I can't believe there're only four chapters left after this one! Buckle up, because it's going to be a bumpy ride before we hit any kind of resolution. I'm dying to know what you're thinking—predictions, hopes, wild theories? Hit me up!


Chapter 17: Tangled Titles and Tiny Troubles

Half an hour after storming into his bedroom and slamming the door like a tempest, Hook now loomed in the doorway of Emma's dressing room. His gaze, cold enough to frost windows, settled on Cecilia, who was delicately pulling pins from Emma's hair.

"Get out," he said, his voice quiet—tooquiet.

Cecilia fled.

Emma, however, didn't so much as flinch. Seated stiffly at her dressing table, she calmly continued the task herself, plucking out the remaining pins with steady hands. "I am not going to argue with you any longer," she said, her voice infuriatingly level. "It's a waste of breath. You refuse to listen to a single word I say."

"There's nothing to listen to," he growled, his jaw tightening. "It's none of your bloody business."

It was the same dismissive refrain he'd been chanting all the way home, drowning out every reasonable attempt she'd made to penetrate the brick wall of his stubbornness. One run-in with the ghost of his past, and all the progress they'd made had evaporated like a puff of smoke. They were right back where they'd started—the exact spot where she'd once shot him, come to think of it.

"Youare my business," she replied, turning slowly to face him, her eyes locking onto his with unwavering force. "Let me put this as simply as possible." She leaned forward, her tone clipped and precise. "You made the mess, it up."

For a moment, he blinked, taken aback, but then that infernal, chilling smile crept onto his lips. "You're telling me it's my duty, are you? Might I remind you, madam," his voice dipped into a dangerous growl, "thatno onetells me—"

"That boy is in trouble," she cut in, her voice sharp enough to slice through steel. "His mother is dragging him straight to ruin, and I've been trying to make you see that from every angle. But no—you refuse to listen, to trust my instincts. Instincts youknoware good, considering I've practically raised ten boys single-handedly." She arched a brow at him, daring him to argue. "And let's not forget their beastly little friends. If there's one thing I understand, my lord, it's boys—good ones, horrid ones, and every maddening version in between."

"What you can't seem to grasp," he spat, "is that I'm not some little boy to be ordered about, told my cursed duty, and patted on the head for good measure!"

She didn't even flinch. She simply turned back to the mirror, as if his temper tantrum were nothing more than an inconvenience. The final hairpin slid out of her hair.

"I'm exhausted," she said, her voice calm, steady as a heartbeat. "Exhausted from your mistrust, from being accused of manipulation, of patronizing you, of—what was it?—'bothering you.'" She picked up her brush, dragging it methodically through her hair, each stroke like a ticking clock. "I'm tired of reasoning with a man who refuses to be reasonable. Tired of having every attempt at reaching you tossed back in my face like a hand grenade of insults." Her brush paused for a moment. "You want nothing from me but physical pleasure. Everything else is just…vexing to you. Fine then. I'll stop vexing you. No more of that ridiculous notion of having a rational, adult conversation."

He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Oh, certainly. Now we'll get the silent treatment. Or worse, the reproachful silence. Sulking. Just like the lovely mood you treated me to for the last ten miles to Ashbourne."

"If I was disagreeable, then I apologize," she said, as serenely as a saint. "It won't happen again."

He closed the distance between them, and set his right hand down on the dressing table. "Look at me," he said, his voice low. "And tell me what that's supposed to mean."

She met his gaze, unwavering, seeing past the taut muscles and the sharp edges of his anger. Beneath that stormy facade, his eyes were a maelstrom of emotions, swirling in a way that made her heart twist with both pity and love. He was afraid, though he'd never admit it. He wanted her love, needed it even. And she had given it, declared it outright. He had believed her, too. She'd seen it in his eyes—a flicker of hope, fragile but real.

But then Milah had slithered into their lives, bringing her venom and spite.

Emma wasn't about to waste any more time trying to chisel away at the granite fortress that was her husband, only to have her hard work shattered the next time his temper flared. If Hook was determined to see the world—and her—through the cracked lens of his past, then so be it. He'd have to figure out whoshetruly was on his own. She was no helpless damsel, no ghost from his history, and certainly not one of the interchangeable females he seemed to lump together with such bitter disdain. If he ever wanted to see her for who she was, he'd have to work that out himself.

Meanwhile, she had more pressing matters than indulging her husband's misplaced brooding. Hook was, after all, a grown man, fully capable of sorting through his own tangled emotions. Perhaps someday he'd even manage it without breaking something. But his son was a different story altogether. A boy had no such luxury. Little boys were at the mercy of the world, and in this case, a particularly cruel one.

"What it means," she said calmly, her voice laced with an edge of finality, "is that you win. From now on, everything will go your way, my lord. You desire blind obedience? Then blind obedience is what you shall have."

Hook's laugh was razor-sharp, laced with cynicism. "I'll believe that when I see it," he sneered before storming out, just as he had swept in—like a tempest, fierce and unrelenting.

Hook's laugh was sharp, dripping with cynicism. "I'll believe that when I see it," he sneered before storming out like a tempest looking for a ship to wreck.


It took Killian a full week to wrap his head around it, despite witnessing it day in and day out. His once fiery, opinionated wife had transformed into a vision of perfect compliance. Every ludicrous statement he made was met with a nod of agreement. No matter how much he tried to provoke her, she refused to take the bait. She was endlessly agreeable, regardless of how insufferable he became.

If Killian had been the superstitious type, he might've suspected some mischievous spirit had swapped Emma's soul for that of a docile saint. But this wasn't some paranormal possession—it was far more unnerving.

After a week of living with this disturbingly agreeable stranger, discomfort gnawed at him. By the second week, he was downright miserable.

The irony? He had no grounds for complaint. None that his pride would allow, at least.

How could he accuse her of pestering him when she hadn't so much as raised an eyebrow in disagreement? He couldn't claim she'd gone cold when she was still as passionate in bed as ever. Nor could he fault her kindness—any outsider observing them would praise her as the epitome of devotion.

Only he - and she - knew he was being punished, and why.

And the worst part was that it worked. Every sweet smile, every cheerful response, only reminded him of why this was happening.

It was all because of the unspeakable mess he'd created with Milah.

It didn't matter to Emma that the child was as loathsome inside as it was ghastly outside, that there wasn't a shred of decency it could have possibly inherited from its depraved sire or its harpy of a mother. It wouldn't have mattered if the creature had sprouted two heads with maggots pouring out of its ears—in Killian's opinion, that would only make it marginally more disgusting than it already was. The thing could have slithered across the floor, oozing green slime, and it would still make no difference to Emma. Killian had created it; therefore, Killian must take responsibility.

She had applied the same logic to everything. David, her brother, might've been a well-meaning nincompoop, but because Killian had roped him into trouble, it was Killian's duty to drag him out of it. And of course, when it came to her own situation, Emma had been nothing if not consistent: Killian had ruined her, so naturally, Killian must set things right.

And, as always, Emma's sense of justice came with a cruel precision. This time, her retribution was simple: everything he'd claimed he didn't want, she no longer offered. No nagging. No pestering. No disobedience. Gone were the sentiments he'd pushed away—no pity, no emotional outbursts, and most painfully, no love. Since that fateful day in the burial ground, when she'd declared her love with such fierce finality, Emma never once repeated those three words:I love you.

To his eternal shame, Killian had tried—desperately—to coax the words from her lips. During their most intimate moments, he became a man on a mission, doing everything in his power to hear that sweet confession again. He was tender, then passionate, then desperately inventive. He whispered poetry, poured heartache and heat into every touch, every kiss. She sighed, she moaned, she gasped his name, invoked the Almighty's, and occasionally, even the Devil's.

But never, ever, did she say those three words. And it was killing him.

After three weeks, Killian was desperate. He'd have given his soul for even a flicker of the old fire—a "blockhead," a "clodpole," anything hurled at his head. He'd gladly wear his shirt in shreds if it meant a proper one, please, God.

But there was the catch—he couldn't push too far. If he unleashed the full force of his prickly charm, he might provoke the fight he craved. He might also push her away forever. And that was a gamble he wasn't willing to take.

Still, he knew Emma's patience had its limits. Even the most saintly wife couldn't go on playing the part of the angel while married to a devil. She was bound to snap, and when she did, she wouldn't just leave the room—she'd leave him. For good.

By the time a month had passed, full-blown panic had set in. The cracks in her angelic facade were showing. That Sunday morning, as they sat at breakfast, he watched her with a growing sense of doom. The tiniest lines had appeared on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes, as though the strain of playing the perfect wife was starting to leave a permanent mark. Even her posture was stiff, and the smile she wore while chatting cheerfully about nothing—nothing that meant a damn to either of them—felt brittle.

I'm losing her, he thought, and his hand twitched, aching to reach out, to pull her back. But instead, he grabbed the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup and staring into its dark depths, as if the black liquid might reveal a future he didn't want to face.

Because no matter how much he wanted to hold onto her, he couldn't give her what she wanted. He couldn't look at that boy—hisboy—and see anything but the monstrosity Emma insisted on calling his son.

Killian knew Emma found his behavior baffling, irrational, and downright maddening. Hell, evenhecouldn't make sense of it, despite spending the last week trying to untangle the knot of revulsion that twisted inside him. Even now, as he sat there, a picture of calm, the image of that dark, sullen face with its grotesque ears and its freakish little body churned his insides. It was all he could do to sit there, feigning civility, while some wild beast inside him thrashed and snarled, aching to tear something apart.

"I'd better make haste," Emma said, standing with serene grace, as if the chaos in him didn't exist. "Otherwise, I'll be late for church."

Ever the gentleman, Killian rose, too. He played his part, escorting her downstairs with the same hollow politeness. He watched as Cecilia fussed over Emma's shawl and bonnet, making sure Her Ladyship was picture-perfect for the pious folk ofAshbourne.

Killian made his usual Sunday quip, a thin joke about Lady Hook setting a saintly example while Lord Hook wisely stayed away, lest the church roof cave in on his sinful head. Emma offered a soft smile, the sort of smile that said she'd heard it all before, but humored him anyway.

As her carriage rattled down the drive, Killian stood watching, just as he had every other Sunday, waiting until it vanished from sight. But this Sunday was different. When he turned back toward the house, he didn't retreat to the refuge of his study. No, today he was drawn somewhere else—somewhere darker, older.

He found himself in Ashbourne's small chapel, the very place where he had sat as a child, shivering on the cold wooden benches, pretending to listen to sermons about love and grace while hunger gnawed at his belly.

Now, sitting on that same bench, Killian felt as lost as that small boy had been. Only this time, it wasn't hunger for food. It was a deeper hunger, an emptiness inside him that he didn't know how to fill. He tried to make sense of it—why he was wrong, why no amount of prayer or penance had ever made him right.

And now, just as he had done all those years ago, the grown man found himself asking the same question the little boy had whispered in the dark corners of his mind:Why will You not help me?


While Lord Hook wrestled with his inner demons, his wife, ever practical, was preparing to catch a more tangible one. Though Emma had faith in Providence, she preferred her miracles delivered by more reliable sources. Enter Marco, the coachman—her accomplice in all things less heavenly.

Marco was one of the few remnants from the reign of the previous marquess. Back then, he'd been a lowly groom, and his promotion to coachman spoke volumes about Hook's respect for his talents. The fact that he was called "Marco" rather than the generic "John Coachman" was a clear sign that Hook regarded him not just as a servant, but as someone of personal value.

The feeling, Emma had gathered, was mutual—but with a twist. Marco respected His Lordship, but that didn't mean he considered the man infallible. In fact, as Emma had quickly learned after the debacle at Devonport, Marco was adept at distinguishing between following the master's orders and doing what was actually in his best interest.

Their unspoken alliance had begun on Emma's first Sunday trip to church. After she'd stepped down from the carriage, Marco, with his characteristic blend of cheek and charm, had asked for permission to do his own kind of "meditation" at the Rabbit Hole pub.

"By all means," Emma had replied, her lips curving into a rueful smile. "I only wish I could join you."

"Ess, I reckon," Marco had chuckled, his Devon accent thick and hearty. "That muddle with that fool woman'll be all over Dartmoor by now. But yer Ladyship don't mind a bit o' gawkin' and tongue-waggin', eh? Shot 'im, you did," he added, his weathered face splitting into a grin. "Well, you'll be teachin' the rest of 'em soon enough what you be made of."

A few days later, while driving her to the vicarage for tea, Marco clarified his role as both informant and accomplice by sharing the latest from the Rabbit Hole—a blend of local gossip and firsthand knowledge about Milah and the boy, Harry.

By this fifth Sunday, Emma had pieced together a vivid picture of Milah's character and had more than enough confirmation that Harry was in dire need of rescuing. Marco, ever the font of useful information, filled in the gaps. Apparently, the boy had been left under the care of Granny Lucas, the village midwife, while Milah wandered Dartmoor like a particularly unreliable gypsy. Unfortunately, Granny Lucas had shuffled off her mortal coil about a month before Hook's return to England, leaving Harry mostly unsupervised and Milah conveniently hovering about the Ashbourne area like a bad smell.

Milah herself rarely graced the village with her presence, but Harry had become an all-too-familiar menace. Left to his own devices, the boy had taken to causing mischief at every opportunity. About a month and a half ago, a few well-meaning souls had attempted to put the boy in school, thinking perhaps education might do what common sense and a sturdy switch had failed to accomplish. But Harry was not one to be corralled by books and authority.

In the three brief instances that Harry attended school, he wreaked absolute chaos—picking fights, setting booby traps, and terrorizing master and pupils alike. Any attempt at schooling was met with laughter, taunts, and language colorful enough to shock even the most seasoned sailor. They couldn't whip him into obedience either, because he was too fast for the cane. According to Marco, Harry could outrun the devil himself, with a grin plastered across his face the entire time.

His antics had only escalated in recent weeks. In one particularly notorious stretch of days, Harry had on Monday, torn Mrs. Mills's laundry from the line and dragged it through the mud; on Wednesday, dropped a dead mouse into Miss Vidrio's market basket at the greengrocer's; and on Friday, flung horse droppings at Mr. Clark's freshly painted stable doors with the precision of a military assault.

But the pièce de résistance was Harry's most recent spree. He had, in no particular order: blackened the eyes of two local boys, bloodied the nose of a third, relieved himself on the steps of the village bakehouse, and, for good measure, mooned the minister's housemaid as she walked to Sunday service.

So far, the villagers had kept their grievances locked up tighter than the church donation box. After all, even if they could catch Harry in the act (which was about as easy as trapping a greased pig), they were utterly stumped about what to do with him. After all, he wasthe lord of the manor'slittle hellion. Not a soul had dared to knock on Hook's door and confront him about his son's devilry. And certainly, no one had the courage—or the utter lack of tact—to complain toLady Hookabout her husband's illegitimate spawn. And Milah? She was even harder to pin down than her son, leaving the villagers at a loss for who to blame for the boy's antics.

But it was Milah's sudden vanishing act that troubled Emma most. She hadn't been spotted in over a fortnight, and in that time, Harry's increasingly outrageous attempts to grab attention had only escalated. Where others saw mayhem, Emma saw a desperate plea. He wasn't just wreaking havoc for the fun of it—he wanted his father's attention, and with Hook being as emotionally available as a stone gargoyle, Harry's only option was to send the village into an uproar.

Emma suspected Milah had a hand in it somehow, though her methods seemed as reckless as they were ineffective. If Milah thought this would soften Hook's heart—or worse, make him cough up money—she was sorely mistaken. Hook was far more likely to have her clapped in irons and shipped off to the colonies than offer her a single farthing.

An alternative explanation, more unsettling still, nagged at Emma's thoughts: perhaps Milah had simply abandoned the child altogether. If that were true, the boy could be sleeping in haylofts, or worse, out on the cold, unforgiving moors, curled up between rocks for shelter. Yet, Emma found it hard to believe Milah had left without some prize in hand. She wasn't the type to exit quietly or without making a scene, and according to Marco, discretion wasn't a virtue Milah had ever embraced. If she'd landed herself a wealthy lover, the entire moor would be buzzing with the news by now.

Whatever the case, Emma had reached a decision the night before. The village's patience was being stretched thinner than a miser's coin purse. Sooner or later, and likely sooner, a mob of angry villagers would be pounding at Ashbourne's gates, demanding something be done about the "demon child." Emma had no intention of waiting for that inevitable showdown, nor for a possibly abandoned boy to meet a grim fate—either by starving, freezing, or stumbling into one of Dartmoor's notorious bogs. And she certainly couldn't wait any longer for her husband to see reason.

This morning, she'd come down to breakfast looking as tight-lipped and pale as Aunt Johanna during one of her infamous migraines. The staff, sharp-eyed as ever, had taken note. Even Cecilia, while helping her ladyship into the carriage, had twice asked if she was unwell. "It's just a headache," Emma had said with a tight smile. "It won't last, I'm sure."

After disembarking, Emma took her sweet time, letting Jukes wander off as usual to the bakehouse where his brother worked, and watching the other servants drift towards church or their own Sunday pastimes. All but one—Cecilia, her ever-watchful shadow.

"I think I shall skip services today," Emma said, pressing her fingers to her temple with the air of a martyr. "A brisk walk always cures a headache for me. Perhaps an hour or so—just enough to stretch my legs."

Cecilia, trained in London where the idea of "a brisk walk" meant a few steps to the waiting carriage, did a quick mental calculation. Emma's pace, Cecilia's soft slippers… yes, "an hour or so" was sure to mean something closer to a half-marathon. So when Marco conveniently offered to escort Lady Hook in her place, Cecilia only put up a half-hearted protest before hurrying into the church. Best to let the coachman have this one.

As soon as Cecilia was out of sight, Emma turned to Marco with a raised brow. "What did you hear last night?"

"Friday afternoon, Harry set Tilly Kingsleigh's rabbits loose. She chased him all the way to the far south wall of His Lordship's park. Yesterday, he raided Henry Jekyll's rag and bone bins—he chased him nearly to the same place."

Emma followed Marco's glance toward the park. So, Harry was leading his pursuers right onto his father's property. Seeking his father's protection, then, she thought.

"There's one of them old summerhouses near where they always lose him," Marco continued. "His Lordship's grandpa built it for the ladies. Lad like him could easily hole up there if he wanted."

"If the summerhouse is his hideout, then we'd best get moving," Emma said briskly. "It's almost two miles away."

"That's by the main road and the estate road," Marco replied, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "But I know a shorter way, if you don't mind a bit of a climb."

"Lead the way, Marco," Emma said, her headache suddenly forgotten. "I never was one for taking the easy path, anyway."


Fifteen minutes later, Emma found herself on the edge of a clearing, staring at the whimsical little summerhouse the second marquess had built for his wife—clearly a man with a flair for the eccentric.

It was an odd, octagonal affair, with whitewashed stone walls and a roof that shot up like a red witch's hat. The round windows, framed in intricate carvings, alternated with large stone medallions featuring knights and ladies straight out of some chivalric romance. The climbing roses, obediently draped around the windows and medallions, gave the place a certain charm, even if it looked like something a fairy-tale architect might design after a bit too much wine. All in all, it was exactly the kind of hideaway that would lure a boy like Harry.

She watched as Marco slowly circled the structure, peeking cautiously through the windows. When he returned, shaking his head, Emma resisted the urge to curse. It had been a slim hope that Harry would be here. After all, the boy usually reserved his reign of terror for weekday afternoons, not sacred Sunday mornings.

Just as she was about to move, a twig snapped in the distance, followed by the soft patter of hurried footsteps. She waved Marco back, and he dove behind a hedge with the agility of a man half his age.

A moment later, Harry appeared, darting into the clearing like a wild thing, his eyes fixed on the summerhouse. Without so much as a glance around, he bolted up the gravel path. But just before he reached the door, Marco sprang from his hiding spot, catching the boy by the sleeve.

Harry's response was swift and brutal—an elbow driven straight into Marco's nether regions. The coachman doubled over, groaning a string of curses that would have scorched a sailor's ears, and Harry tore off like a rabbit, heading for the trees.

Emma, having anticipated the boy's escape route, was already moving. She sprinted down the bridle path, over the bridge, and along the narrow trail that hugged the stream.

If Harry hadn't already worn himself out sprinting up the hill, she wouldn't have stood a chance of catching him. But winded and no longer moving at his usual demonic speed, he was finally within reach. At a fork in the path, he hesitated for a split second—long enough for Emma to gain ground. She launched herself forward and tackled him.

He tumbled headfirst into the grass with a satisfying thud, and Emma, not one to waste an opportunity, promptly landed square on top of him. Before he could even think of plotting an escape, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked. Hard.

He let out a howl that could have woken the dead.

"Girls play dirty," she panted, leaning closer. "Stay still, or I'll pluck you bald."

In response, he unleashed a breathless tirade of the most creative curses his filthy little brain could conjure.

"I've heard better," she replied, feigning a yawn between gulps of air. "And trust me, I know worse."

A brief pause followed, during which he clearly recalculated his battle plan. Then, with all the fury of a cornered cat, he shrieked, "Get off me! Get off me, you cow!"

"Tsk, tsk," she chided. "That's not how you address a lady. The correct form is 'Please, my lady, do be so kind as to get off.' Manners, boy."

"Bugger you!" came the snarling reply.

Emma sighed with exaggerated patience. "Oh dear, I see you've left me no choice but to take drastic action."

Releasing his hair, she planted a loud, smacking kiss on the back of his head.

The boy gasped as if struck by lightning.

Smiling wickedly, she dropped another noisy kiss on the nape of his filthy neck. He tensed as if the sky had just fallen. With one last flourish, she puckered up and landed a final smooch on his dirt-streaked cheek.

He exhaled all at once, as if trying to purge the indignity from his very soul, and scrambled furiously to free himself from her clutches, spewing a fresh string of obscenities. But before he could bolt, Emma caught him by the shoulder of his ragged jacket and hauled him upright, her grip firm as iron.

He lashed out with a swift kick aimed at her shins, but Emma, quick as a cat, dodged it neatly. "Try that again, and I'll show you just how well I can aim," she warned, giving him a solid shake for emphasis.

"Piss on you!" he screeched, thrashing like a feral animal, but Emma had wrestled with enough squirming children to know all the tricks.

"Let me go, you stupid sow!" he shrieked, each word sharper and louder than the last. "Let me go! Let mego!"

But Emma simply tightened her hold, managing to catch his flailing arm and draw him back against her in one smooth, practiced move. She wrapped him up like a human straitjacket, feeling the tension drain from his limbs as the squirming finally stopped. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his vocal cords, which continued to belt out indignant howls that echoed through the trees.

It dawned on Emma, somewhere between the shrieks and insults, that the boy wasn't just angry—he was frightened. But of what? Surely not ofher.

Just as his cries reached a new level of desperation, the answer appeared—marching around the bend in the bridle path, with Marco trailing dutifully behind, came a woman.

Milah Lydgate.

The instant the boy caught sight of her, his screams stopped as if someone had yanked a plug. He froze, as still as a deer in the headlights, all his bravado and fury vanishing into thin air.


It was the boy's mother who'd finally managed to corner him this time, and unlike the bumbling Ashbourne villagers, she had a very clear idea of what to do with him. For starters, she informed them all, she would be beating him within an inch of his life.

"He ran off a fortnight ago," Milah declared, voice dripping with frustration. "I've been looking high and low since." She paused, glancing around as if expecting her audience to buy the tale. "I came to Ashbourne, even though it's worth my life to come within ten miles of His Lordship, just ask anyone! I got as far as the Rabbit Hole when Tilly Kingsleigh and Henry Jekyll came running out, leading half the village, spitting fire and brimstone."

"And they gave me an earful," she added, cutting her son a look sharp enough to slice bread.

Emma had let go of the boy's collar the moment Milah appeared, but the child had latched onto her hand as though it were a lifeline. His grip was tight—fierce, even—but his body was stock-still. His wide, blue eyes remained fixed on his mother, who paced like a cat circling a trapped mouse.

"Everyone in Dartmoor knows what he's been up to," Emma said coolly. "Are we to believe you heard nothing? What were you doing, enjoying a holiday in Constantinople?"

Milah tossed her head with theatrical defiance. "I'm a working woman," she snapped. "I can't be watching him every second. No nanny for him, either, unless you're offering," she added with a sneer. "I sent him to school, didn't I? But the schoolmaster couldn't handle him! And how am I supposed to? He runs off and I can't find him—he's as slippery as an eel!"

Emma suppressed a sigh. It wasn't that Milah couldn't find him—it was that she hadn't cared to, at least until word reached her that her son had found shelter in Ashbourne Park. If Lord Hook got wind that the "guttersnipe" had taken up residence in the second marquess's ornamental, pristine summerhouse, there would be hell to pay—and Milah knew it all too well.

Despite her bravado, Milah's confidence wasn't as bulletproof as she pretended. Emma noticed her gray eyes darting about, as though she half-expected Hook to burst through the trees at any moment, ready to rain fury down on them all.

Though Milah's unease was evident, she didn't seem to be in any rush to flee. Emma could see the wheels turning in the woman's head as she weighed her options, recalibrating her strategy in real-time. Milah had swiftly abandoned her threats of beating Harry when she noticed they weren't landing well. Instead, she pivoted to her favorite excuse: a hard-luck life.

As Emma sized her up, it became clear Milah was doing the same—and shifting her approach again.

"I know what you're thinking," Milah said, her voice softening as though she'd found a hidden reserve of maternal instinct. "You think I don't take care of him right. But it wasn't me who turned him wild—it was those snobby little brats at school. Told him all about his mama's trade, didn't they? As if their own papas don't knock on my door after dark. Oh, and their mamas too, coming to fix their little 'mistakes' with my help." She shot Harry a pitying glance, playing the martyr. "They called him names, my lady. Do you wonder why he's angry? He's just giving them what they deserve."

Emma watched Harry remain frozen, but Milah pressed on, undeterred by his silence. "Now he won't even stay with his own mama," she added with a practiced sigh. "Look at where the poor boy runs—right under his pa's nose. And his lordship'll have my head for it, as though I planned this all along! He'll see me taken up and shipped off to the workhouse. He'll cut off the boy's keeping money, and then what? What's to become of us, I ask you?"

Marco, standing nearby, looked like he might lose his breakfast. He opened his mouth, likely to deliver a few choice words, but Emma gave him a sharp look, and he settled for rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick that way.

"You've spent a good deal of time telling me what I already know," Emma said, her voice clipped. "What youhaven'ttold me is why you came to Ashbourne in the first place, knowing how His Lordship feels about you. Or why you've been lurking nearby, fully aware of Harry's distress and the rather creative ways he's been expressing it. There must be something you want very badly to take such risks."

Milah's air of wounded innocence vanished in an instant, replaced by a shrewd glint. Her lips curved into a smile as she gave Emma a slow, insolent head-to-toe once-over.

"Well, then," she drawled, her tone shifting to something far more brazen. "Hook didn't marry a fool, did he? Maybe I had plans, my lady, and maybe the boy mucked 'em up. But maybe, just maybe, there's no harm done. You and I—we could fix things, couldn't we?"


A few minutes later, Harry—having been gently pried off Emma's hand like a barnacle—was now trudging ahead with Marco, who had wisely positioned the boy a discreet distance from the women. This allowed for the negotiations to begin in earnest.

"I'm no featherhead either, my lady," Milah began with a furtive glance, as though Hook himself might leap out of the hedgerows at any moment. "I can see plain as day that you want the little devil. But Hook? He doesn't give two figs about him, or he'd have fetched him by now, wouldn't he? And you can't just snatch my boy from me. I'll raise a ruckus loud enough to bring His Lordship down on your head—and you know I can. No one here's going to hide him away for you, if that's what you're thinking. I've tried. They're all too scared—of Hookandthe boy. Looks like a goblin, acts like one, too."

Emma, with an icy calm that had chilled stronger women than Milah, replied, "I'm not the only one with a problem. When Hook finds out you've been letting that child terrorize Ashbourne, you'll be begging for the workhouse. What he's planning for you is a one-way ticket to New South Wales."

Milah let out a sharp laugh, unbothered. "Oh, I've no plans to stick around and find out. You should've heard Tilly and Henry earlier, and the rest of 'em. They've no intention of waiting for His Lordship to sort things out. They've made it clear they'll run me down like a fox on the moor, with dogs if need be. If they don't drown me in a bog, they'll have me whipped all the way to Exeter. So, I thought it best to hop on the first coach to London tomorrow."

"A wise move," Emma said, suppressing the grim image of little Harry roaming through the seedy underbelly of London. "But I suspect you've realized that, having met me, you needn't leave empty-handed."

Milah's smile was honey-slick, entirely devoid of shame. Clearly, she fancied herself a sharp dealer who had found a worthy opponent. "Quick on the uptake, aren't you? I knew you'd figure out what to do with my little lovey if I hand him over, no fuss. Just like I'll figure out what to do with him in London if you decide he's not worth your while."

Emma sighed. "I don't mean to rush you, but I'm expected at church when services conclude. Perhaps you could be so kind as to state your terms—pounds, shillings, or pence?"

"Oh, it's not as complicated as that," Milah said, her tone dripping with mock innocence. "All I want is the icon."