The crack came suddenly. It wasn't the sound of metal on rock. It was a wet, heavy thud. Down in the trench, the young boy the sixteen-year-old Norah had given water to the day before collapsed. He didn't stumble.
He simply folded like a broken puppet, his face hitting the hard earth. The digging stopped. The men stood frozen, exhausted, staring at the motionless boy. "Get up!" Croft roared. He spurred his horse to the edge of the trench. "Get him up! We do not have time for this!" The older laborer knelt beside the boy, turning him over.
The boy's eyes had rolled back, and his skin was gray. “He's done, Mr. Croft. He needs shade. He's burning up,” the older laborer said. “He is shirking!” Croft screamed, his face purple with rage and panic.
He dismounted his horse. He gripped the leather riding crop in his fist and marched toward the edge of the pit. I'll not have the Duke arrive to see a pack of lazy dogs sleeping in the dirt. Get up, boy. Croft raised the whip.
He never brought it down. A hand shot out from the trench. Fingers coated in mud and callous closed around Croft's wrist with the stopping power of a steel trap. Norah gasped, taking a step forward from the shade of the oak tree. It was him, the dark-haired laborer.
He had climbed the side of the trench with terrifying speed. He stood on the edge now, towering over the steward. He didn't look tired. He looked like a god of war carved out of dirt and sweat. "Let go of me," Croft hissed, trying to yank his arm back. Gabriel didn't move an inch.
The grip tightened. Croft let out a sharp gasp of pain. The leather whip dropped from his fingers into the dust. “He needs water and a doctor,” Gabriel said. His voice was not a shout.
It was low, conversational, and completely devoid of mercy. Have your men carry him to the kitchen. “I am the steward of this estate,” Croft spat, his face inches from Gabriel's chest. You are a maggot digging in my dirt. I will have you hanged for laying hands on me.
Guards, seize him. Two of the estate groundsmen, big men armed with heavy oak cudgels, stepped forward uncertainly. Gabriel turned his head, fixing the groundsmen with a look so chilling they stopped in their tracks. "The boy!" Gabriel repeated, looking back down at Croft. He squeezed the steward's wrist. A sickening pop echoed in the quiet air.