“Do we proceed?” Trevor asked.
The lines of frustration and grim determination that had marred Gage’s brow all day deepened still. “Yes. But remain observant.”
We followed him as he guided his horse forward, down the rise and deeper into the pass. The sorrel mare’s ears perked up, followed by her head as she watched our approach. She did not seem overly wary, and I could only assume she was accustomed to encountering strange horses and people.
I remained on my horse, my eyes trained on the ridges above and my ears attuned to any strange sound—a cough, a sneeze, a slide of loose dirt or rocks, or worse still, the click of a pistol cocking. But no noise came to me beyond the gust of the wind and the shifting of Gage and Trevor’s feet as they hefted the leather satchels filled with Lord Buchan’s ransom money onto the back of the sorrel mare. The leather straps creaked as they were tightened.
Gage nodded for Trevor to mount and then reached up to untangle the mare’s reins from the tree. I tensed, tightening my grip on my own reins, prepared for the thieves’ horse to take off at a gallop. Instead, when Gage pulled the reins over her head, knotting them loosely behind her neck, and tapped her on the flank as directed, she grunted and slowly ambled forward, as if disgruntled to be forced to move from the warmth of this nook in the rocks. Gage had plenty of time to mount before the mare made any sort of effort to leave Shotton Pass.
She trotted lazily through the pass, taking us out of Scotland and into England. I turned to look at Gage, riding just over my right shoulder. Was it truly going to be this easy? At this pace, we could easily keep up with the mare and follow her to wherever the body snatchers were waiting for her.
But my thoughts had raced too far ahead. For when we cleared the last twist of the pass and an open stretch of moorland appeared before us, the mare suddenly lengthened her stride, cantering across the black expanse. In the weak light of the moon, it was difficult to see more than a few dozen feet in front of us—the rest was steeped in deep, tangled shadows.
Even so, the sounds of the mare’s hoof strikes were easy enough to hear, but they also became distorted by the noise of our own horses. Every few hundred feet we were forced to pull up and listen for the swiftly departing cadence of the mare. With each pause, the mare traveled farther away from us, and as much as this frustrated me, it frustrated Gage more. I could feel his aggravation rolling off him in waves, tautening the already tense atmosphere.
Looming before us to the left and to the right, I could see the dark outline of the two ridges where my cousins and uncle had positioned themselves. I was becoming increasingly grateful the men had altered their plan. Uncle Andrew and my cousins were to act as lookouts only, so as not to confuse our pursuit with the sounds of their horses’ hooves. But if they heard the mare pass by without the sounds of our own horses following near enough behind, they were to take over the chase.
Gage pushed his gelding faster, overtaking Trevor in his determination to catch the mare.
“Slow down,” Trevor yelled at him over the rushing wind. “It’s not safe.”
Gage knew this well enough, for we’d visited the day before in the cold winter rain that had plagued the Borders for the past three days. He’d seen the uneven ground, the loose pebbles and shifting mud, the holes overgrown by heather and bracken ready to trip up an unsuspecting horse or human. The harder-packed trails were relatively safe, but they were difficult to follow in the dark with their sudden twists and turns, and with all the rain, even the trails’ dirt had become unstable.
He pulled up so quickly, I worried his gelding had stumbled. “We’re losing her,” he snapped.
He was right. I had to strain to hear the horse’s lope in the distance.
When Gage set off after the mare again, Trevor shouted after him, “It won’t matter if you break your neck.”
I held my breath as Gage’s horse sped off ahead of us, daring to actually break into a gallop. I wanted to follow, but I knew to do so only meant suicide. If not for me, then for the beautiful roan beneath me. How easy it would be for her to step into a hole and snap a leg bone. Trevor would be forced to put her down.
Gage disappeared over a rise, and I was certain I didn’t breathe again until Trevor and I crested it to see him stalled at a fork in the pass. His gelding danced left and then right, uncertain which way to go. I could no longer hear the mare’s hoofbeats above the wind. The skin prickled along the back of my neck. I scanned the landscape around us, wondering if we were being watched, and whether the observers were friend or foe.
“Which way?” Trevor asked as something familiar caught my eye.
“I don’t know,” Gage replied through gritted teeth.
“We could split up.”
He nodded and was about to spur his horse onward when I spoke.
“It’ll do no good.” I nodded toward the hillock on our right. “I recognize that cairn. The path to the right splits again in another hundred feet. Are Trevor and I going to go separate ways as well?”
I knew the question was futile. Neither man was going to let me ride off into the desolation of the Cheviot Hills by myself, even if, as I strongly suspected, I was more familiar with its landscape than either of them.
“This is a waste of time,” Gage barked. “We’re all going left.”
He rode off before either Trevor or I could argue, and once again at too hasty a speed. Although the loose downhill terrain did force him to slacken his pace somewhat. We raced onward into the night, letting Gage choose which direction we went. I didn’t even offer an opinion, knowing the likelihood of our stumbling onto the correct track the horse had taken was growing slimmer with each fork and cross path we traversed. I did try to note which trail we followed, so that I could return us to Shotton Pass when Gage finally realized the futility of continuing our search, but with each mile farther we traveled, the lower my confidence became of even being able to do that.
I could only hope that Uncle Andrew or one of my cousins had picked up the pursuit once they realized how far we’d lagged behind. Maybe one of them had been able to track the sorrel mare to wherever her ultimate destination was.
Trevor seemed just as dejected as me, hanging back and allowing Gage to lead. That was, until we reached the edge of an expanse of land I strongly suspected of being a bog. The cloying musk of damp and moss and decay reached out to claw at my nostrils even through the biting wind.
“Gage, stop!” he yelled.
I watched in horror as the gelding stumbled, giving a piercing cry. Gage grappled with the reins before being pitched over the side of the horse into the brush beyond.
My heart leaped into my throat. “Gage!” I shouted as Trevor and I urged our mounts forward.
I couldn’t see him beyond the tall grass and scrubs. Had he broken a bone? Cracked his head open on a rock? There were a number of terrible possibilities.
Trevor and I pulled our horses to a stop and dismounted, still calling Gage’s name. Trevor grabbed the gelding’s reins and led him away from the spot where Gage had fallen, lest the horse trample him in his distress.
“Gage!” I cried again, and was finally met with an answering groan coming from the scrub to my right. I hurried forward to find Gage struggling into a seated position. His breath wheezed in and out of him.
I fell to my knees beside him and cupped his elbow to help him sit upright. “Are you hurt? Is anything broken?” I ran my hands over his extremities, searching for blood and fractures.
He brushed me off. “No. I’m well,” he rasped. “Just . . . got the wind . . . knocked out of me.”
“Is he hurt?” Trevor asked, coming to stand over us.
“I’m well,” Gage reiterated in irritation. “Just . . .” he lifted his hands, his face screwing up in disgust “. . . wet.” He flicked his arms outward, flinging brackish water off them.
I turned away from the cold spray and scrambled to my feet. Trevor leaned down to assist Gage in his attempt to stand.
Gage h
obbled a few steps forward, favoring his right leg before his gait straightened out. He reached back to brush mud and water from the back of his greatcoat. “Is Titus injured?” he asked, looking for his horse.
“It doesn’t appear so,” Trevor replied. “But I checked him quickly. He seems to just be spooked.”
“Good,” he declared, approaching his mount with just a slight hitch in his step. “Then if we hurry, we might still be able to catch up with the mare.”
“No!” I gasped in unison with my brother.
“Just stop, Gage,” Trevor snapped, his patience clearly waning. “The mare is long gone.”
Gage shook his head stubbornly. “She’s not. I heard her hoofbeats just a few moments ago. Just over that way.” He pointed with his finger out into the heart of the bog.
“Then you’re imagining things. No horse went that direction.”
His voice was hard. “It did. I know I heard it. So if you think I’m imagining things, then don’t follow me.”
“Gage,” I pleaded, grabbing hold of his arm before he could mount. “That’s a bog. Please, you’ll only kill your horse, and maybe yourself.”
He halted, turning to look out over the dark landscape. Our overworked horses’ sides heaved, their breaths condensing in the cold air. The night was silent around us beyond our breathing and the icy wind. But still, if I strained hard enough, like Gage, I thought I could hear the pounding of the horse’s hooves. It was a trick of the landscape, of our minds, and that made it all the more unnerving. We so desperately wanted to catch the mare, and the people she was hurrying home to, that we could convince ourselves of almost anything.
I felt rather than heard Gage curse himself as his entire body tightened and then released as if expelling something. I let go of his arm and glanced at Trevor, having learned long ago that sometimes it was better to allow a man to vent his spleen on himself than to interrupt, especially when I was certain my words would do no good.
His internal struggle over, Gage turned to face us. His eyes were angry, but resigned. “Do either of you know where the horse might have ultimately gone?”
I shrugged. “There are a number of villages on the eastern edge of the Cheviot Hills, as well as several farms and homesteads scattered throughout.” I gazed out at the shadowed hillsides. “Without knowing exactly where we are, I couldn’t even begin to guess.”
Gage followed the direction of my gaze, seeming to realize for the first time that we were almost certainly lost. Not that we couldn’t find our way back out again. But at the moment, I didn’t know whether we were closer to Yetholm or Wooler, Kilham or Harbottle.
He sighed. “I suppose we should begin trying to pick our way back to Yetholm.” It was the nearest village to Shotton Pass, where we had agreed to meet at the inn when our part in the evening was finished.
Trevor helped me to mount and I pressed my knees to Figg’s flank to urge her forward, unwilling to let Gage take the lead this time. I didn’t know if Trevor had been memorizing each of our turns, but with his sometimes poor sense of direction, I knew I was our best bet of escaping the hills before dawn.
• • •
Town Yetholm rested about a mile west of the border with England and a mile south of Shotton Pass, in the shadow of several craggy ridges at the edge of the Cheviots. Its wide main street was lined with most of its businesses, including The Plough Inn, which, due to my cousin Jock’s recommendation, we’d settled on as our meeting place.
It was close to midnight before Gage, Trevor, and I found our way out of the bleak hills and back to the center of Town Yetholm. Light shone brightly through the two front windows of the solid, stone building, and smoke puffed cheerily from the double chimneys. Desperate to get warm, I dragged myself off the back of my horse, nearly tumbling into the mud, and hobbled on frozen legs into the front room.
Several men very solicitously settled me before the bright flames in one hearth, where I shivered and lifted my hands toward the heat, trying to thaw my fingers. A mug of something hot was pressed into my hands and I sipped it gratefully, savoring the warmth of its spicy flavor as it slid down my throat. My nose immediately began to run, but I did not care. A man knelt to rest a hot brick wrapped in flannel under my booted feet, finally giving me the presence of mind to observe the party around me.
Uncle Andrew and my three cousins were already there. They had made room for Gage and Trevor to get closer to the fire, but they still huddled about us, now putting cups of the warm beverage into the men’s hands and adjusting the blanket that had been thrown around my shoulders. My spirits plummeted, and I suddenly realized just how much hope I’d held out that a pair of these men had been able to track the sorrel mare all the way to its owner.
“When you took so long to return, we thought for certain you had successfully tracked the mare to her destination,” my uncle was telling Gage in reply to his dejected pronouncement that we’d lost her.
Gage shook his head, his face grim with acceptance. “They eluded me again.”
No one spoke for a moment, probably sensing like me that he had no wish for platitudes. Though I was anxious to catch these murderous body snatchers, it was clear Gage was even more determined, especially in light of his failure to capture them the first time he encountered them.
“Well, whoever they are,” my cousin Jock mused. “They’re canny. We couldna see more than dim shifting shadows, and no’ even those verra clearly. And wi’ the howling wind and the echoing rocks, it was hard to tell whether the horses were coming or going.”
Trevor frowned into his glass. “They must be familiar with the landscape.”
“But they were also familiar with the Firth of Forth,” I pointed out, speaking up for the first time since my entrance. There was still a slight quaver in my voice from my continued chill. “I think it’s far more likely they simply did their research.”
“Which doesn’t sound like the typical body-snatching ruffians I’ve encountered,” Gage said, looking up from his unhappy contemplation of the fire. “So either we’re dealing with a group of men far more resourceful and organized than the typical grave robber, or someone has hired these resurrectionists to do their dirty work for them.”
Several of the men nodded and murmured to each other in agreement. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the innkeeper wiping down the tables nearby, his ears turned our way, clearly eavesdropping on our conversation. It was likely the most interesting discussion he’d heard in quite some time.
“And we still don’t have any clue as to why?” I added.
Gage’s eyes met mine, and his mouth flattened into a humorless grin.
If these body snatchers were more than simple street thugs stumbled onto a scheme to earn more cash, then the likelihood of money being the motive, or at least the only motive, was looking more dubious.
I stared into the depths of my mug. If the thieves were this clever, then how were we ever going to catch them? What if they decided to play it safe and quit now before they were caught? Had we just missed our last chance?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The ride back to Blakelaw House was nothing but misery for me. I’d just gotten comfortable in front of the fire at The Plough and had nearly dozed off in my warm nest of blankets, when the gentlemen decided it was time to go. Trevor offered to return home and send the carriage after me, but that would mean rousing the coachman and a footman or two from their beds. I could take a room for the night at the inn, but again that meant waking the innkeeper’s sleeping wife to ready a room—one with a cold hearth—for me.
Instead, I forced myself to my feet, spurred on by the promise of a warm bedchamber and the comfort of my own bed. Even so, every muscle in my body ached from the chill and the exertion of the long ride we’d already taken that night. At several points on our journey home, I nearly begged to turn back, too exhausted to go on. Gage and Trevor flanked me, blocking me from as much of the wind as they could manage, even though I knew they must have been just as
cold and sore as I was. I endured, only because I really had no other choice.
They helped me down from my horse and into the house, where they handed me off to the capable hands of my maid. Bree, it appeared, had been up waiting for me all night, and it could not be many hours until dawn. She hustled me upstairs and out of my clothing, stiff with cold and the occasional mist of chilling rain we’d encountered during the last leg of our journey. I shivered in delight as she dropped a warm woolen nightgown she’d been heating by the fire around my shoulders and helped me push my arms into the sleeves. Then tucking me up under the thick coverlets on my bed, she went to answer the knock at my door.
I stretched my feet down toward the delightful heat of the hot cloth-wrapped bricks she had placed under the sheets. Earl Grey had already found that source of warmth and curled up at the bottom of the bed. Bree returned to hand me a steaming cup of tea, helping me to drink my first sip as my hands were still shaking. After they’d stilled, she left me to rest back against the pillows while she gathered up my discarded clothes.
I watched her bustle about, savoring the warmth of the bedding and the fragrant tea as it settled into my bones. But as the moment stretched on, I couldn’t help but compare it to a similar situation which had occurred just a few months earlier, when my previous maid and the Dalmays’ housekeeper tried to comfort me after Will’s death, and my own brush with mortality. The thought left a cold lump in my chest.
I set the half-full teacup on the nightstand, no longer able to stomach the drink.
It had been days since I’d thought of William Dalmay in more than passing, and that realization unsettled me more than anything. It was a good thing, a necessary thing, I knew, for my healing, but it still made me anxious. After all, it had been only a little over two months. Should it be this easy to forget such a tragedy, to forget a friend?
I swallowed hard against the sudden urge to be sick, and looked up in surprise when I felt Bree’s cool hand press against my forehead. I had not even noticed her approach.
A Grave Matter Page 16