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“Why are you in such a rush?” she asked. “What happened back there?”

“Gareth tried to strangle me, Gran. The rumors about him had merit,” she said through chattering teeth.

“I don’t believe it,” Hazel said stubbornly.

“He put his hands around my neck and squeezed. He ordered me to get away for my own good. The duke has gone mad. Faster, you old nag.” She flicked the reins. The cart horse broke into a grudging trot, then fell back into a brisk plod. Guilt pricked her.

She had pushed Gareth at the worst possible time. He had just found the body of his bride’s baby, for God’s sake. She had accused him of killing the child’s mother and been surprised when he reacted with violence.

But he had tried to hurt her.

Or…scare her? He knew she was a stubborn woman. She had openly defied his order to leave.

She was torn between wanting to flee for her life and wanting to turn back to check on the wounded duke she had abandoned.

Behind them, strange footfalls thudded on the dirt road. They didn’t sound human. Or equine, for that matter.

Evaine’s pulse leaped. She twisted to see what was following them and saw only shifting shadows…until a lean, shadowy shape with glowing eyes. Fear curled the hairs on the back of her neck. Facing forward, she slapped the reins hard. The horse bolted. Gran flew backward, landing in the cart bed with a startled “oof.”

They careened down the drive as though they were being chased by the devil himself.

Perhaps they were.

The lycans of Wolfhaven were hunting. Wulfric and Eardwulf were off their pedestals and hunting prey. Any second now they would attack and close their slavering jaws around Gran’s neck. Or hers. Evaine mercilessly drove the nag to a gallop.

“Slow down,” Hazel said. “You’re bouncing me around like a pea in a colander. I’m getting mashed.”

The absurdity broke through Evaine’s panic. Taking a deep breath, she gently tugged on the reins. The horse dropped into a choppy trot. She took a chance and looked behind her.

Nothing.

No hounds.

Only the oak trees rattling in the late afternoon wind and Wolfhaven’s hulking form in the distance.

Disquiet stirred within her.

She couldn’t prove it, but she was sure Vernon Cogswell’s appearance at that exact moment was not a coincidence. He had to have been watching them. The groundskeeper and his wife had to be behind some of the strange events that had taken place at that house. Stealing her red cloak. Nearly getting her shot.

Pushing over the clock?

But how? They had been alone in that sitting room.

She didn’t know the answer. Her heart thundered against her ribs. She had left Gareth to face that house—and the Cogswells—alone.

But he had threatened her. Squeezed her throat when she refused to leave. Hard enough to convey that he represented a threat.

Not hard enough to actually hurt her.

Gran crawled back onto the bench beside her. The horse had taken advantage of Evaine’s momentary distraction to lower her head and tear a mouthful of grass.

“Well? Are we going to the village, or are we going back?” she said, challenging. A cough racked her.

Evaine had to get her out of the cold. She had been a fool to drag her out into a storm. She flicked the reins and sent the horse trotting again.

“We are leaving,” she said firmly. “I’ll send someone tomorrow to check on Gareth. Then we are going to find a place to live. I will find work. Any work.”

“Not that kind of work,” Gran whispered, stricken.