and find your name. Even ‘Pris’ is too traceable-as far as I know, you’re the only Priscilla in Newmarket. No-we’ll put the bags back exactly as we found them, then I’ll come back to night and see if your brother’s returned. Recognizing him, after all, won’t be a problem.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know why you bother-you know I’m going to come here to night, too.”
He looked into her eyes, then sighed and picked up the traveling bag. “I had to try.”
They returned the bag and saddlebags to the storeroom; at his suggestion, she arranged them as closely as she could to the way they’d been. “He might or might not know that someone called yesterday.”
“He wouldn’t have missed the hoof marks outside.”
“Regardless”-he held the cottage door for her, then followed her out-“we don’t want to give him cause to run. We want him at home next time we call.”
He closed the door, then lifted her to the mare’s saddle. On Solomon, he led the way out of the clearing along a different path-one that led to the Heath; it was the same path he’d emerged from when he’d found her fleeing Harkness three days before.
They rode through the slanting sunshine, giving the town a wide berth, circling to the east. When they clattered into the stable yard behind the Carisbrook house, they’d completed a full circuit of Newmarket.
Patrick came out of the stable. She waved gaily; kicking free of the stirrups, she slid to the ground. Handing over the mare’s reins, she beamed. “We’ve found him! Or at least found where he’s staying.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Patrick grinned at her, then nodded to Dillon. “Mr. Caxton.”
She whirled; shading her eyes against the setting sun, she looked up at Dillon. “Where will I meet you? At the cottage?”
“No.”
The word was flat, absolute. When she raised her brows at him, his lips thinned. He dismounted. “I’ll meet you here.” He glanced at Patrick, then at her. “I don’t want you riding anywhere alone at night, much less across the Heath, no doubt dressed as a lad and astride.” His eyes bored into hers. “No telling whom you might meet. Or what he might think.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, opened her lips-
“Aye. Mr. Caxton’s right there,” Patrick cut in. “Riding alone at night’s not safe, and your aunt would be the first to say so.”
She glanced at Patrick, then back at Dillon-quickly enough to catch the slight, distinctly male nod he sent Patrick’s way. Dillon had fetched Patrick and the carriage that morning; they’d had time to meet and get each other’s mea sure…
Plastering a smile on her face, she reached out, plucked Dillon’s reins from his loose grasp, and gave them to Patrick. “In that case, you’d better come in and speak with Aunt Eugenia. Riding all the way home, then all the way back here this evening will be
She linked her arm with Dillon’s, but he didn’t budge.
“My house hold will be expecting me-”
“I’m sure Patrick can arrange for a groom to take a message.” She stared at Patrick, who looked down to hide his smile.
“Aye-I can do that.” He glanced at Dillon. “If you’ll let me know what, where, and who to speak to, sir, I’ll send a lad right away.”
Dillon knew a trap when it snapped shut around him. He inwardly sighed and glanced down at Pris, hanging on his arm. “I take it your aunt will be delighted to hear we’ve all but located your brother?”
She smiled, and turned him toward the house. “She’ll be in alt, and Adelaide will be, too.” As she towed him to his fate, she blithely informed him, “They’ll both want to thank you, I’m sure.”
They did, several times, but to Dillon’s relief, both Lady Fowles and Adelaide refrained from living up to either his or Pris’s expectations. Although immensely relieved to hear that he and Pris were one step away from meeting with Rus, they were also keenly interested in the swindle he believed Rus had got wind of; they were eager to hear the details explained.
Dillon relaxed, easier in the ladies’ company than he’d expected. Over the dinner table, Pris, seeing it, pulled a face at him and nearly made him choke.
He paid her back by telling Lady Fowles
They left the house at nine o’clock, Pris once again dressed as a lad. Their boots scrunched on the gravel as they strode into the stable yard. Patrick led their horses, refreshed and alert, out, then held the mare as Pris swung into the saddle.
“Take care,” Patrick called, as they wheeled their mounts south. Dillon saluted him, then had to tap his heels to Solomon’s flanks, setting the black into a powerful surge in Pris’s wake.
He caught her up in short order, then rode beside her down the lane to the town. At that hour, with her dressed as she was with him beside her, there was no reason they couldn’t ride straight through rather than taking the longer route around. Nevertheless, he took her down the quieter streets, rejoining the road south on the outskirts where the houses gave way again to fields and pasture. The Heath proper lay to their right as they cantered down the road to Hillgate End.
He led Pris through the main gates and up the drive, turning off the oak-lined avenue onto a bridle path that cut through the park. The house lay quiet, already slumbering in the moonlight; he glanced down at it as they let the horses stretch their legs along a cleared rise, at the long facade softened by shadow yet so solid, framed by the darkness of thick canopies to either side.
Pris, too, was looking. Over the wind of their passage, she yelled to him, “It looks so very
He grinned, nodded. It was. The quintessential English manor house in the quintessential English setting, a fitting reflection of its owners, English to the core.
Beyond the park, the woods closed in. Pris had to curb her impatience and let him lead; it took a good twenty minutes of slow and careful riding, avoiding the pitfalls with which, in the dark, the narrow paths were amply endowed, to reach the cottage.
They rode into the clearing.
No light burned behind the still-unshuttered windows.
Before he could blink, Pris was out of her saddle, dragging the mare to the post to secure her. Dismounting, he hissed at her to wait, but she didn’t so much as pause. Leaving the post, she went straight to the door, lifted the latch, and pushed it open.
Dillon swore, knotted Solomon’s reins, and rushed after her.
He nearly ran her down; she’d stopped just inside the door. Catching her shoulders, he steadied her; she said nothing, just continued looking around.
At the main room of the cottage, still devoid of human life, exactly as they’d left it earlier in the day…
He studied the stools beneath the table. “That left stool’s been moved. Someone’s been here.”
“Rus.” Pris stilled beneath his hands. “He’s here…yet he’s not.”
For a long moment, she remained perfectly still, then she swung about, stepped around him, and walked out of the cottage. She stopped a few paces into the clearing. From the doorway, he scanned the dark curtain of surrounding trees for any threat.
A low, mournful birdcall sounded, reminiscent of an owl. He looked at Pris; she repeated it, haunting and long.
Then she waited. Her attention, initially swinging across the semicircle of trees facing the cottage, focused on the area to the right.
Silence fell, almost palpable. Neither of them moved.
Then an answering call came, the same mournful note repeated in a series of shorter bursts.
The effect on Pris was instantaneous. She opened her mouth; he swallowed a curse and started toward her, but before he could warn her to keep her voice down, another voice spoke, an amplified whisper reaching through
