She saw Edith Fraiser moving gingerly across the town square, a thin envelope in her hand. Behind her one of the men held a brace of hounds straining at the leash.
The sight instantly calmed Rhiannon, releasing the poisonous tension coiling within her. The hunt. The hunt would clear her thoughts and sweep the confusion from her heart. A race with the wind that would leave behind every vestige of her life, every concern, obligation—and betrayal. Aye. She’d follow the hunt.
* * *
Ash flicked the envelope Edith Fraiser had given him beneath his chin as he watched Susan Chapham being blindfolded.
He should be quite pleased. His purse was nearly fifty pounds heavier; he’d reestablished himself amongst these well-fleeced sheep as a harmless lambikins; and he’d kept Rhiannon from running to Phillip in full mea culpa cry before her wedding.
He was quite pleased. This feeling of heartsickness was simply the result of too much country. A surfeit of vegetables. Too much sun.
He opened the envelope, and glanced at the signature. It was from Thomas Donne. Ash’s interest sharpened as he read. The letter suggested a reason for the attacks on Rhiannon—an improbable conjecture, but a reason nonetheless. He frowned.
It had been his plan to leave soon but because he owed the lass some small part of his consideration he would wait around and play watchdog. All would come right, for then she would once and for all be Phillip Watt’s concern.
And if he could not account for the hurtful rhythm of his heartbeat, he did not try.
Chapter Sixteen
“Go on without me. I’ll just stay back and enjoy the day,” said Ash Merrick from atop the back of his steed.
The two young men he addressed, the last members of the hunting party to mount up, regarded him dubiously. Ash waved them off and watched them go, his smile dissolving. He wasn’t about to inform them that for him those years a young man dedicates to refining his hunting skills had been spent in a dungeon.
His gaze picked out Rhiannon Russell’s figure. Clad in midnight blue velvet that turned her roan tresses incandescent, she lagged near the rear of the group rather than the front where he would have expected her.
Behind her, Stella darted into a patch of bushes. Rhiannon called out to her. With a crash the hound burst from the tangle of brush, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
Would that all curs be so well favored, Ash thought. The other hounds barked and danced at the end of leashes, waiting for the Master of the Hunt to loose them to the trail, but Rhiannon’s dog enjoyed its freedom. And Rhiannon’s love.
He frowned and pulled Donne’s letter from his waistcoat pocket, scanning the missive for the portion that had made him reconsider leaving:
—if this man in the French islands is, indeed, Miss Russell’s long-lost brother, should he die without wife or brat his plantation would revert to his next of kin. Since she is Scottish, Miss Russell would be next in line, even though she is female. We Scots are so barbarously nonpartisan with regard to women, aren’t we?
However, should Miss Russell wed one of your Englishmen, her property becomes his. Someone might take exception to this. I think I would make some inquiries about Miss Russell’s extended family.
But all this presupposes a brother precipitously restored from the grave and just as precipitously returned, as well as a secret family member plotting from the shadows.
Instead I would look for a potential murderer in Miss Russell’s jealous rival or some person harboring a grudge. If Miss Russell has trapped herself a groom by becoming enceinte, I would say look there. Or perhaps the elder Watt cannot abide the thought of a Jacobite daughter yet dares not risk alienating his son by refusing to countenance the marriage?
Now, enlighten me as to whether those rural strumpets know any interesting tricks that have eluded their urban cousins—
Ash refolded the vellum and pocketed it. Interesting. He hadn’t realized that the Scots laws governing inheritance were so different from the English. Certainly a molasses-producing plantation would be prize enough to commit murder for.
No wonder Carr wanted to marry Rhiannon.
But as Donne suggested, the tale of the long-lost brother did seem unlikely. Perhaps Rhiannon had beaten out other favorites for the Watt name but he’d seen no show of animosity amongst her friends. He, above all others, knew that Rhiannon had not trapped Watt into marriage by conceiving, and Watt’s father had apparently handpicked Rhiannon to be Phillip’s wife—
A thought niggled at Ash, impressions, chance phrases. He sifted through them, scowling in concentration. Phillip. Handsome, athletic Phillip. Always surrounded by his boon companions. Gruffly boastful of his romantic conquests. Yet in the month since his arrival not once had they sought out women of easy virtue. No one had even suggested it.
If Phillip had not wanted a bride … if there was in him something that resisted yet could not be voiced … if he feared a wife might expose something he wanted left alone—
Ash shook his head. He was being overly imaginative. These incidents were just what they seemed. Still, the hunt setting with everyone tearing off would present a prime opportunity to manufacture yet another “accident.”
He touched his heels to the gelding’s side and loped off in the direction of the disappearing hunters.
Rhiannon’s heart was not in the hunt. Always before when she’d needed to escape, the hunt offered her the opportunity.
Not today. She reined her horse at the edge of a thick copse of hemlock and watched the others hurdle down the steep embankment after the pack of trumpeting hounds. Absently, she looked for Stella’s rangy form and when she could not find her, she smiled wanly.
The dog was a disaster. She’d rather chase squirrels then add her voice to those of her littermates. Three times already today Rhiannon had had to call her from her own doggy pursuits and lead her back to the pack. It was becoming increasingly obvious that no amount of cajoling or scolding was going to turn Stella into a decent gazehound.
Rhiannon nudged her mount forward, riding along the fringe of the woods, listening for the telltale sounds of a dog playing.
The minutes ticked by, becoming half an hour and then an hour. Rhiannon began to grow concerned. The other hunters had long since disappeared from view and the sun’s rays slanted across the long forms of oak and larch. Soon it would be dark and Stella would be lost.
Rhiannon lifted herself in the saddle, calling out and listening. Nothing. She turned the horse back and retraced her route, certain now that Stella had gone east rather than west as she’d assumed. Her raised voice sharpened with fear when she heard a sudden high-pitched howl.
She moved toward the sound, into a dense tangle of overgrown shrubbery that formed a wall along the forest’s edge. She dug her heels into her mare’s flanks, but the horse shied from entering.
Another yip dissolved her caution. She set her whip against her mount’s rump and the skittish horse gathered its haunches beneath it and plunged into the thicket. Immediately vines and brambles caught and tore at Rhiannon’s hair and face. The mare neighed in distress, jumping and lurching in fitful forward motion through the net of bindweed clutching at her legs.
Rhiannon held her arm up, warding off the worst of the nettles and barbs. Fifty yards, and then seventy. Several slashes sliced through her skirts and sleeves. A new fear took hold. Her horse could be blinded by such savage growth.
She reined in. The mare thrashed her head back and forth, fighting the bit in her mouth, frightened by the unseen enemies pulling at her legs. Rhiannon could no longer hear Stella. She searched the area for easier egress. To her left and farther in she made out a patch of light through a low, thin corridor: a deer trail. She pulled her mount’s head around, crooning encouragement.
The horse blundered onto the trail, her flanks twitching with excitement, her ears flat against her head. Rhiannon raised herself in the stirrups to see where the trail led. A rabbit darted from beneath the ferns, shooting across her horse’s path.
It was too much for Rhiannon’s frenzied mount.
The mare bolted, catching Rhiannon unawares and snatching the reins from her hands. Free, the horse raced like a devil fleeing hell. Rhiannon threw herself flat along its outstretched neck, snatching unsuccessfully for the reins streaming along its withers.
Clots of black earth spun from beneath the mare’s hooves. Green and gold, light and dark passed by Rhiannon’s face in a stampeding blur. Without foothold or handhold, her velvet habit became a slide. She skittered in the polished leather saddle. One sharp turn, a sudden stop, and she would lose her grip. She buried her fingers in the mane, crouched over the mare’s withers, and prayed.
A shout ahead. A crash. The thunder of pursuing hooves. Her horse veered, hurtling her forward—
A strong arm snatched her from the saddle. Her back slammed into a hard body, her hips banged into a thigh. She twisted, clutching wildly. The arm around her yanked her up and settled her between hard legs.
Ahead, her horse’s low bunched hindquarters disappeared. The black-gloved hand before her drew back on the reins of the horse. She slewed around to face her rescuer knowing, certain, yes … Ash.
“I thought you were supposed to be some sort of bleeding Diana!” he shouted angrily.
“What—”
“You! Everyone says you ride like a centaur. I’ve seen better riders on a costermonger’s cart!”
“I lost my reins,” she whispered, stunned by his anger.
“Lost your reins? Damnation!” His arms tightened around her. “The middle of a poacher’s trap is not the place to lose one’s reins. Or didn’t your equestrian instructor teach you that?”
“Poacher’s trap?”
She blinked up at him, confused and disoriented. Heat and power radiated from him, soaked through his shirt, warming her, bracing her.
“Yes. Poacher’s trap. The bloody deer run is ringed with razored barbs. If you had made it down the chute—”
His eyes glittered as he stared over her head. His voice was a dangerous thing. Beneath the blue-black shadow of beard his jaw hardened.
“What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?”
“Stella.” She remembered suddenly. She pushed at his chest, scrambled to free herself of his implacable grip. “Stella!”
A thready howl answered her call.
“Please!” She grasped his arms. Muscles bunched beneath her fingers. “Please. She’s hurt. Can’t you hear?”
His gaze locked with hers. Abruptly, he swung her to the ground, one hand still imprisoning her wrists as he followed her.
“I’ll go. Wait here. Hold the reins. Keep holding the reins.”
“Yes. Please. Thank you—”
He’d already gone, moving with catlike grace down the leaf-canopied trail and disappearing into the flat disc of sunlight ahead.
The moments extended in thick, heartbeat-accented measures, one after the other. A branch snapped nearby and a covey of partridge flushed, air trembling beneath their wings as they broke skyward. Rhiannon waited. A high-pitched yelp jerked her to the end of the reins tethering her to Ash’s sweat-foamed horse.
“Ash!” His horse snorted at the sharp tone and danced backward. “Ash!”
“Yes.”
She peered down the trail and saw a dark masculine figure break from the light and stride forth, carrying a huge animal in his arms. She knotted the reins to a sapling and flew down the trail heedless of Ash’s barked order to stay.
She had almost reached them when she saw the blood. It ringed the dog’s neck with a crimson collar and streaked her hindquarters. One hind leg dangled awkwardly from Ash’s clasp.
“Stella,” she whispered.
The dog lifted pain-filled amber eyes and whined. Gingerly Rhiannon stroked the silky head and worked cautious fingers through the sleek coat. Her fingers grew wet with blood.
“What happened?”
“She was in the middle of the trap. Couldn’t get out.”
“Will she be all right?”
He didn’t meet her eye. His own face was flushed, his eyes hot. “Her leg is broken.”
She spun around and returned to the tied horse, calling over her shoulder. “We have to get her back. Mrs. Fraiser can set the bone of any man or beast.”
Ash followed her. “Mount up, Rhiannon. I’ll hand her up to you. Keep her still as possible.”
Rhiannon clambered astride. The horse shifted but did not shy when Ash lifted Stella up onto Rhiannon’s lap. The dog whimpered and Rhiannon whispered soft comforting words, painfully aware of the dangling leg.
Without a word, Ash took the reins and led the way back up the narrow path. They emerged at the far end of the thicket, a good distance from where Rhiannon had entered. She looked down at Stella. The dog panted shallowly, her eyes half-closed against the pain. Blood stained Rhiannon’s skirts.
“How long will it take to bring her to the Fraisers’?” she asked Ash.
“Two hours. Maybe less. I don’t want to—”
“Hallo!”
At the sound both Rhiannon and Ash looked up. A pony cart was jostling its way along the forest track toward them. Phillip drove it, his splinted leg resting on the front axle. “Hallo!”
“Thank God. We can rest Stella on the seat beside him.” Rhiannon lifted her arm, waving wildly. “Here! Phillip! Here!”
Ash remained watchfully silent as Phillip pulled up beside them, his grin fading to an expression of concern. “What is this?”
“Stella has broken her leg and lost a great deal of blood. Oh, Phillip. You must drive her back to Mrs. Fraiser’s.”
“Of course,” Phillip said, shifting to the side of the cart. Wordlessly, Ash took Stella from Rhiannon and placed her alongside Phillip.
“I’ll see her forthwith to the manor,” Phillip promised, his big hand on the dog’s head. In that moment Rhiannon felt sick with gratitude and affection and guilt. He was such a good man. A decent, kindhearted man. “Rhiannon, you ride along behind me. If Stella grows restive she’ll need your voice to calm her.”
“Stella won’t grow restive. She’s lost too much blood,” Ash said, breaking his silence. “Don’t get down, Rhiannon. You’re staying with me.”
Rhiannon, in the process of alighting, froze. “Phillip is right. I can help Mrs. Fraiser—”
“No,” Ash said, approaching his horse. Before she realized what was happening, he’d grasped the back of the saddle and swung up behind her. One strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her tight against him, imprisoning her there. “You won’t be going back to Mrs. Fraiser’s. Now or in the foreseeable future.”
“What the hell is this?” Phillip demanded. Pain and betrayal filled his handsome countenance. “Rhiannon? Is this—is he what you’ve been trying to tell me? That you and he—? You bastard!” Phillip erupted. “You bloody bastard! I thought you were my friend!”
A cold, acid bath of fear gripped Rhiannon. Stunned beyond coherent thought she twisted in Ash’s grip. “Ash, you can’t. You can’t do this.” She tore at the arm imprisoning her. She might as well have been clawing at iron manacles.
“Why are you here, Watt?” Ash’s voice, so close to her ear, came deadly and soft. “This isn’t the course the hunters followed. The only thing here is a poacher’s trap, set to catch a young girl and baited with a tortured dog.”
“What?” Rhiannon gasped.
“There’s nothing in that trap that would break a dog’s leg,” Ash went on. “Someone broke her leg on purpose and then twisted it to set the hound howling so that its fond mistress would follow the sound.”
“No one would do something so vile!” Phillip declared. “You’re mad to suggest it.”
“Am I? Why all these accidents? How many times in the past month has Rhiannon nearly been killed? How many times were you there?”
“Rhiannon! You don’t believe this madman, do you?”
“No!” she shouted. “Ash, I don’t know what you’re about, why you’re
saying these things. You can’t mean them. Phillip couldn’t have done this. His leg is broken. Only think!”
A low, nasty laugh tickled the hairs by her ear. “So innocent. It has its appeal, I’ll admit, but you think, Rhiannon. The trap could have been laid a long time ago. A contingency plan, eh, Watt?”
Phillip rose awkwardly. His face suffused with color. “Let her down! You have no right—”
“I have every right and you might be so good as to inform Mrs. Fraiser of such so that she does not set any of your local magistrates after us.”
Phillip sank down on the seat. “What do you mean?”
“I have letters naming me Lord Carr’s agent, with the legal right to act in his behalf. And as Rhiannon Russell’s surrogate and oh-so-legal guardian, I’m exercising those rights. There are new laws, Watt, making it illegal for a woman to wed without her guardian’s consent before she reaches the age of twenty-one. I believe Rhiannon is younger.”
“No!” Each calm, cold word sounded a death knell to her future, her life. Ash Merrick was snatching it from her. All of her life she had been ripped from those she loved, fled or chased or taken away. It was beginning again. No choices. Simply robbing her of her right to make her own decisions.
Wildly, she twisted in Ash’s hold, fighting him. “No!”
“For the love of God, man,” Phillip pleaded. “Can’t you see she’s frantic? Let us go back to Fraiser’s. Discuss this. Whatever you and Rhiannon have done—”
“What we have done?” Ash laughed harshly. “I have had her, Watt! I’ve taken her maidenhead. Don’t you understand? She’s no longer a virgin bride. You won’t marry her now. No one would expect you to.”
Rhiannon hissed with fury at Ash’s betrayal. He’d promised! And he’d not only lied, but was deliberately provoking Phillip, taunting him.
The Passionate One Page 14