“They'll recover from it. They barely know me, after all.”
She focused on the rolling rhythm of the ride, and the sound of the leaves, crunching underfoot. She couldn't afford any more sorrows.
The day wore on. She stopped at midday to drink by a spring and let Raindrop eat and rest, and took her supplies – the stale bread from the day before, combined with some bannocks filched from breakfast – and ate her lunch, scooping water from the cold stream to drink. They headed on.
I could get used to this.
For all the sorrow and the pain of having to leave, there was also some joy in this sort of life – a mighty freedom. She would never even have dared imagine it.
A bird called overhead and she rode out of the tree-line and into a clearing, heading downhill. She didn't know exactly where she was going – besides a half-remembered recollection of the journey up from Queensferry – but she did know that all she had to do was follow the road.
Night started to fall at four o'clock. She shivered, biting her lip as the day grew colder. The dusk, blue as sapphires, closed around them.
As she rode, Genevieve became aware of the fact that she was not, after all, quite alone.
Somebody was following them.
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
“Damn it, Richard! She's gone. We have to do something.”
Adair rounded on his host, alarm gripping his heart. Genevieve had disappeared. He had been out riding, and when he had returned, he had noticed her absence. By supper-time, he had started to panic. Now, the next morning, he knew the situation was dire. She was out there somewhere, in danger, perhaps dying. They had to go to her!
Richard frowned at him. “Adair...we don't know where she might have headed.”
“I don't care!” Adair snapped, a small part of him shocked by his own boldness. A terrible fear had gripped his heart, one he couldn't ignore. “We need to spread out and search for her.”
“She might have been recalled home,” Arabella said from in the hallway, hands laced together nervously. “I would hesitate to interfere.”
“Why would she have been?” Adair countered. He realized he had talked too sharply, and shook his head. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I'm overwrought.”
“I know,” Arabella said softly. She rested a hand on his arm, comforting him.
He breathed out raggedly. He hadn't realized just how distraught he was. He looked around, trying to gather his wits and make a plan.
“Richard, if you could get together a party of woodsmen, we can spread out through the woods – each take a different path. She could have had an accident, out riding. She could be lying out there with broken bones.”
That was his chief fear. Lurking below it was a fear he wasn't even willing to contemplate – that the shadowy figure that had attacked her had finally caught up with her.
Then she could be dead.
He felt a cold hand settle on his heart. If she had died, the light in his world would go out. He hadn't realized how much she had come to mean to him, until that moment when, suddenly, she had changed so completely. He hadn't noticed how her smile had been a beacon in his darkness until it had gone out, leaving him alone in darkest night.
“I agree,” Richard said. “We need to head out directly. Dearest? If you could summon the woodsmen? I'm going down to the stables to get our horses saddled.”
Adair leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. Now that they were finally doing something, the relief was crippling. He closed his eyes.
“I know she has come to mean a great deal to you,” Arabella said softly.
He stared at her in amazement. “You know?”
A soft smile spread across her face. “Adair, I have known you for many years. I know you well enough to see how your face lights up whenever she is close.”
He looked at his feet, embarrassed. Nevertheless, he nodded. “I know,” he said.
“Well, we'll find her. McNowell?” she called, heading up the hallway. “Ah! Brewer. Can you call McNowell? We need to summon a search-party. And send word to the kitchens – we need to make a dozen packed luncheons...”
Adair could almost smile, seeing Arabella briskly take charge of the work-party. He had grown truly fond of her in the years he'd been visiting, and respected her quiet strength. He ached with love for her cousin, and he was surprised she'd noticed.
I should have guessed. I don't exactly hide my feelings.
He headed briskly down the hallway. As he did, he bumped into MacCleary. The fellow's bland face lit with interest.
“You're all going riding?” he inquired.
“We're setting out on a search-party,” Adair said tightly. “Lady Genevieve is missing.”
“Oh.” His blue eyes, sparking with interest before, grew hard – impossible to read.
Adair felt a tingle of danger, though he dismissed it. He shrugged and headed down the stairs. He had work to do.
In the courtyard, Richard was already informing the woodsmen, who were starting to assemble, of their plan. It was easy to see his former military training – he commanded the group effortlessly, organizing them like a regiment. Henry was with them, already dressed for riding.
He went to join the group.
“Ah. Adair. I want you to go with McDoland, and take the path she's most likely to have followed – the route to the coast.”
“Yes,” Adair nodded briskly. He felt a spark of gratitude in his heart – he was glad he would be taking her most likely route.
“Henry?”
“Yes, brother?”
“You'll lead a party of three to the cliffs? It's the most arduous route, and if she's fallen there, you might need men and rope to reach her.”
“I will.”
“Right. Brewer...”
As the duties were parceled out, and more men came to join them, Adair found himself fretting with impatience. They had to leave! It was ten o'clock in the morning already.
Arabella moved through the group with Mrs. Webster, passing around luncheons. On the edge of the crowd of woodsmen, Adair caught sight of Francine. He recalled her words those nights ago.
You have to forgive yourself.
He felt inexplicable anger. How could he do that? He brought danger and destruction wherever he went; his father had been right all along. He didn't even want to consider his greatest fear – that somehow all the danger Genevieve faced was his fault.
If she hadn't been angry with you, she wouldn't have left here. She went off riding because of her anger and that's why she had an accident.
He ruthlessly thrust those thoughts aside and headed toward the stables. Behind him, one of the woodsmen followed, silent and grim-faced.
They mounted up, and set out on the road.
As they did, Adair felt his spirits lift. They were going to find her.
They rode grimly through the wooded landscape. Adair felt as if he was being drawn on a string along the trail, like part of his heart was attached to her and he was pulled along the trail that she had gone.
I am sure she came this way.
The day was cold, the wind blowing in their faces. He gritted his teeth and rode. A strange sense of urgency possessed him. He had to find her soon. Something terrible was going to happen.
I didn't know then. Or if I did, I chose to ignore it, not to trust myself. Now, I know never to ignore it.
They rode.
“Sir?” the man behind him called as they neared the Pine-Tree Inn. “Can we stop for lunch?”
“Not yet,” Adair replied curtly over one shoulder. They couldn't stop. Not yet. There was a fire inside him that told him they had to carry on.
They reached a stream as night fell. They had been riding in twilight for several hours already – but now it was entirely dark, the sky black overhead, lit with few stars.
“We need to rest the horses,” his companion said firmly.
Adair nodded. He was right. They did have to rest the horses. “Not for long,” he called out.
He dismounted, feeling the hard surface jar his legs as he hit it. He strode across to the stream. Black rocks held silvery water, glinting white where the starlight touched it. It made of the surface a mirror, pure as crystal. Adair bent to drink from it, and looked down at his face, reflected. The gaunt young man who looked back could have been anyone, save for those big dark eyes, full of distress, and pain. And love.
There is no malice in that face, and no evil.
He was amazed by that revelation. It seemed that, in that mirror of starlight, he could see himself as truly as he did, sometimes, when he spoke to Genevieve. In her company, he forgot the labels – wicked, impish, evil. He was simply a man, and in love.
As he stared at that reflection in wonderment, he heard somebody scream.
* * *
Genevieve had out-ridden the follower all day. She had let him chase her out of her way, almost as far as Saefirth. Then she'd slipped into the woods and doubled back. Exhausted, terrified, she rode toward the stream where, only that afternoon, she had stopped for luncheon.
She had ridden through the night for hours now – the dusk falling when she had first noticed him. Now it was pitch black, the ground, still damp with yesterday's rain, still glinting in the starlight.
The stream was close, she could hear it. She stopped, listening. For the first time that day, she could hear no fall of hoofs behind her.
“Have we lost him?” she whispered.
It seemed as if they had. Her horse snorted, tossing her head.
“Come on, girl,” Genevieve whispered, patting her neck. They went forward, heading toward where the stream glinted, like a ribbon, just above the crest of the hill.
They were riding past a thicket when the rider sprang out.
Genevieve screamed, but the hand clamped over her mouth and someone dragged her sideways, pulling her off the horse. She was a consummate rider, and she slid forward, dismounting. The rider behind her was forced to let her go, or fall.
That was when she screamed again. She ran. The rider followed her.
I need to get into the woods. The trees are too close for him to follow me.
Some sort of primordial instinct, which she would never have thought she possessed, was inside her, and knew things she did not know. She ran, back toward the thicket.
He cut her off. His horse stepped out ahead of her, pushing her back, blocking her way.
She turned, breathless, lungs burning, too weary to scream. She ran back the other way, toward the stream.
Behind her, hoofs rumbled on wet earth, splattering her with sods of soil. She ran toward the water, where the light sparked off the surface. Something told her if she could reach the light, she would be safe.
Shadows and light. The shadows behind, the light ahead. Do you know how to trust?
Trust.
She ran.
* * *
She was there. Made of moonlight and mist, Adair saw his mother walking the world again. She was running toward him, that long dark hair streaming out behind her. She ran to him, out of the mist, out of the smoke as she had never done that night; her arms wide, imploring.
The man stepped up behind her, dagger glinting in her hand.
“No!” Adair screamed.
As the child Adair had never done, could never do, he ran at the man behind her. Yelling, he threw his weight at him, knocking him off balance. He wrapped his arms around him and brought him down. They fell, tangled, to the earth.
The man was taller than he was, and when he grabbed him, grappling for the knife, Adair had the sensation that he would never be able to overcome his assailant. He was too strong. He roared, struggling, and managed to haul himself almost-upright.
Together, the past and the future were still blurring into one. He saw his mother turn toward him in the moonlight, her eyes full of the compassion and love he never knew she felt. He stared. Transfixed, he didn't see the moment when the dagger came out, arcing for his heart.
His mother screamed.
Adair focused sharply to his left and saw the glint of the knife just as it came down, seeking for his blood. He rolled, and the knife struck the earth where he had been.
“Adair! No!”
He slithered round and managed to get to his knees just as his assailant turned toward him, reaching for him in a wrestling hold. He saw the man's face – strong-jawed, cruel. He only had a glimpse before he was grappling with him again, trying to keep the hands from his throat.
He managed to sway sideways, avoiding the grasp. Then he was pushing forwards, reaching for the throat of the other man. He closed his hands and tightened them, grappling for purchase. The fellow was strong! He felt himself pushed slowly backward, even as his opponent coughed and struggled.
“No!”
Adair could hear the screaming – the woman who was his mother, made alive and young again, but yet also not her – she was still screaming behind him. He knew that he should listen, that she had something important to tell him, but the blood was pounding in his ears and his vision was hazed with the red of battle and he only knew to do whatever he had to in order to survive.
He pushed back and he was almost on top of the other fellow, ready to finish him, when he slewed sideways and then it was suddenly he, himself, who was on the ground.
He went down, coughing and choking, as the man's weight was pressing on his chest, cutting off his breath. He fought his way up and then he was seeing stars as the fellow hit his head, hard, a blow to the temple that shattered his vision in a burst of white fire.
He couldn't move before the hands were seeking his throat.
Then his vision was black, blurred through with red, and the pain in his head behind his eyes that was slowly blurring his thoughts, draining his life...
Numbness. Floating, empty nothing. Mists, warm and hazy, closing in, where he could drift, and drift...
“No!”
Suddenly, pain was blinding him, only this time it was a different pain – one that sent him, retching and gasping, to his knees as his body sought to breathe and live again.
He could hear a scream on the edge of his thoughts, and then, closer, someone sobbing. He turned around to see Genevieve on her knees, her hands covering her face, weeping.
His throat burned. Mucus dribbled down his chin where he had coughed, and retched, and struggled through it all to breathe. His eyes bruised. He turned to his left, and stared at the figure who knelt in the blackened clearing, cast in moonlight, weeping.
He got to his knees and, crawling, went to join her. He ached all over, his head thumping like a drum. He bent down beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder, gently.
She reached for him and clung to him and they were there together, in the moonlight, crying.
“Shh,” he whispered, stroking her hair, which was black, curling, scented with lilies and, after all, unlike his mother's. He held her close and she clung to him, her tears messily soaking his shirt.
“Adair! I thought you were dead. I...he could have killed you. It's...Oh, God. Please. Never do that again. I couldn't bear it.”
He looked down into her face, gently drew away her hands. She kept them there, resisting his touch. He waited and at last she let them fall and looked up at him, sorrowful.
He leaned forward and pressed his cheek to her soft hair. “I almost did die,” he whispered. It had been close. He had been choking to death. He recalled how the fellow had suddenly fallen away, just as his world had been darkening. What had happened? A thought crossed his mind.
“It was you, wasn't it?” he asked. “You saved my life.”
“He was so big...he was killing you, Adair. I had to do something. Had to move him...”
He looked over his shoulder to where the fellow lay, still as a felled tree. He looked at Genevieve. His mind could barely make the connection, though it was so obvious to make. “What did you do?”
She looked utterly cold. “I hit him. Hard. With a branch.” She glared in the direct
ion of the body.
He stared at her. Looked at her gentle, fine-boned fingertips. He looked back at the man who lay, unconscious, on his front. “You hit him. Hard.”
He stared at her in amazement.
She looked almost defensive as she shrugged. “What?” she asked.
He bowed. “Thank you for saving my life,” he said. He had never meant anything more firmly in his life.
“You saved mine too.”
He stared at her. In those moments when he had been close to death, in the moment when she had knelt here, weeping in sorrow, he had forgotten that. Now, he remembered.
I saved her. I am not a monster, or destructive, or a demon. If I were, I would not be able to do something like that.
It was all too much for him suddenly. The vision in the pool had been correct. He was no distorted monster, no imp from hell, as his father had made him believe. He was an ordinary person, capable of many things.
He sobbed. Years of pain flowed out of him and it was not possible, any more, to hold them all inside. He looked at Genevieve, and recalled the woman she had been, for an instant, in the moonlight, and wept for both of them, and for himself.
He felt her gently rest a hand on his shoulder. She sat there while he let the pain slowly leave.
He sniffed, trying to keep a rein on the sobs, but they kept coming. All those years he had never cried, never acknowledged his grief. Because it was all his fault and he did not deserve to have the luxury of mourning.
“I...It wasn't me. He was wrong. It wasn't meant.”
He took in a shuddering breath. Sniffed. Finally, he could stop crying.
Genevieve looked at him, her eyes dark and gentle. They held no malice, and no scorn. Only abiding love. “I don't know what made you cry so, dear. But I am glad you did. It was important to.”
“Yes,” he sniffed. “It was.”
Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 17
