Rescuing Mr. Gracey by Eileen K. Barnes Page B

knocked on the hut and warned that the earl planned to capture natives who trespassed in the forest. Her father warned her to avoid the shortcut for a while.
          But right now, the thought of saving a precious fifteen minutes one way by cutting through the forest seemed worth any risk. Mary nibbled her lip, pondering the likelihood a hunter scoured the woods at this time of night. Her gaze flitted longingly toward the forest, then back to the long, rocky road ahead.
    The cart easily whirled about as she turned toward the forest, her feet rapidly crossing the field, her heartbeat stuttering with the decision.
    Thickly leafed trees bowed low, stretching their long limbs downward as if to capture her along with any remnant of daylight. She shivered as she nervously glanced around. The weak lantern light cast eerie shadows that swayed back and forth, and sinister pops and snaps invaded the evening air. Da must never know how the night deliveries frighten me.
    Pressing forward, she soon emerged at the ridge that hung high above the carriage road. Flinging her cloak behind her shoulders, she readied herself to navigate backward down the steep, treacherous trail. Slow, cautious, she leveraged her slight weight against the strain of the heavy cart, testing each footing before taking another.
    When at last she landed safely upon the carriage road, she inhaled. The air smelled like rain, and she could see distant lightning illuminate the sky above the Mountains of Mourne. She would never make the trip to Castlewellan and three deliveries before the storm arrived.
    She licked her thirsty lips and ignored the sharp pain in her shoulders as she pushed harder, faster toward the town, using the lantern attached to a pole in the middle of the cart to see where to avoid ruts and dips in the road.
    Mentally counting down each leg of her journey, she arrived at the deserted cobblestone streets of Castlewellan within ten minutes.
    Muddy twilight melted into brooding blackness as she eased the cart around the first corner of the prosperous town planned by Lord Annesley, the second-most-influential aristocrat in the area. Divided into a lower square and an upper square, the tidy estate town was nestled beneath stunning views of the Mountains of Mourne and was hailed as a well-planned, pleasant place with both parks with lovely flowers, trees, and greenery as well as landscaped streets.
    However, to an Irish Catholic washerwoman traveling alone at night, the town of eight hundred mostly Protestant families intimidated and threatened, especially at this time of night when her only company was the haunting sound of a squeaking wheel and the echo of her boots on the naked streets.
    Quickened steps rounded the lower square where vertical buildings housed merchant businesses below and middle-class families above. Her clients did not live here.
    A final turn brought her to a steeper hill, where manors arrogantly loomed above the world, and gardens and lovely terraces bragged about the wealth of those who lived inside. Here, gaslights burned brighter and roads widened to accommodate rich carriages.
    And Catholic washerwomen kept their heads down to prevent insult or injury.
    Thunder rumbled like a great giant warning of its approach. Her nervous thoughts shifted from exhaustion and trepidation to last night’s victory. She smiled, remembering how Sean had slung a possessive arm around her waist and, instead of discussing pigs, had hammered her with questions about the stranger.
    Flattered by the increased attention, she realized that, despite the anxiety and unsettling sensation, at least the stranger had complimented her weak flirting ability and pricked Sean’s interest. Before leaving her last night, Sean had even promised to visit her sometime this week.
    Progress, indeed.
    Mary continued to climb the hill, breathing harder, a stitch in her side aching from its overstrained day. Once more she let her thoughts imagine the only dream left to