“I’m not so sure.”
He rubbed her arms. “Let Goodwin do the talking. Don’t let emotion override logic. Remember, Archer thinks you’ve downed a dose of laudanum.”
“Let’s just get this over with so we can focus on living again.”
They followed Goodwin over the stile, past the warning notice to poachers and walked the overgrown path. Finlay bit back a chuckle when Goodwin tripped over the exposed root of a tree and landed face-first on the ground. However, he ended up cursing the devil when the glass in the lantern smashed, extinguishing the flame.
“Leave it,” Finlay whispered, for they were near the place he’d chosen to hide. “With clear skies, shafts of moonlight will illuminate the clearing where the canopy is bare.” He turned to Sophia. “Take hold of Goodwin’s arm.”
Oh, the thought brought bile to his throat.
But he had to think of her safety, had to make sure they looked convincing.
Goodwin brushed dirt from his trousers and offered his arm.
Sophia muttered her frustration and held on to the man she despised.
Finlay walked with them for another ten yards before coming to a halt. “I’ll move closer once you reach the clearing, so I can hear what Archer says.”
Watching Sophia walk away, seeing her slumped shoulders and unsteady gait, was like a blunt blade to his heart. He’d die for her if need be. But he hoped to God they both survived tonight.
He waited until they reached the clearing before moving stealthily through the trees, taking care to avoid Mrs Friswell’s traps. A dead oak tree, with a trunk broad enough to hide three men, gave him a perfect place to observe Goodwin and Sophia.
Minutes passed—ten, maybe more.
Had Archer grown suspicious?
Had he defied reason and not taken the path from Windlesham? Hell, if he’d made any deviation, he’d likely catch his leg in a mantrap.
Despite having her hands thrust inside her fur muff, Sophia couldn’t keep still. Her gaze darted left and right, searching the gloom. Yet she knew not to air her frustration, not to speak her thoughts aloud.
A raven’s gurgling kraa-kraa alerted Finlay to the gentleman approaching on the Windlesham path. Mr Archer was tardy, but not unpredictable.
“Goodwin, it’s been a while.” Archer sauntered into the moonlit clearing. He wore casual attire, breeches, boots and a greatcoat, no hat or cravat. Perhaps he anticipated having to take to his heels and run.
“Don’t come too close,” Goodwin said as per his script. “Miss Draper scares easily. Her servant told her the woods are haunted in a bid to stop her venturing out here.” He turned to Sophia and in a simple tone, said, “There’s no such thing as witches, is there, Miss Draper?”
In a voice distant and devoid of emotion, Sophia replied. “No, Dr Goodwin.”
“Jessica,” Mr Archer called out. “Do you remember me?”
Sophia raised her head a fraction. “No, sir.”
“Her mind is fragile,” Goodwin explained, “her memories distorted.”
Archer thrust his hand through his blonde hair and gritted his teeth. “What the devil have you done to her? She speaks as though a phantom has sucked the life from her soul.”
“What did you expect?” Goodwin countered. “As you instructed, I’ve been feeding her laudanum for the last seven years. Consequently, she suffers shortness of breath, nausea and confusion. I hate to think what long-term damage it has done to her brain.”
Thank the Lord Mrs Friswell had the foresight to reduce the dose years ago. The action had saved Jessica from suffering severe withdrawal symptoms, had potentially saved her life.
And though Finlay hated the doctor to the depths of his being, he was doing a good job of getting Archer to bite the bait.
“I said make her appear dejected and depressed, not turn her into a witless lunatic.”
“Had you returned within a year, maybe two, things may have been different.” Goodwin kept to his stage directions and stepped forward, acting as a barrier between Sophia and Archer. “But then you want a wife with money, not one who’s a good conversationalist.”
Archer fell silent.