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“Shall I saddle your horse, sir?” Jacob asked.
“It’s a bit late to start doing your job now, isn’t it?” Ross snarled. “Besides, it’ll take too long. I can get there quicker on foot, if I go now.”
“Shall I come with you?” Stiles asked.
Ross shook his head. “No, get the ladies inside. I’ll be quicker alone.”
“Very well,” Stiles said, “Westbury and I can coordinate a search party round Pengarron. Just in case she hasn’t made it…” he hesitated, “…I mean, in case she’s not made it to Boscarne.”
Stiles’s meaning could not have been plainer.
In case she’s not made it to Boscarne alive.
With his friend’s words ringing in his ears, Ross hunched his shoulders and set off into the night, praying that his beloved wife would be found safe and well.
*
By the timeRoss reached Boscarne House, his chest ached from running. He drew in a deep breath and the cold air stabbed at his lungs. He’d picked up a trail of fresh footprints almost as soon as he’d left Pengarron. Too small to be those of a man, they could only be his wife’s—and beside them ran a smaller trail of light, round tracks.
That damned dog! Why couldn’t she have left it?
At the entrance to the estate, the footprints veered toward an outbuilding, but as he moved forward, he caught sight of a second set of footprints. They ran from the outbuilding toward the main house, which loomed up in the night—a dark monolith, presiding over the landscape with an air of malevolence.
Two windows were illuminated—one on the ground floor, the second, higher up, creating the illusion of distorted face. The light flickered on the lower window and a shape passed in front of it.
Was she there?
The shape moved again, and a faint cry echoed from the building.
A voice he knew and loved.
Alice…
He sprang into action and sprinted toward the house.
The front doors were unlocked. Ross pushed them and they yielded with a groan. Curling his hands into fists, he stepped inside, his breath forming a puff of mist in the cold, damp air.
The hallway was dark, but he could make out blurred shapes in the diffused light from the moon. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of decay. A vase stood on a plinth near the main doors. He’d have preferred his sword, but any weapon was better than none. He picked it up, and moved deeper inside the building, turning into a corridor.
A sliver of light stretched across the floor from the room about halfway down the corridor. He made his way toward it, pushed the door open, and froze.
His wife lay on a bed, body still, her face ashen. Her eyes were closed, and his heart withered at the sight.
She was not moving.
Alice…
Footsteps approached from behind—a weighty, determined gait. Ross turned and lifted the vase as a tall, heavily-muscled man, entered the room.
“What have you done to her, you bastard!”
He rushed toward the man and was interrupted by a scream.
“Ross—stop! Leave him alone!”
“Alice?”
He turned to see her struggling to sit.
