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The afternoon light was fading and grim cloud threatened rain. Thus far, they’d travelled two hours, so for a further two back, he ought to change horses as Oberon would be flagging but he was a favoured swift steed – long legged and willing.
He paused mid-step in the stable yard.
Or was this all absurd?
Yet… That same sensation roiled the night he’d waited for Tristan’s boat – leaching fear into his veins.
So, he strode on, for nothing would stem this fear until he held Isabelle within his arms, and if this did prove to be absurd, then so be it.
A boy was still walking his grey around the yard. “A lively one, gov,” he said, handing over the reins.
Rhys flipped a thruppence, stroked Oberon’s nose and peered into his nutmeg-brown eyes. “We are returning, lad. Can you make another few hours?”
Oberon snorted and raised his head, as if to say, I’ve been ambling aside a sluggish carriage for the last two. What do you think?
So Rhys mounted up and set for home.
Some two hours later,he tugged his greatcoat close about his frame and shuddered. They ought to have reached the estate by now, but a mile into their journey, a stifling mist of foul grey had rolled in and blurred the road ahead, dusk abruptly falling like earth into a grave. Rhys had been compelled to slow his steed for fear he’d stumble.
Then the rain had begun to fall.
Not as much as a deluge but it drove into one’s eyes, blinding sight. The saddle had become slick, unbalancing both of them, and whenever they’d endeavoured to pick up speed, Oberon’s hooves had slid at a bend in the road, and Rhys had been forced to slow once more.
His greatcoat weighed like a slab of slate and despite his boots being Hobbs’ finest, they were no match for the Welsh rain that infiltrated through every nook and cranny.
He was drenched.
On the ride, he’d convinced himself not to worry, for what could happen to Isabelle in a matter of hours? And besides, Hugh and Elen were there…
Nevertheless, when the Castell y Ddraig tower emerged decaying and sinister from out of the mist, he’d never been so grateful, envisioned Isabelle safe and sound, a hot bath for himself and a generous brandy.
Rounding the tower, he could make out the lanterns beneath the portico, the welcoming warmth of home and hearth, and even poor Oberon hastened his hooves, doubtless envisioning fragrant-smelling hay and a swift rub down.
A black shadow of a figure darted out into the rain at his approach, and Rhys frowned, squinting to see who it could be.
Slender and female with dark hair and…
“Cousin Hugh?” called Mari. “Is that you?”
Sliding from Oberon, Rhys caught her in his arms, heard Elen from the shelter of the portico, commanding her to return.
The shadows stole Mari’s face from his sight, but he could hear her frantic breathing and feel her clutching hands.
“Mari, what–”
“Oh, Uncle.” And she buried her head into his sodden coat. “It’s Miss Beaujeu.”
Not since the day Tristan’s boat had failed to return had such an icy fist of dread punched him in the guts.
He clutched her cheeks. “What’s happened?”
“S-she… They found Lady Bronwen’s jewels in her chamber and the magistrate has taken her t-to Cogran Prison.”
What in damnation…Rhys hurried his niece to the portico, for the light, the shelter, could not believe what he heard.
“Elen, what in hell’s name is going on?”
“Oh, Rhys. I didn’t know what to do. Lord Powell was yelling, Bronwen shrieking and then the magistrate insisted. And the jewels were found in the governess’ room.”
