Hunter's Prey
In the weak light of the lamp he could not tell what it was. He only knew that a moving shape—something unmistakably alive—was there. Startled by the sudden nearness of people, it began to flee. The snap of a low shrub branch sent the maids and Elizabeth stumbling backward with startled cries.
At a moment like this the proper course was clear: stay alert and shield the terrified women. Yet the instant Mikhail heard the sound of flight, his gaze sharpened. In the darkness his deep-blue eyes flashed.
I have to catch it.
The hunter’s instinct that slept beneath his nature stirred awake. Had Igor and Yury been present they would have sighed first. Mikhail ordinarily lounged with a lazy air, but the second he fixed on a target he moved with merciless precision. To close on the prey faster than anyone else and cut off its breath—that was the temperament he had been born with.
Usually that temperament showed itself when he was untangling some knotted problem of business. In truth it only ever woke for things that were difficult to handle and hard to claim. Who would have guessed it would turn now toward a creature that merely fled at the sound of footsteps.
I’m bored. That’s all.
Even he thought the impulse odd as he supplied himself with an answer. First he had to seize the thing.
Once he decided, he never hesitated. As he sprinted after the fleeing form, Elizabeth’s voice rang out behind him like a scream, laced with the accusation that he was abandoning her and the maids to their terror. Mikhail did not look back.
What do I care.
Elizabeth would scold him, of course—elegantly, genteelly. He found himself hoping for it. Her rebuke would give him the perfect excuse to wash his hands of the Lauderdale family for good.
The beast was slow. Mikhail overtook it almost without effort. His hand closed without hesitation. In that instant his quarry curled in on itself and pleaded.
“I’m sorry!”
“……!”
The terrified, weeping voice of a woman made Mikhail’s body flinch. That voice was surely—
While he hesitated, a clamor rose from the mansion. Startled by the screams of Elizabeth and the maids, people nearby had poured into the garden.
“Please, please let me go. I won’t show myself again. Please….”
At the sound of approaching voices the captured woman trembled even harder. It was a voice that would have stirred pity in anyone, yet Mikhail only tightened his grip. His instinct whispered that he must not release her now.
He himself found it absurd. This was no ruffian after the house’s valuables, no predator stalking the weak. Far from fighting back, she merely lay face-down and shook after he had seized her with one hand. To be holding so fragile a creature in earnest—his ordinary self would have let her go with a shrug, brushed his hands clean, and forgotten her.
Even though he held her firmly, a restless anxiety told him she might vanish the moment he loosened his fingers. He shouted at a maid who stood trembling a short distance away.
“Bring a lamp at once!”
“Y-yes!”
At his bark one of the maids beside Elizabeth approached, still shaking. The moment the lamp came near, Mikhail snatched it from her hand in impatience and turned its light on the prey he held.
“You….”
It was her after all. The woman he had met in the forest—the one who had melted into the trees the instant he reached for her. Confirmation tightened his chest; he set the lamp down and tore open his cravat. A dry swallow clicked in his throat.
“I’m sorry, please… please….”
The woman kept murmuring the same words. Then her body went suddenly still and she collapsed sideways. Before she could roll across the ground, Mikhail’s hand shot out and caught her. By then Igor and Yury, drawn by the screams, had come running. Seeing them reach into their coats for pistols, Mikhail shook his head. They read the signal at once and slipped the guns away before the maid or Elizabeth could notice.
“What is that? A vagrant?”
Yury stepped close and tried to take Anastasia from Mikhail’s arms; Mikhail struck the hand away. Yury flinched and retreated. Igor, quicker on the uptake, tugged at Yury’s sleeve—get back. While the two withdrew, Mikhail examined the woman he held.
Her clothes were little different from a week ago. But under the light her hands and feet were dreadful. What could possibly reduce them to this? Scattered red wounds marked her hands. Her feet were worse. The wavering lamp kept him from seeing clearly, yet a large, unhealed gash was plain.
Had the wound torn open again while she ran? Sticky black blood gleamed under the flame. Beside her lay the remaining shoe he had once picked up, now soaked through with blood.
“It would be best to hand her over to the house servants for now… Lord Mikhail?”
Igor was speaking, watching the approaching servants, when Mikhail rose with Anastasia in his arms.
“Take the lamp and lead the way.”
They obeyed without a second’s delay. Both men knew that when Mikhail used that flat, emotionless voice, obedience was the only answer. Walking ahead, they shaped words silently with their lips.
Why is he like this?
No idea.
Igor glanced back. Mikhail’s loosened cravat caught his eye—one of the habits that appeared whenever the man turned truly intent.
As the three returned toward the house, Elizabeth and the maid who had fled inside first, along with the servants drawn by the noise, stood clustered. They fell back as the newcomers entered. Under the brighter lights Mikhail looked more carefully at the woman he carried.
“Good heavens….”
Her condition was far worse than the dark had revealed. Sticky blood still dripped from feet already so swollen their original shape was nearly lost. Fever from the inflammation flushed the face half-hidden by her hair; she breathed only in ragged gasps.
When the startled onlookers edged closer, Mikhail shifted his hold.
I will not make a spectacle of her.
Drawing her deeper into his arms so that as little as possible showed, he asked a nearby maid,
“Where am I to stay?”
“Pardon?”
“I asked which room I am to occupy tonight.”
Before the maid could answer, Catherine pushed through the servants, caught sight of the woman in Mikhail’s arms, and murmured in shock,
“What? That’s Anastasia?”
Mikhail echoed the name under his breath.
“Anastasia? Anastasia Lauderdale?”
At the sound of the full name Catherine’s body gave a visible start. That single flinch confirmed the truth: the woman in his arms was the third daughter of this house. Mikhail was left speechless.
Good God—so this woman is the third daughter of Edenhurst.
Anyone could see she was dressed like a vagrant. Even layered in clothes she was so light it scarcely felt like holding a person. The jawline visible through her hair looked ready to snap. And those wounds—
He had expected poor treatment, yet the reality surpassed imagination. Fury rose hot in his chest. Then he caught himself.
Why am I angry?
Why rage over this woman’s affairs? What is she to me?
Composing his face, he spoke to Elizabeth and Catherine, who stood frozen and uncertain.
“I did not realize this lady was the third young lady of Lauderdale.”
“…….”
The tone was mild, yet the sarcasm within it was unmistakable. Elizabeth’s expression hardened at once. Mikhail pressed down the sneer that almost escaped him.
At dinner she had spoken as though she cherished every leaf of Edenhurst. The Countess had chimed in, claiming Elizabeth would not even harm a flower in the garden.
Flowers she spared; a girl who shared her name she treated with cruelty. Selective mercy indeed.
He understood well enough that Anastasia was unwelcome in their eyes. Still, what he saw now was abuse. Better to cast her out of Edenhurst altogether than keep her on the estate only to grind her down like this. He could not fathom their reasoning.
“Whatever is the matter….”
The Countess, arriving late, stared at Anastasia in Mikhail’s arms and seemed at a complete loss. Looking at the Lauderdale faces that could no longer meet his eyes now that their shame lay exposed, Mikhail spoke again.
“It appears Miss Anastasia requires treatment and rest.”
Had she been a mere vagrant he might have done as he pleased; knowing she was a Lauderdale made that impossible. He turned to the maid beside him.
“You—guide us to Miss Anastasia’s room.”
The maid started as if she might leap out of her skin and shot a desperate glance at the Countess. Anastasia’s room was a storeroom in the basement; they could hardly lead a guest there now. The Countess intervened at once, smoothing the situation with hurried words.
“This child’s room is so disordered that it would be quite unsuitable to show a guest. Moreover, cleanliness is essential for proper care… so for the moment we shall take her to a clean chamber. Please leave her in the hands of our servants.”
Two footmen stepped forward and held out their arms. Mikhail did not so much as glance at them.
“No.”
He refused the Countess’s offer cleanly, then smiled.
“As you yourself observed, swift treatment is of the first importance. I shall therefore make use of the bedchamber already prepared for me. You may take your time arranging another for my use.”
It was not a request but a declaration—spoken as though he were already master of the house.