A young groom looked up, startled. “My lord—”
“Saddle the black,” Marcus said. “Now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And bring me a lantern, a fresh pistol, and whatever powder you have.”
The groom ran.
Marcus stepped into the stall and laid a hand on the horse’s neck. The animal lifted its head, sensing urgency, but did not shy.
“Good lad,” Marcus murmured.
The horse trembled once. Then steadied.
Richard hovered at the threshold. “We will find her.”
Marcus tightened the cinch. “I will find her.”
Richard flinched. “Marcus, she cannot have gone far. Fenwick may only want leverage—”
“He took her because he believes she breaks me,” Marcus said. “He is wrong. She makes me clear.”
Richard swallowed.
The groom returned, arms full. Marcus strapped the pistol at his belt, hung the lantern, and swung into the saddle with a fluid motion that drew Townsend’s sharp look.
“Marcus, wait for us to mount,” Townsend called.
“No,” Marcus said. “Every moment I wait is a breath she loses.”
He gathered the reins. The black pawed the earth.
“He will not take her from me.”
Marcus drove his heels in. The horse surged forward, out of the stable yard, across the street, and into the narrowing dark where the tracks led.
He did not look back. He did not slow. He did not doubt. He followed the path as if it had been carved for him alone.
He claimed the truth at last. He loved her. And he would not lose her now.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cold stone pressedagainst Lila’s cheek when she woke. Not darkness, but the dim, uncertain light of a single lamp hung too high on a wall she did not recognize.
Her head throbbed at the temples. Not from a blow, but from the cloth they had pressed over her mouth. Not enough to erase her thoughts, but to cloud them.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself the way she taught Henry. Listen first. Find the center.
Her wrists were bound in front of her, not behind. Sloppy. Hasty. Not planned. Her ankles were free.
Good. That was their first mistake.
She pushed herself upright, inhaling through her nose until the tilt of the room eased. A cellar, by the damp air, the stone floor, the faint undertone of rot.
Not the Lyon’s Den. Not Rosehaven House. Not Wolfton Hall.
No windows. Only a narrow grate set high in the wall at street level. A vent.