Page 29 of Reckless Desire

“Never mind that. We must catch Hensley before he does something that will cause one of us to kill him.”

“Where do you think he has gone?” Bryson asked.

“Grier has always been a little unhinged,” Stirling said. “There is no telling how he thinks he can get away with such chicanery.”

Bryson’s hands fisted at his sides. “You knew he was unstable and allowed him near Miss Ramsay?”

“We attended a luncheon, Newhall. Even Grier shouldn’t be such a fool as to carry her off from here. He must know that we will deduce he is the kidnapper. It can only mean one thing.”

Horror washed over Bryson. “He intends to marry her.”

Bryson made all speed through Inverness to Hensley’s townhouse. Stirling had agreed that Hensley wouldn’t risk anything less than the vows being repeated before a parson for fear the so-called marriage would be deemed unlawful. By now, Stirling was probably already meeting with the bishop, in hopes he might know of a parson Hensley might be able to talk into performing an illegal marriage.

Bryson stopped his horse in front of Hensley’s townhouse and dismounted. Stirling’s pistol pressed Bryson’s side where he’d stuffed it into his waistband. Bryson wondered if he would be able to keep from shooting Hensley if he found him. Stirling had warned him that Miss Ramsay was sure to marry another man if Bryson ended up in prison.

Wind snapped the hem of his greatcoat as he bounded up the stairs and then pounded the door knocker. A maid answered the door.

“Is his lordship home?” Bryson demanded before she could say anything.

“Nae, sir. He is not expected home for two or three days.”

“Where is he?” Bryson demanded. The girl’s eyes widened. “Tell me, girl. It is a matter of life and death.” Not a lie, for if he reached Hensley before Stirling did, he would kill him.

She retreated a step. “We are not allowed to give information about his lordship.”

Bryson stepped into the hallway. “Either tell me where he is or get me someone who can. Otherwise, I will call a constable.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait here.” She spun and fled down the hallway.

Bryson paced for two minutes before the butler appeared.

“Where is Lord Hensley?” Bryson snapped as the man approached. “Do not think to turn me away,” he added when the tall, dark-haired man opened his mouth to reply. “Your master has kidnapped a young woman. If you do not tell me where he is, you will be party to the kidnapping, and I will be sure the constable knows that.”

The man stopped in front of him. “I cannot say with absolute certainty where he is gone, sir,” the butler replied without hesitation. “He may have gone to Caystoke, or perhaps Archiwick. His father maintains an estate there.”

“A hundred miles apart,” Bryson muttered. “Where is he most likely to take a woman if he thinks he will force her to marry him?”

“Caystoke is more secluded, sir.”

“I assume he is not here,” Bryson said.

“I have not seen him since late this morning.”

“He will need a parson,” Bryson said more to himself than the butler.

“I understand Lord Hensley has known the parson at Caystoke since he was a child,” the butler said.

“Do you know Hensley well?”

The man shook his head. “His lordship hired me only four months ago.”

So, Hensley couldn’t keep a staff for long.

“I want to you to send a message to Sir Stirling James,” Bryson said.

Half an hour later, Bryson left Inverness behind. Another forty-five minutes later, he started up the treed hills that ran alongside the River Beauly. He glanced up at the fast-moving clouds that scudded low across the sky. He flipped up his collar against the chill wind as he wound north, a mountain to his left, the river, beyond the trees, to the right. Hensley had a two-hour head start, but a single rider could make double the time of a carriage. The knot in Bryson’s stomach twisted. He couldn’t fathom what he would do if Hensley had harmed her. What if the viscount found a parson who would marry them before Bryson reached them? He forced the thought aside. A forced marriage wouldn’t be upheld by the church or state.

The drive to Caystoke took five hours. In all likelihood, the viscount believed no one suspected him in the kidnapping of Miss Ramsay, so he probably traveled at a sedate pace. Bryson would reach Falcon Inn in another forty minutes. Hensley would have to change horses there. If luck favored Bryson, the viscount might linger there for a short meal. There was simply no way—