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“Maybe he’s giving us time to ready Dagger and Winning Streak. Or maybe he overslept. When the hell did you become so skittish? It’s only ten minutes past the hour.”
Pressing her lips together, Nicole fell silent. She couldn’t very well say she knew Dustin was awake because he’d been at her cottage less than thirty minutes ago, now could she?
Something was wrong.
She knew it. She felt it. It wasn’t the amount of time that had elapsed, for Brackley was right; ten minutes was negligible. It was intuition.
The same intuition that told her Dustin needed her.
“You’re right, Brackley,” she forced herself to say calmly. She stroked Blanket’s velvet muzzle, soothing her as she stomped about the stall. “Clearly, both Blanket and I are full of nervous energy. Why don’t I take her out and exercise her? It would ease your head lad’s morning schedule and divert my attention to something useful. I’ve already tacked up Dagger and Winning Streak. That leaves me nothing pressing to do before we depart for Epsom. So this would benefit us all. I won’t venture far. You can send for me when Lord Tyreham shows up.”
“Sure. Good idea.” Brackley grinned. “Only don’t use up too much of that energy. You want to beat Lord Tyreham and Winning Streak.”
Feigning a smile, Nicole gathered up Blanket’s reins. “I won’t.”
She led the mare from the stables, abandoning all pretense the moment the door closed behind them. Gazing across the grounds, Nicole considered riding directly to the manor, then dismissed the idea. If something had happened at the house, something that would have altered the training schedule, she and Brackley would have been advised.
Mounting Blanket, she followed the impulse that commanded she head back toward her cottage, this time not across the open grounds but by way of the woods.
She was halfway there when she heard the struggle.
“Happy, Tyreham? You’re not tough enough to take us both,” a deep voice growled.
“Come on, Parrish,” another voice—this one taut with pain—inserted. “My side is killin’ me. And your head is bleedin’ bad. Let’s go.”
“In a minute.” A sickening thud, followed by a groan. “That one was for my head.” Another punch. “That one’s for Archer’s guts.” A final blow, more vicious than the others. “And that last one’s to remind you to stay the hell out of things that don’t concern you. Cut out the late-night talks with your brother, because the next time it won’t be your blood, it’ll be your life. Yours and your nephew’s.”
Nicole felt bile rise to her throat. Swiftly, she dismounted, tying Blanket to a tree, intentionally rustling the branches and making as much noise as possible.
Her ruse worked.
“Someone’s comin’,” she heard the lowlife named Archer mutter. “Let’s get outta here.”
Swift movements, followed by a grunt of pain. “I can’t run. I think he broke my ribs.”
“Then limp.”
An answering oath, followed by slow, unsteady footsteps that grew fainter, more distant.
The instant she sensed it was safe, Nicole dashed forward.
She saw Dustin’s huddled form twenty feet away.
“Dustin.” Dropping to her knees beside him, she eased him onto his back. With quaking hands, she smoothed hair off his bruised forehead, her insides twisting with fear.
He blinked, trying to focus. “Derby?” Reflexively, his head turned in her direction, and he groaned.
“Don’t move.” Nicole stabbed in her pocket until she found a handkerchief.
“I heard … hoofbeats. Did you ride here?”
She could scarcely think, much less answer. “Yes.” Her voice trembled as she dabbed the handkerchief to Dustin’s bloodied jaw. “Blanket is tied to a nearby tree.”
“Derby … listen to me.” Dustin gripped her wrist, halting her ministrations and shuddering at the resulting pain he caused himself. “This might be … our only chance to stop them. They’re hurt, and they’re on foot …until the main road. Ride to the manor. Tell Poole … to get Saxon. To follow them. Race, Derby. As if this were the course at Epsom.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Go, dammit!”
