Honeywell did. “How did you know where to find me?”