“I am often here.” Cross gave a short laugh. “Do some of m’best plunderin’ here. Know every hill and tree. ’Twas why I asked ye to meet me in that deserted water garden.”
“So you didn’t fire on Miss Verlyn?”
“Told ye. I saw no woman ridin’ tonight. Did see a few men, most of them headin’ toward the inn.” His smile broadened. “One with a much lighter purse.”
Edgar chuckled, and Cross preened like a peacock. Neville wondered if the highwayman’s words were true or a boast. Either way, Edgar believed each one. As for himself, Neville did not care if they were the truth or lies. He wanted answers about what had happened to Miss Verlyn tonight.
“So you saw or heard nothing that could be connected to the attack on Rossington’s daughter?” he asked.
“I saw nothing.”
“But you heard something.” He would play Cross’s game as long as it got him the information he sought.
“I heard shots.”
“When?”
“Not long before we were meetin’.” His lips twisted. “Supposed to be meetin’.”
“I heard nothing,” Neville said, puzzled. “I should have been able to hear them if you did.”
Edgar cleared his throat. “Not if we were still in the ’ouse. That could ’ave been when the young girls were playin’ music.”
“You are right!” Neville shook his head. “Someone could have fired off a gun in the next room, and it would have been drowned out by the caterwauling of that violin. But if you saw nothing, Cross, we have nothing to help us find who shot at her.”
“She still livin’?”
“Yes.”
“Then she can tell ye wot ye need to know to catch the fool who fired at the constable’s girl.” He laughed, slapping Edgar on the back. “Does his lordship know Kenyon is pantin’ after his daughter’s skirts? That should put Rossington’s nose out of joint.” Abruptly he became as somber as an undertaker. “Why are ye tryin’ to distract me with Kenyon’s troubles? Wot have ye discovered ’bout the cur murderin’ m’boys?”
“Nothing, save that whoever is slaying highwaymen might have made a huge mistake tonight, if he were the same one who fired at Miss Verlyn. If she got an eyeful of the shooter, she will be able to describe the man as soon as she recovers.”
“But why would her bein’ shot be connected?”
“Why not? No one else has a reason to be shooting in these woods. You and the other knights of the pad stay close to the road.”
“She could’ve been by the road,” Edgar interjected.
Neville glanced at him. The thief’s arrogance was muted when talking to Cross. No, not arrogance, but bravado. Why hadn’t Neville seen this before? Edgar was so scared of failing at the task Cross had given him that he spent more time posturing than helping discover the truth.
“Unlikely,” Neville said. “She was riding astride, and she would not have wanted anyone to report such unseemly behavior to her parents.”
“Gentry!” Cross spat on the ground, then grinned. “If ye’re right, Hathaway, who would’ve guessed Rossington’s daughter would give us the information we seek?”
“I did not say she had it. But it seems likely that she might have been ambushed as the knights of the pad were. Then we are in the exact spot we were last night. No answers yet.”
“When the girl wakes—”
“I will be there!” crowed Edgar.
Neville ignored him, as Cross had. “Lady Priscilla will speak with her and learn what she knows. Once we have that, Edgar can bring the information to you.”
“And leave ye to sneak away?” Edgar’s voice became a growl, but such tactics would not concern Neville any longer.
“Agatha will be there still.” Neville looked at Cross. “And your aunt.”
Cross nodded, but his brow was furrowed with thought. That concerned Neville, because any ideas Cross had were guaranteed to complicate an already challenging situation.
The highwayman’s leader crooked a finger to Edgar, and the two walked several feet away. As they bent their heads toward each other, they began to whisper and gesture furiously.
Neville did not strain his ears to listen. If it had anything to do with him and Priscilla—and he assumed it did—he would learn of it soon enough. Instead, he scanned what little he could see of the wood between the main road and the church where Cross waited for the other highwaymen to bring him a share of their plunder.
Wisps of cloud filtered the moonlight, creating odd patterns on the ground. That motion could hide a man’s movements, making him invisible. Bright moonlight would decorate the trees with stark shadows, again allowing places for a killer to hide. On moonless nights, the whole forest would succumb to shadow. Such conditions made it perfect for the ambushes that left Cross’s cronies dead. Most of the murders had taken place within a mile of this spot. He wondered how many had been on Rossington’s estate. On the morrow, he would borrow a horse and look for clues. However, tonight . . .
“Time to go,” announced Edgar behind him.
Neville faced him with apparent nonchalance. Seeing Cross had vanished, he asked with false cheeriness, “Would you like a pint before we return to the house?”
“A pint?”
“We are not far from the inn. It has been dusty work tramping through this wood. I could use something cooled in the inn’s cellars to dampen my throat.” He gave a shrug. “Unless Agatha expects you back at the house by now.”
“She is not m’boss. If ye’re buyin’, then I am drinkin’.”
Telling Edgar to lead the way to the road, Neville prepared the questions he wanted to ask at the Harriers Inn. The men who had been stopped by Cross and any other travelers would be eager to share their experiences. Maybe one of them had seen something that would lead to the truth about who had taken aim at Miss Verlyn. It was a long shot, but he had to know the truth, especially if the gunman had mistaken Miss Verlyn for someone else.
Like Priscilla.
WHEN A KNOCK was placed on her door by a maid, Priscilla went with her to Miss Verlyn’s room. The tidings that the young woman had regained her senses were beyond Priscilla’s hopes for that evening. Now she could talk with Miss Verlyn, both to learn more about what had happened and to help her think about something other than Neville out in the woods where the shooter might still lurk.
Priscilla paused only long enough for the doctor to tell her that he would wait in the outer room to allow her a short conversation with his patient. She fought her yearning to rush into the room and shout out questions. Instead, she went slowly to the bed and spoke in a near whisper.
“How do you feel, Miss Verlyn?”
The girl, whose face remained a sickly gray, winced as she replied, “My head feels as if a horse’s hoof struck it . . . twice.”
Priscilla smiled with sympathy. “I am sure it does.”
“I want to thank you for coming, Lady Priscilla.” She tried to smile, then groaned. She put her hand to where the stitches were beneath her hair. “I know the hour is late, but I hope you will understand that I am seldom so unreasonable and selfish.”
“You have every right to be selfish right now. Everyone in the house is eager to hear that you are awake and healing.”
“It is not everyone in the house that concerns me.”
Priscilla did not pretend not to understand. “The constable called earlier this evening.”
“He did? What did he say?”
“He expressed his concern for your well-being, but he was astonished to hear that you were riding astride. Your parents want to launch you off into Society, and, if it became generally known that you act like a pea-goose, their efforts will have been in vain.”
“Can none of you see the truth? I don’t want to go to London!” she snapped with such fer
vor that her last word ended in a moan. Closing her eyes, she sank deeper into the pillows propped behind her.
Picking up a pot left on a nearby table, Priscilla half-filled a cup with tepid tea. She held it out to Miss Verlyn, who took an obedient sip.
“Forgive me for sending you up to the boughs,” Priscilla said.
“No, I am the one who owes you an apology when you have been so kind to come from your husband’s side to speak with me.”
“Do not fret about Sir Neville.” I am worrying enough for both of us. “He has been as anxious as I to see signs of your recovery.” She was curious why Miss Verlyn had sent for her first, but she was not going to let the young woman change the subject.
The doctor opened the door and held up two fingers. Priscilla nodded in acknowledgment. Two minutes. Not much time, so she would not waste any of it.
“Why were you riding astride in the woods after dark?” she asked more bluntly than she planned.
The young woman looked at her hands that stroked the coverlet in an aimless pattern. “I heard shots. I feared someone was being robbed, and I know how dangerous those highwaymen are. Not wanting to be a target, I got off my horse and started back to the house. Then someone fired at me.”
Priscilla wanted to ask Miss Verlyn again why she had been riding astride, but she could get back to that after she heard the rest of the young woman’s explanation. She was curious, too, why Miss Verlyn had gone out alone at such an hour. “Did you see him?”
“No. I started running. I sent my horse toward the stable, because the briars were catching on the tack. My gray has found his way home before.” Closing her eyes, she put her fingers to her forehead. Her face was shaded, but her emotions were raw in her voice. “I never expected the shooter to chase me. But I heard him following me, and he was getting closer, so when I saw a horse tied to a tree, I took it and rode off. I realized it probably was his and that I would have to ride astride, but I knew it was my only chance to get away.” Priscilla nodded, but wondered where the horse was now. Neville would have made certain it was taken care of. Was it in the stable? If it were, they might obtain some clue from its gear. Or had its true owner come amidst the chaos and taken it away? She would ask Neville once she had heard the whole of Miss Verlyn’s tale.
“And then he shot at me again. I have never felt such pain. I kept going, but he must have stopped following.” Her mouth tightened. “Anyone knows that you trail your prey to make sure it is dead, not just wounded.”
“You should be grateful he did not.”
Miss Verlyn seemed not to have heard her because she went on, “I was almost home when I slipped off the horse. I don’t remember where or how, but I do remember hitting the ground and nothing more until I woke here a short time ago.”
“So you never saw his face?”
“No. Not that I recall.”
Priscilla continued smiling, not wanting to let the young woman know how discouraging that admission was. If Miss Verlyn had been able to identify even one aspect of the shooter, they might have been able to find him. They were stuck in the same frustrating place unless something could be learned from examining the horse.
“You never explained why you went out riding,” Priscilla said, making sure her expression did not change.
“I do sometimes.” Tears welled up into her eyes. “I know it is want-witted, but I like to be alone sometimes. My family can be smothering.” She met Priscilla’s gaze steadily. “That is why I sent for you. I knew you would tell me what was going on without scolding me and reminding me how poorly my actions will reflect on me and my family when I am forced to go to London.”
The doctor caught Priscilla’s eye and motioned slightly with his head toward the door.
Telling Miss Verlyn to rest, Priscilla left. She was unsure how much of what Miss Verlyn had told her was true. Miss Verlyn had wanted to know about the constable. That was clearly true, but what of the rest of her comments?
Priscilla returned to her own rooms. She thought, at first, they were deserted, but then saw Agatha curled up on a pallet in the dressing room. She closed the door, not wanting to wake Agatha who was sure to pelt her with questions.
The door from the hallway opened, and she whirled and drank in the sight of Neville. He stood silhouetted against the light from the corridor, and his dark coat emphasized his strong shoulders and the muscular line of his legs down into his dark boots. As he stepped into the room, she realized he must have changed his clothes before heading out. Neither his coat nor his buckskin breeches were stained with blood.
She put her finger to her lips when he started to speak. Motioning with her head toward the closed dressing room door, she whispered, “Shhh!”
He pointed to the two bedroom doors and raised his brows. She took his hand and led him into her bedroom.
“The children and Aunt Cordelia will be arriving here tomorrow,” she said in lieu of a greeting.
“What?” His brows shot nearly to his hair.
Priscilla quickly explained, ending with, “I can’t believe, Neville, that she would want to put others in danger like this.”
“The woman is obsessed with making sure everyone is safe. No doubt, she believed that your aunt, once forewarned, would be safer coming here than traveling a different route.”
“If there was a way to halt them from coming here, I don’t know it. Do you have any ideas?”
He did not answer quickly. He shook his head. “I have none that will work under the circumstances. She said they will be here tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Once they are here, we can keep them safe by watching over them.”
“But we have those who are watching us.”
Neville nodded, his expression grim. “Was Agatha nearby when Lady Rossington told you all of this?”
“Yes.” A chill clamped around Priscilla’s heart.
“You can be sure, then, that Cross knows about your aunt and the children’s plans. He may have known them before you did. He mentioned he is often on these lands, so he must have many allies who will tell everything that is said or done.” He put his hand on her cheek. “But, remember, Cross will want to keep them safe to use them as leverage against me. Hurting them will gain him nothing.”
She stepped away before she could not keep from throwing herself into his arms and weeping. “I would have believed that until Miss Verlyn was shot. By the way, she has woken up.”
“Have you spoken with her?”
“Yes, but she could remember nothing to identify the man who shot her, but we may have a clue to who has done this.” She quickly explained what Miss Verlyn had told him about the horse.
He muttered a curse.
“We need to check out the horse she fell from. There might be some clue to help us figure out its true owner,” she said.
“And possibly the person who shot her.”
“Exactly.”
He turned to the door, but she halted him by putting her hand on his arm. She yearned to bring his arm around her as she stepped into his embrace, but she said, “Before you go, tell me. What did you find out from Mr. Cross?”
Neville gave her a quick smile. “I assumed you would know where I was bound.”
“It was where I would have gone next.”
“He was less than helpful.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You smell of ale. I cannot believe he was that hospitable.”
“Hardly, but Edgar and I went to the Harriers Inn after I spoke with Cross who bragged about the gold he stole tonight from some travelers.” He lowered his voice even more. “I sent Edgar to take the horses to the stable.”
She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and savor the short time they had before the thief returned from the stable. Every inch of her begged to be pressed against him. She silenced
those eager demands and asked, “What did you learn at the inn?”
“Nothing, Pris. Not a dashed thing.” He shrugged off his coat and loosened his cravat. Tossing them on the bed, he sighed. “Even when I bought a round, I heard nothing of value. Several men complained about thieves along the road, and two groups actually were halted by ambushes. One escaped without anything being taken; the others were not so lucky.” He grimaced. “As Cross was so happy to bluster about when I spoke with him.”
“And no one heard shots fired?”
“One man admitted to me that he had heard shots, but he could not recall where or when. As overshot as he was, I doubt he knew his name.”
“No one else heard anything?”
“Just Cross. He said the shots were fired when he was on his way to meet us in the water garden.”
“Was he telling you the truth?”
“That is the question, isn’t it? The timing is correct, but I don’t trust any man called ‘Double Cross.’” He hooked an arm around her waist and brought her up against him. “Dash it, Pris! I had hoped to have the information before another night of our marriage was wasted.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I know.”
“I know you do.” He put his finger beneath her chin and tipped her mouth up to his.
Her hands clenched on the back of his waistcoat as she savored the pleasure of his kiss. It was not enough, but it was all she could share with him now.
When his lips brushed against her ear, he whispered, “Pris, this is . . .”
“Torture?”
“No, this is torture.” His laugh swirled along her before he began to describe in exquisite detail all he wished they were doing.
Her breath caught and then raced as he spoke between frantic, fiery kisses of where else he wanted to kiss her, of how he would undress her and how she would rid him of his clothes, of how he would touch her . . . and where. Her fantasies blended with his to create a powerful passion that was the sweetest torment she could imagine.
“Am I interruptin’ ye?”
At Edgar’s snide tone, Priscilla drew herself out of Neville’s arms and faced the thief. She regarded him without emotion as she said, “No more than usual.”
Gentleman's Master Page 14
