Noting the stallion’s fixed stare, Demon grunted and swung up to his saddle. At least he wouldn’t have to exercise his talents on Ivan during their ride through the moonlight—Ivan would follow, intent, in Flick’s wake.
She, of course, led the way.
They crossed his fields, the night black velvet about them. The cottage appeared deserted, a denser bulk in the deep shadows between the trees. Flick rode into the clearing behind it and dismounted. Demon followed, tethering Ivan well clear of the mare.
A twig cracked.
Flick whirled, squinting at the cottage. “It’s us. Me and Demon.”
“Oh,” came a rather shaky voice from the dark. After a moment, Dillon asked, “Are you coming in?”
“Of course.” Flick started for the cottage just as Demon reached her; he followed close on her heels.
“We thought,” she said, ducking through the lean-to and stepping into the main room, “that you’d want to know what we’ve learned.”
Dillon looked up, his face lit by the glow of the lantern he’d set alight. “You’ve identified one of the syndicate?”
Wild hope colored his tone; settling onto a stool by the table, Flick grimaced. “No—not yet.”
“Oh.” Dillon’s face fell. He slumped down in the chair at the table’s end.
Drawing off his gloves at the table’s other end, Demon studied Dillon, noting his pallor and the lines the last week had etched in his cheeks. It was as if the reality of his situation, now fully realized, and the consequent worry of apprehension and exposure, were eating away at his childish self-absorption. If that was so, then it was all to the good. Drawing out the last rickety stool, Demon sat. “We’ve discovered your elusive contact.”
Dillon looked up, hope gleaming in his eyes. Demon raised his brows at Flick, wondering if she wanted to tell Dillon herself. Instead, she nodded for him to continue. He looked back at Dillon. “Your man’s name is Bletchley—he’s a Londoner.” Briefly, he described their quarry.
Dillon nodded. “Yes—that’s him—the man who recruited me. He used to bring me the lists of horses and jockeys.”
Flick leaned forward. “And the money?”
Dillon glanced at her, then colored, but continued to meet her eyes. “Yes. He always had my fee.”
“No, I mean the money for the jockeys. How did they get paid? Did Bletchley give you their money?”
Dillon frowned. “I don’t know how they got paid—I wasn’t involved. That’s not how it worked when I did it.”
“Then how did you do the organizing?” Demon asked.
Dillon shrugged. “It was simple—the list of jockeys told me how much to offer each one. I did, and then reported if they’d accepted. I wasn’t involved in getting their money to them after the race.”
“After the race,” Flick repeated. “What about the payments before the race?”
Dillon’s puzzled frown grew. “Before?”
“As a down payment,” Demon explained.
Dillon shook his head. “There weren’t any payments before the race—only the one payment after the deed was done. And someone else took care of that, not me.”
Flick frowned. “They’ve changed their ways.”
“That’s understandable,” Demon said. “They’re presently targeting races during the Craven meeting, one of the premier meetings in the calendar. The betting on those races is enormous—one or two fixed races, and they’ll make a major killing. That’s something the jockeys will know. They’ll also know that the risk of being questioned by the stewards is greater—more attention is always paid to the major races during the major meets.”
Dillon frowned. “Last season, they didn’t try to fix any truly major races.”
“It’s possible they’ve been building up to this season—or that they’ve grown more cocky, more assured, and are now willing to take greater risks in the hope of greater rewards. Regardless, the jockeys for the Spring Carnival races would obviously demand more to pull their mounts.” Demon glanced at Dillon. “The going rate for the two races we’ve heard fixed is five ponies.”
“Five?” Dillon’s brows flew up. “I was only once directed to offer three.”
“So the price has gone up, and they’re locking the jockeys in by offering some now, some later. Once the first payment’s accepted, the jockey’s more or less committed, which is less risky for the syndicate.” Demon looked at Dillon. “They would, I fancy, be happy to make a down payment to avoid a repetition of what happened in the first race this year.”
Dillon slowly nodded. “Yes, I see. This way, the fix is more or less certain.”
“Hmm.” Flick frowned. “Did you ever hear anything from the jockeys you organized about how they got paid?”
Dillon paled. “Only from one, early last season.” He glanced at Demon. “The jockey wasn’t too happy—his money was left at his mother’s cottage. He didn’t feel easy about the syndicate knowing where to find his old mum.”
Demon met Dillon’s gaze. He didn’t like what he was learning. The syndicate sounded disturbingly intelligent—an evil, ruthless and intelligent opponent was, in his book, the worst. More of a challenge, but infinitely more dangerous.
That, of course, would normally whet his appetite, stir his Cynster blood. In this case, he only had to look at Flick to inwardly curse and wish the whole damned syndicate to hell. Unfortunately, the way the situation was shaping, it was going to fall to him to escort them there, while simultaneously protecting an angel from the consequences of her almost certain involvement in the syndicate’s fall.
While the thought of the syndicate didn’t stir his blood, Flick did—in quite a different way, a way he hadn’t experienced before. This was not mere lust. He was well acquainted with that demon, and while it was certainly in the chorus, its voice wasn’t the loudest. That distinction currently belonged to the impulse to protect her; if he complied with his inner promptings, he’d tie her up, cart her off to a high tower with a single door bearing a large and effective lock, and incarcerate her there until he had slain the dragon she was determined to flush out.
Unfortunately . . .
“We’d better go.” She gathered her gloves and stood, her stool grating on the floor.
He rose more slowly, watching the interaction between Flick and Dillon.
Dillon was looking earnestly at her; she tugged on her gloves, then met his gaze. “We’ll let you know what we discover—when we discover something. Until then, it’s best that you stay out of sight.”
Dillon nodded. Reaching out, he caught her hand and squeezed. “Thank you.”
She humphed and shook free, but without any heat. “I told you I’m only doing this for the General.”
The statement lacked the force of her earlier rendering; Demon doubted even she believed it.
Dillon’s lips twisted rather ruefully. “Even so.” He looked at Demon and stood. “I owe you a debt I’ll never be able to repay.”
His expression impassive, Demon met his gaze. “I’ll think of something, never fear.”
Dillon’s eyes widened at his tone; with a curt nod, Demon turned to Flick.
Frowning, she glanced back at Dillon. “We’ll look in in a few days.” Then she turned and led the way out.
Following on her heels, Demon breathed deeply as they emerged into the night. A quick glance at the sky revealed a black pall—the moon had been engulfed by dark clouds. Within the cottage, the light of the lantern dimmed, then died. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Demon looked around as he strode across the clearing; no other human was anywhere about—just the two of them alone in the night.
Flick didn’t wait for help but scrambled into her saddle. Untying Ivan’s reins, Demon quickly mounted, holding the stallion steady as Flick trotted Jessamy over.
“I’ll ride home through the park. I’ll see you on the Heath tomorrow afternoon.”
“No.”
Surprised, she stared at him. Before she could scowl, he clarified, “I’ll rid
e back to Hillgate End with you. It’s after midnight—you shouldn’t be out riding alone.”
She didn’t scowl, but he sensed her resistance. She studied him, then opened her mouth, doubtless to argue, when a breeze wafted through the clearing and set the trees shivering. It moaned, softly, eerily, through the branches, then died away on a sigh, an expiring banshee leaving only the rustling leaves slowly stilling in the deep darkness.
Flick shut her mouth and nodded. “Yes, all right.”
Shaking her reins she set out; muttering his by now customary oath, Demon wheeled Ivan and set out to catch up. He did in short order; side by side, they rode across the next field—the last bastion of his domain. Beyond its hedge, directly ahead of them, lay the furthest reaches of the former park of Hillgate End.
There was a spot they both knew where the hedge thinned; they pushed through onto an old bridle path. Flick led the way into the dark shadows beneath the trees.
Although some of the park’s paths were kept in good condition for riders, notably Flick, to enjoy, this was not one of them. Bushes pressed close on either side, branches flapped before their faces. They had to walk their mounts—it was too dangerous to even trot. The path was deep in leaf mold; it occasionally dipped, creating the added danger of their horses slipping. They both instinctively guarded their precious mounts, alert to every shift in weight, in muscle, in balance, of the beasts beneath them.
The General had no love of shooting, so the park had become a refuge for wildlife. A badger snuffled and growled as they passed him; later, they heard rustling, then the yips of a fox.
“I didn’t realize it would be this bad.” Flick ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.
Demon grunted. “I thought this was the route you used to go back and forth to the cottage. Obviously not.”
“I normally take the path to the east, but that crosses the stream twice, and after last night’s rain, I didn’t want to risk Jessamy’s knees going up and down slippery banks.”
Demon didn’t point out that she was risking Jessamy’s knees right now—they were deep in the park, with the centuries-old trees forming an impenetrable canopy overhead; he could barely see Flick, let alone any irregularities in the path. Luckily, both Jessamy and Ivan could see better than him. They stepped out confidently; both he and Flick fell back on trust and let their horses find their own way.
After some time had elapsed, he asked, “Doesn’t this path cross the stream, too?”
“Yes, but there’s a bridge.” After a moment, Flick amended, “Well, there was a bridge last time I came this way.”
Lips thinning, Demon didn’t bother asking how long ago that had been; they’d deal with the rotted and possibly ex-bridge when they came to it.
Before they did, it started to rain.
At first, the light pattering on the leaves high above was of little consequence. But the tattoo steadily grew more forceful, then the forest about them started to drip.
Flick shuddered as a series of heavy drops splattered her. Instinctively, she urged Jessamy on.
“No!” Demon scowled through the night. “Hold her steady. It’s too dangerous to go faster—you know that.”
Her silent acquiescence told him she did. They plodded on, increasingly damp, increasingly cold.
Above them, above the trees, the wind started to rise, to whistle and moan and shake the leaves. Jaw set, Demon searched his memories, trying to gauge how much farther they had to go, but he’d never been on this path before. He didn’t know how it meandered, and he couldn’t place where it came out. But given the fact that this path crossed the stream only once, and they’d been making very slow progress . . .
He didn’t like the answers his estimations suggested. They were still a long way from the manor.
Just how far was revealed when they came to a break in the trees, and he saw before them the stream with a narrow log and plank bridge spanning it. And the charcoal maker’s hut in the clearing beyond. That, he recognized.
Beneath his breath, he swore.
As if in answer, the heavens cracked; the rain positively teemed. Faced with the sudden torrent—a curtain falling between them and the bridge—Jessamy and Flick balked.
Muttering all manner of dire imprecations, Demon swung down. He tied Ivan’s reins to a tree; the stallion, made of stern stuff, seemed unfazed by the downpour. Head up, he sniffed the air and looked toward the bridge.
The bridge that, if not in good condition, would assuredly collapse under his weight.
“Stay back!” Demon yelled at Flick. Pushing past Jessamy, he strode the three paces to the bridge. Ignoring the rain, he checked the structure thoroughly, in the end standing atop its middle and jumping up and down. The timbers didn’t creak; the bridge seemed sound enough.
Ducking back through the rain, he nodded at Flick, then freed his reins and was back in the saddle. Despite the downpour, he wasn’t soaked; the bridge itself was protected by a huge oak on the stream’s opposite bank.
Flick was looking back at him, her brows high. He nodded again. “You cross first.”
She nodded and sent Jessamy forward; they clattered across in ordered style. Demon shook Ivan’s reins—he bounded forward, keen not to be separated from the mare. His heavy hooves clattered on the planking; in a few swift strides, he was safely across.
Flick was waiting under the spreading branches of the oak; Demon reined in beside her and fixed her with a look calculated to impress on her the unwisdom of arguing with him in his present mood. “There is no possibility that we can ride on to the manor in this.”
Eyes wide, she looked at him consideringly, then cast a swift glance at the clearing before them, the surface of which was already playing host to myriad tiny rivulets. “It’ll stop soon—these squalls always do.”
“Precisely. Which is why we’re going to wait in the hut until it does.”
Flick eyed the hut and immediately thought of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Maybe even mice. Or rats. Then she looked at the steady rain coming down and grimaced. “I suppose it’ll only be for an hour or so.”
Demon tightened his reins. “There’s a small stable tacked on the other side—ride straight there.”
Flick shrugged, shook her reins, and did.
A second later, Demon followed.
The small stable was only just big enough to house both horses; with the two of them in there as well, laboring in the darkness to unsaddle, space was in short supply. It was impossible not to bump into each other. Arms brushed breasts, elbows stuck into chests. Searching for a loose strap, Flick inadvertently ran her hand up Demon’s thigh—she snatched it back with a mortified “Sorry.”
Which was received in fraught silence.
A minute later, reaching out to locate her so he wouldn’t hit her when he lifted his saddle from Ivan’s back, Demon found his fingers curving about her breast. An incoherent word of apology was all he could manage, too exercised by the battle to drag his hand away.
Flick’s only reply was a muted squawk.
Finally, they were done, and the horses, contented enough, were settled side by side, Ivan with a minimum of rein. Flick joined Demon in the doorway, ducking behind him, into the protection afforded by his broad shoulders.
He glanced around at her, then looked back out, peering along the front of the stone cottage. “God only knows what state the inside is in.”
“The charcoal makers come every year.”
“In autumn,” he replied incontrovertibly.
She grimaced.
He sighed. “I’ll go and take a look.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want to wait here? It’s perfectly possible I won’t be able to get past the door.”
She nodded. “I’ll stay here while you check—call if it’s all right.”
He looked back out, then strode swiftly for the cottage door. An instant later, Flick heard wood grating on stone. She waited, looking out at the steady rain, listening to the dripping silence. Beside her, the horses
shifted, heaved horsy sighs, and settled. All she could hear was their steady breathing and the soft patter of the rain.
And a hesistant, furtive rustling in what sounded like straw, coming from the rear of the stable.
Flick stiffened. Wild-eyed, she swung around. Visions of munching rats with evil red eyes filled her brain.
She whirled and fled for the cottage.
The door was ajar; without a thought, she slipped through.
“Stop.” It was Demon’s voice. “I’ve found the lantern.”
Flick stood just inside the door and calmed her leaping heart. He was large—he had large feet. He’d been clomping around in the cottage for at least three minutes—surely, by now, any resident rodents would have departed.
A scrape of a match on tinder broke the stillness; light flared, then softened, throwing a warm glow about the hut as Demon reset the glass.
Letting out the breath she’d held, Flick looked about. “Well!”
“Indeed.” Demon likewise was taking inventory. “Remind me to compliment the charcoal makers when next they’re by.”
The cottage was neat as a pin, and, bar the inevitable cobwebs, clean. The door had been tight in its frame, and the windows securely shuttered; no unwanted visitors had disturbed the charcoal makers’ temporary home.
By extension, however, there was no food left in the cottage to attract vermin. The pots and pans and, most importantly, the kettle, travelled with their owners. There was, however, wood stacked and dry in the woodbox.
Demon glanced at Flick, then moved to the fireplace. “I may as well get a fire going.” They were both damp, just this side of wet through.
“Hmm.” Flick shut the door, then, rubbing her upper arms, came farther into the cottage. While Demon crouched before the stone hearth, selecting logs and sticks with which to start his blaze, she studied the furniture. There was only one chair—an old armchair from the manor. Beyond it stood three narrow pallets, each sporting a lumpy, tick mattress. Bending down, Flick grasped the wooden strut at the end of the nearest pallet and tugged until the end of the pallet was positioned before the hearth to one side. Satisfied, she sank down upon it. And sighed as she let her shoulders ease.
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