What was that? And from whence did it come?
Following instinct rather than the sound itself, she skirted the stable block, trailing her fingers over the rough exterior wall, and around the corner, knowing even as she went it was madness. She had promised—or had she?
Deeper darkness lurked around the side of the building, and she very nearly withdrew. But then—the shift of a very large shadow indeed. And the sound repeated.
A horse. Blowing out air.
By heaven!
She groped her way forward. Even before she reached the beast she knew him, though he looked no more than a dark blur. She could hear rather than see his distress.
“Tempest.” She barely breathed his name. Raising her hands, she encountered his nose, his shoulder. He trembled beneath her touch.
“Och, poor lad, poor lad!”
He pressed his great head to her shoulder—this stallion purported to be a killer—and she embraced him. Only then did the truth hit her.
If Tempest was here, so must Evan be also.
But where, exactly?
“Poor lad,” she crooned again into the horse’s neck. “Where is yon beast? Did he leave ye here in the dark?”
He had, perhaps because there was grass here and Evan knew the horse’s hooves would sound loud on the cobbled yard. Evan did not want anyone to know he was returned.
Oh, God, she had to warn Alan. The rest of the men. But—
Evan could be anywhere, up to anything. In the stable, about to set it alight. In the trees that surrounded the manor. In the house itself.
Suddenly the absence of the guard outside the back door felt far more sinister.
If he got into the house…
A sudden scream split the night. It rose like the wail of a ghost from a graveyard, and Annista’s first thought was for Bonnie.
Whom she’d foolishly left alone.
Leaving the stricken horse where he stood, she ran. Others came behind her—she heard someone emerge from the stable. A man called out from the direction of the road. Footsteps clattered.
Annista reached the kitchen door first. Clawed it open and went inside.
Someone was in the kitchen. A light flared and Cook’s round face came in sight.
“Wha’ was that?”
“A scream. From where?”
“I think it came fro’ upstairs,” Cook replied. “I heard—” Two of the kitchen maids appeared from behind her. She put her arms around them.
A commotion sounded. Yelling, the pound of footsteps. A challenge. Struggle? Was that Seumas?
“Stay here,” she told the women and ran.
The stable hands had come in behind her. One or more of them would stay to guard Cook and her maids.
Someone followed her. Glancing back she could see it was old Billy.
A river of light spilled down the stairs from the door of Master MacKallan’s room, which stood open. Two men struggled there, one with hair of flaming red.
