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"Afore dinner. Twasn't dark yet."
Hart put his heels to the horse and raced blindly into the village. The fog swirled before him, clearing the way just enough to help him avoid a lumbering cow.
A few minutes later he was shaking awake the snoring innkeeper. The man reeked of ale and sweat, but he came alert as soon as he spied a gleam of gold.
"Oh, sure, they were here. He come pounding on the door but changed his mind quick after she started in screaming."
Hart's skin prickled with gooseflesh. "Screaming."
"Screaming to wake the dead. Claimed he was a kidnapper and a murderer. He couldn't shut her up, so he just led the horse on out of town."
"And you? You let him go?"
"If a man needs to discipline his wife, it's none of my concern."
"She was screaming for help. He's not her husband, you imbecile. He is a kidnapper and likely a murderer as well. You may have sent a woman to her death."
The bastard actually snorted. "And if he was a murderer, what should I have done? Risked my own life?"
"Yes," Hart snarled. "Yes, you should have risked your worthless life." He was mounting his horse when the man came rushing out, shirttails flapping.
"You promised a coin!"
Hart was tempted to spit in the coward's face, but he reminded himself that he was a duke. Then he tossed the coin into the deep mud at the north side of the yard. "There's your coin. I suggest you use it to take a trip. If she's come to harm, I'll be back to teach you how it feels to cry for help and get no response."
The horse jumped beneath his heels, springing forward toward the road as the innkeeper yelled out some defense behind him.
They were close. Hart could feel it in his bones. They'd left this village near sunset, looking for a place to stop for the night. The next town was only a few miles ahead. They were either there or somewhere on the road in between. Surely they were just rising, surely they couldn't be far.
His muscles were coiled in painful bunches beneath his skin. He was crushed beneath terror and hope and violence and sorrow.
If he could just know she was well. . . She must be well. Matthew hadn't taken her to kill her.
Hart's brain started spitting out ideas of what she might have suffered short of death, but he shut it down with a curse. "She is all right," he whispered. "Scared, but well." He tried to swallow the fear and found that it wouldn't budge. It stayed stuck there, deep in his throat, for the next half hour.
He was nearly upon them before he realized it. It was less than a campsite; just a pile of blankets and a long-cold fire not a few feet from a crumbling edge of rock. He didn't see her, didn't see anyone, and was standing in his stirrups, searching the horizon when movement drew his eye.
A flash of billowing white at a cliff's edge, a dark band of black holding it still. His mind registered only shapes and colors for a moment, then focused with a snap on Emma and Matthew.
They stood at the edge of the rock, Matthew holding up one hand to warn Hart away, the other arm was wrapped around her neck. Emma's skin was alarmingly pale, pale except for the bruises marring her left cheek. Matthew's jaw was pressed against her darkened temple.
Hart eased his pistol from its hiding place and wondered if the roaring in his ears was the sea.
"Why are you here?" the man shouted, dragging Emma back a step. Hart's gaze fell to her feet, unshod and tied at the ankles. Then he noticed her captor's boots. They were only inches from the edge. A rock, disturbed by his shifting, clattered away and dropped from sight.
Hart slid from the saddle and strode toward them. "Let her go."
"Stop!" Matthew's boot slid farther back.
Hart skidded to a stop, heart tripping in alarm. "Let her go! Are you mad? If you get any nearer that cliff, you will both be killed."
Matthew glanced behind him, seeming unconcerned. "Why are you here?"
Hart met her hazel eyes, wild now with fear. "I've come for Emma."
"She's not your concern." His arm tightened around Emma's neck, and her bound hands rose briefly in protest.
"Of course she is. I've asked her to be my wife."
