“Any foxes hiding in here?” Wesley subtly kicked at the trunk, the noise reverberating. “Yes? No?”
He waited long moments, but nothing came scurrying out.
Wesley raised an eyebrow, eying the tree. “Well, wouldn’t this be a damn first?” he mused. “Something actually going right—”
Two sharp cracks split the air, almost in tandem, exactly as Wesley’s knees gave out. He pitched forward, his legs and arms completely useless, only barely managing to hit the ground on his side and avoid smashing his face. He crashed into the mud, skidding downhill, unable to stop.
There was no fucking mistaking it this time: he’d just been hit by a wave of the familiar watery and useless limbs of Sebastian’s magic.
A moment later, his limbs were in his control again. Wesley shoved up to his hands and knees in a puddle of mud and looked up the hill, toward the tree where he’d been standing only seconds ago.
A branch that had been at the same height as Wesley’s head was now missing half the limb.
Gunshots filled the air then, accompanied by a ruckus of noise—men’s shouts, dogs’ barks, birds’ squawks.
Wesley took a deep breath, reaching for his armytraining and pushing any panic down into the box where it couldn’t interfere with his rational thoughts.
Another man might have thought he’d only heard a single crack, and that had been the snapping branch.
But Wesley had heard two cracks.
And he knew a goddamn gunshot when he heard one.
“Fine!” Valemount was coming around the rocks, accompanied by Thornton, Ryland, Sir Reginald and Geoffrey. “Fine,” Valemount said again. “What happened, man?”
All of them were armed, as were the other men still scattered within the rocks. Any of them could have fired at a pheasant just now, the bullet simply going wide toward Wesley’s tree.
Conceivably an accident.
Or convenientlylookinglike an accident.
“I tripped,” Wesley lied. “Like a damned fool.”
“Rotten luck.” Ryland was gingerly picking his way down the side of the rock. “Mud’s slippery here. Can you stand?”
Valemount was also coming Wesley’s way, his footing more sure than Ryland’s. Two of the hounds were prancing around Valemount, tails wagging. “These hills are tricky as anything. Ground’s uneven and can give without warning.”
“Wesley.” Geoffrey moved ahead of Valemount. “Are you hurt?”
Wesley got to his feet. His heart was pounding, and his chest was tingling oddly, but he kept his tone bland. “Nothing to be concerned about, unless you’re planning to launder my clothes,” he said, brushing uselessly at the mud now painted on his hunting coat.
Valemount stepped up to the tree, studying the brokenbranch. “Typical of winter. The trees ice and the heavy branches break too easily. And then there’s the mud, which gets soft as quicksand; a man’s got to step careful.”
It had been raining, a few degrees too warm to ice. And Wesleyhadbeen stepping carefully. It had been unquestioningly Sebastian’s magic that had taken him down to the ground.
“I say,” Ryland suddenly said. “Is something glowing on your gun?”
“What?” Valemount said sharply. He glanced down. “Don’t be ridiculous, man,” he said, immediately tucking his gun into the holster. “I’ve got an heirloom mounted in the grip; you saw the light reflecting off it.”
Wesley’s gaze went back to the tree. Geoffrey was kneeling next to the now-broken branch on the ground, the one Wesley had been standing by when the gunshot went off. The branch that had snapped exactly at Wesley’s height—the way it might have done if Sebastian’s magic had taken him down at exactly the right moment and the bullet meant for Wesley’s head had hit the tree instead.
Wesley shoved down his feelings, keeping his expression carefully blank. “Did anyone manage to shoot anything?”
“We got a few birds,” Lord Ryland said. “Geoffrey, mostly. He’s a very good shot.”
Geoffrey was still kneeling on the ground next to the tree, one hand now balled into a fist. Geoffrey had followed Sebastian the night before with a frankly flimsy excuse. He was next in line for the Viscount Fine title, but surely—surely—he didn’t want it that badly?
Wesley’s eyes met his cousin’s. Geoffrey’s expression was perfectly blank. “Runs in the family,” he said, never taking his eyes off Wesley.
