What Price Love?

by Stephanie Laurens

  She had the direction right, so he fell in beside her. But once they reached the limit of Demon’s lands, the cleared paddocks and secluded glades where his prize broodmares led a pampered life, she fell back and let him lead, tacking from one bridle path to the next, leading her steadily east into the dense, old woodland of the Caxton estate.

  Some of the trees were ancient; their wide boles and thick canopies enclosed the path, screening the sun. Even now in the late afternoon of a sunny day, the air beneath the branches was cool, faintly damp. The path narrowed, then dipped through a rocky streambed; urging Solomon up the opposite bank, Dillon glanced back and saw Pris guiding her mare daintily through the rocks.

  It hadn’t rained recently; the leaf mold cloaking the bank wasn’t slippery. The mare would manage the steep climb safely enough…realizing the direction of his unbidden thoughts, he faced forward before Pris could look up and read his protectiveness in his face. He wasn’t even sure he approved, but the affliction seemed incurable.

  A little way farther on, the path led into the clearing before their goal—an old woodcutters’ cottage buried deep in the woods. Drawing rein some yards before the door, Dillon raked the cottage. Very few people knew it existed. The woodcutters came every few years to thin the woods, to gather the dead branches and reduce them to charcoal, which they sold, mostly to the Caxton house hold.

  It was too early in the season for any woodcutters to have arrived, yet scanning the ground before the door, he saw clear evidence that horses had been standing there.

  Pris had followed him into the clearing; she halted the mare alongside. “More than one horse, and recently.”

  Worry tinged her voice. Dillon looked up, but no smoke rose from the chimney. “We’re on Caxton lands. We own this cottage, and as you’ve just seen, it’s well hidden.”

  Dismounting, he led Solomon to a post with rings set into it. Securing the gelding’s reins, he glanced at Pris, but she hadn’t waited for him to lift her down; she led her mare to the post. While she tied off her reins, he walked to the side of the cottage and checked the small lean-to-stable.

  Turning back, he saw Pris watching, and shook his head. “No horse, and no sign one has been there in a good long while.”

  Going to the door, she waited; joining her, he lifted the latch and pushed the door wide. The hinges creaked.

  He paused on the threshold, aware of Pris crowding by his shoulder. Light streamed past them, and also through the unshuttered windows, one on either side of the door. Dust motes danced in the slanting beams illuminating the rudimentary yet solid and, for its purpose, comfortable interior.

  Pris sucked in a breath. Dillon glanced at her, then followed her gaze to the wood stacked beside the hearth—laid in that distinctive crosshatch. “Your brother’s hallmark.”

  Moving into the room, he glanced around; Pris did the same. As in the ruined cottage, a certain neatness prevailed—a lack of dust, the old armchairs aligned, the two stools parallel under the table. There was no evidence of a fire in the hearth, no such obvious sign that anyone was living there, but the stones had recently been swept. Rus Dalling’s mark was everywhere.

  “He’s been here recently.” Pris glanced at him.

  “More recently than at the ruined cottage?”

  She nodded. “He’s not near at the moment, but it’s as if I’ve walked into his room at some house we’re staying at.”

  He glanced around. “Let’s search. If he has those saddlebags, it’s unlikely he’s carrying them with him.”

  They looked everywhere—under the narrow bed, in all the corners, on every high shelf—and found nothing. Then Dillon remembered the storeroom, built onto the cottage at the opposite end to the stable. Its door wasn’t obvious, simply a section of the planks lining the wall; crooking his fingers in the gap that served as handle, he pulled it open.

  Pris pushed past him. Rough shelving ran along the outer walls. There was little light, only what seeped between the rafters and the roof, and past him as he stood in the doorway. Feeling Pris’s irritated glance, he moved father into the narrow space, reaching past her to feel along the back of the high shelves while she crouched and, despite her fear of rodents, peered and poked below the lowest shelf.

  “Here!” Triumphant, she shot to her feet—courtesy of the tight space, plastering herself to him.

  Something she did without the slightest hesitation, as if she barely noticed the way her breasts crushed against his chest, the way her thighs slid against his.

  He sucked in a breath and flattened himself against the wall as she wrestled a pair of saddlebags up between them—only just missing doing serious damage.

  Her eyes sparkled as they met his. “These are Rus’s!”

  “Good.” His voice sounded strained; he tried to keep his expression from turning grim as he squeezed her past him and gently pushed her to the door. “Take it out in the light.”

  She paused in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a traveling bag there, too.”

  He waved her on. “I’ll get it.” Once she’d gone, he took a moment to catch his breath before bending and hauling the bag from its hiding place.

  Stepping into the main room, he saw Pris by the bed, busily rifling through the saddlebags. “These are definitely Rus’s, but just clothes, his favorite bridle, and the quirt I gave him last birthday.”

  Last birthday—one she’d shared. As he put the bag on the bed, she glanced at it. “That’s the bag I sent him when he wrote that he’d joined Cromarty’s employ.”

  Swiftly rebuckling the saddlebags, she opened the traveling bag and delved within. “More clothes, a book I sent with the bag—I bet he hasn’t even opened it—and…” Straightening, she looked at the saddlebags, then at the traveling bag. “I think this must be all his things. He has to be staying here.”

  She looked up at him.

  He nodded. “He must be out, either in town or around the Heath. If he hasn’t got a horse, then he’ll be walking, so getting anywhere will take time.”

  “So what should we do? Wait until he comes back?”

  He thought, then shook his head. “He could stay away until late.” He hesitated, then met her eyes. “Those horses that were here recently…if someone’s been looking for him, he won’t risk returning until he’s sure no one’s likely to come calling.”

  Pris blew out a breath and studied his face. “All right—we’ll leave a note—”

  “No—no note.” When she frowned and went to argue, he cut her off. “We don’t know who might come searching and find your name. Even ‘Pris’ is too traceable—as far as I know, you’re the only Priscilla in Newmarket. No—we’ll put the bags back exactly as we found them, then I’ll come back to night and see if your brother’s returned. Recognizing him, after all, won’t be a problem.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know why you bother—you know I’m going to come here to night, too.”

  He looked into her eyes, then sighed and picked up the traveling bag. “I had to try.”

  They returned the bag and saddlebags to the storeroom; at his suggestion, she arranged them as closely as she could to the way they’d been. “He might or might not know that someone called yesterday.”

  “He wouldn’t have missed the hoof marks outside.”

  “Regardless”—he held the cottage door for her, then followed her out—“we don’t want to give him cause to run. We want him at home next time we call.”

  He closed the door, then lifted her to the mare’s saddle. On Solomon, he led the way out of the clearing along a different path—one that led to the Heath; it was the same path he’d emerged from when he’d found her fleeing Harkness three days before.

  They rode through the slanting sunshine, giving the town a wide berth, circling to the east. When they clattered into the stable yard behind the Carisbrook house, they’d completed a full circuit of Newmarket.

  Patrick came out of the stable. She waved gaily; kicking free
of the stirrups, she slid to the ground. Handing over the mare’s reins, she beamed. “We’ve found him! Or at least found where he’s staying.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” Patrick grinned at her, then nodded to Dillon. “Mr. Caxton.”

  She whirled; shading her eyes against the setting sun, she looked up at Dillon. “Where will I meet you? At the cottage?”

  “No.”

  The word was flat, absolute. When she raised her brows at him, his lips thinned. He dismounted. “I’ll meet you here.” He glanced at Patrick, then at her. “I don’t want you riding anywhere alone at night, much less across the Heath, no doubt dressed as a lad and astride.” His eyes bored into hers. “No telling whom you might meet. Or what he might think.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, opened her lips—

  “Aye. Mr. Caxton’s right there,” Patrick cut in. “Riding alone at night’s not safe, and your aunt would be the first to say so.”

  She glanced at Patrick, then back at Dillon—quickly enough to catch the slight, distinctly male nod he sent Patrick’s way. Dillon had fetched Patrick and the carriage that morning; they’d had time to meet and get each other’s mea sure…

  Plastering a smile on her face, she reached out, plucked Dillon’s reins from his loose grasp, and gave them to Patrick. “In that case, you’d better come in and speak with Aunt Eugenia. Riding all the way home, then all the way back here this evening will be such a waste of time, I’m sure she’ll insist, as do I, that you join us for dinner. Especially as it’s all in Rus’s cause—he’s far and away her favorite nephew.”

  She linked her arm with Dillon’s, but he didn’t budge.

  “My house hold will be expecting me—”

  “I’m sure Patrick can arrange for a groom to take a message.” She stared at Patrick, who looked down to hide his smile.

  “Aye—I can do that.” He glanced at Dillon. “If you’ll let me know what, where, and who to speak to, sir, I’ll send a lad right away.”

  Dillon knew a trap when it snapped shut around him. He inwardly sighed and glanced down at Pris, hanging on his arm. “I take it your aunt will be delighted to hear we’ve all but located your brother?”

  She smiled, and turned him toward the house. “She’ll be in alt, and Adelaide will be, too.” As she towed him to his fate, she blithely informed him, “They’ll both want to thank you, I’m sure.”

  They did, several times, but to Dillon’s relief, both Lady Fowles and Adelaide refrained from living up to either his or Pris’s expectations. Although immensely relieved to hear that he and Pris were one step away from meeting with Rus, they were also keenly interested in the swindle he believed Rus had got wind of; they were eager to hear the details explained.

  Dillon relaxed, easier in the ladies’ company than he’d expected. Over the dinner table, Pris, seeing it, pulled a face at him and nearly made him choke.

  He paid her back by telling Lady Fowles precisely what they planned that night—no carriage, but a nighttime ride—deftly swinging his legs aside so Pris couldn’t kick him under the table. She tried, missed, and glared, but Lady Fowles considered, then gave her blessing. Contacting Rus took precedence over propriety.

  They left the house at nine o’clock, Pris once again dressed as a lad. Their boots scrunched on the gravel as they strode into the stable yard. Patrick led their horses, refreshed and alert, out, then held the mare as Pris swung into the saddle.

  “Take care,” Patrick called, as they wheeled their mounts south. Dillon saluted him, then had to tap his heels to Solomon’s flanks, setting the black into a powerful surge in Pris’s wake.

  He caught her up in short order, then rode beside her down the lane to the town. At that hour, with her dressed as she was with him beside her, there was no reason they couldn’t ride straight through rather than taking the longer route around. Nevertheless, he took her down the quieter streets, rejoining the road south on the outskirts where the houses gave way again to fields and pasture. The Heath proper lay to their right as they cantered down the road to Hillgate End.

  He led Pris through the main gates and up the drive, turning off the oak-lined avenue onto a bridle path that cut through the park. The house lay quiet, already slumbering in the moonlight; he glanced down at it as they let the horses stretch their legs along a cleared rise, at the long façade softened by shadow yet so solid, framed by the darkness of thick canopies to either side.

  Pris, too, was looking. Over the wind of their passage, she yelled to him, “It looks so very English.”

  He grinned, nodded. It was. The quintessential English manor house in the quintessential English setting, a fitting reflection of its owners, English to the core.

  Beyond the park, the woods closed in. Pris had to curb her impatience and let him lead; it took a good twenty minutes of slow and careful riding, avoiding the pitfalls with which, in the dark, the narrow paths were amply endowed, to reach the cottage.

  They rode into the clearing.

  No light burned behind the still-unshuttered windows.

  Before he could blink, Pris was out of her saddle, dragging the mare to the post to secure her. Dismounting, he hissed at her to wait, but she didn’t so much as pause. Leaving the post, she went straight to the door, lifted the latch, and pushed it open.

  Dillon swore, knotted Solomon’s reins, and rushed after her.

  He nearly ran her down; she’d stopped just inside the door. Catching her shoulders, he steadied her; she said nothing, just continued looking around.

  At the main room of the cottage, still devoid of human life, exactly as they’d left it earlier in the day…

  He studied the stools beneath the table. “That left stool’s been moved. Someone’s been here.”

  “Rus.” Pris stilled beneath his hands. “He’s here…yet he’s not.”

  For a long moment, she remained perfectly still, then she swung about, stepped around him, and walked out of the cottage. She stopped a few paces into the clearing. From the doorway, he scanned the dark curtain of surrounding trees for any threat.

  A low, mournful birdcall sounded, reminiscent of an owl. He looked at Pris; she repeated it, haunting and long.

  Then she waited. Her attention, initially swinging across the semicircle of trees facing the cottage, focused on the area to the right.

  Silence fell, almost palpable. Neither of them moved.

  Then an answering call came, the same mournful note repeated in a series of shorter bursts.

  The effect on Pris was instantaneous. She opened her mouth; he swallowed a curse and started toward her, but before he could warn her to keep her voice down, another voice spoke, an amplified whisper reaching through the night.

  “Pris?”

  Dillon froze. A yard from Pris, six yards from the clearing’s edge, he watched a shadow swing down from the branches, steady itself against the bole of a large oak, then slowly come forward.

  Rus Dalling stepped into the moonlight, wide eyes locked on his twin sister’s face. “Damn it to hell, Pris—what the devil are you doing here?”

  With those first words, Rus Dalling assured Dillon that the two of them would get along excellently well, at least as far as Pris was concerned. She, of course, paid not the slightest heed to the implied disapproval; with a high-pitched squeal, she flung herself at her brother.

  Dillon swore beneath his breath; he listened to the rustlings as night creatures reacted to the sound, while Rus Dalling sternly shushed Pris. That he’d been hiding, resigned to spending the night in a tree, told Dillon a great deal. They were assuredly not safe standing in the clearing, in plain sight.

  Glancing at the cottage, Dillon saw the two horses tied to the post, realized what anyone would see if they chanced by. Turning, he joined the other two. “We can’t stay out here.” He caught Rus Dalling’s dark gaze. “Let’s get into the cottage—we can explain everything there.”

  “No. There are men searching—”

  “I know. But if they come this wa
y, they’ll see the horses, tied like that. Mine, the black, is well-known about town—Harkness knows him by sight.”

  Rus Dalling had been studying him in the weak and fitful light. “You’re Caxton.”

  Dillon nodded. “You’re on my land, and that’s my cottage.” Grabbing Pris, he started to push her to it; Rus, still entangled, inevitably came, too. “If anyone comes by, they’ll see my horse, and the mare, at this hour outside a cottage on my land—what will they think?”

  Rus Dalling’s face blanked. “An assignation.”

  “Precisely.” Dillon ignored the dawning suspicion in the other man’s voice; dealing with that issue could wait. “They won’t come close—aside from all else, Solomon is known to get testy. He’ll raise the alarm.”

  He managed to guide Pris and her twin into the cottage. He paused by the door. “Wait while I close the shutters, then light the lamp.”

  Rus moved to do so; swiftly, Dillon crossed the front of the cottage and hauled the shutters closed. He strode back into the cottage as the tinder sparked; the instant the wick caught, he closed the door.

  The lamp shed barely as much light as a candle, just enough, as they gathered around the scarred table, to illuminate their faces. Looking at Rus Dalling’s, Dillon recalled Barnaby’s description—a scruffy male version of Pris, a cross between Pris and Dillon. Barnaby had been very close to the mark; Rus was a few inches taller than Pris, a few inches shorter than Dillon. All three were of similar build, the only differences being the natural ones due to age and sex. The same could be said of their faces, indeed, all else about them; they were darkly, vividly handsome—at first glance, only the color of their eyes and the shade of their hair distinguished Rus and Pris from Dillon.

  In those two characteristics, the twins were identical. In others…there were slight differences in their features, and more in the way they moved and reacted. Although highly similar in appearance and, he suspected, in character and personality, there would be, as was the case with Amanda and Amelia, significant differences, too. They were not one and the same person.