What Price Love?

11

Where does the Cromarty string exercise?” In the lending library, Dillon stood beside Pris, shielding her from the street while they studied the huge map.

“About here.” With the tip of her parasol, she pointed to an area on the Heath, then moved the parasol tip north and west. “This farmhouse is where they’re quartered.”

“The old Rigby place.” Eyes scanning the areas around the farm, and down in an arc to where the string exercised, Dillon mentally filled in what the map didn’t show.

Pris’s gaze was on his face. “You’ve lived here all your life, haven’t you?”

“Born and raised here. Spent all my boyhood and youth here.”

“You know all the abandoned buildings, the shacks-all the places Rus might hide.” Excitement was creeping into her voice.

He glanced at her. “I know of a few places he might be using as a bolt-hole.” Turning, he started to escort her back to the door, then stopped. “Your coachman’s name is Patrick?”

“Yes, but he’s rather more than a coachman.”

Dillon looked around. “Wait here-I’ll fetch him and your carriage. There’s no sense parading you along the High Street. Go and look at some novels.”

He lifted her hand from his sleeve, was about to release it when she twisted her fingers and gripped his, hard. He met her green eyes; they held an implacable expression.

“You are not-absolutely not-going to look for Rus without me.”

She’d spoken softly, but steel rang in her tone.

He sighed. “All right.” He rejigged his plans. “I’ll send your coach this way, then fetch my horse. Get into the coach and wait here until I join you. I’ll ride out to the Carisbrook place with you-after you change, we’ll go for a nice, social ride on the Heath.”

She assessed his plan, then nodded. “Tell Patrick I’ll be waiting.”

A nice, social ride on the Heath.

The reality was somewhat different. On horse back, Priscilla Dalling was as reckless a rider as she was in other spheres; luckily for Dillon’s peace of mind, he already knew she could manage her horse.

And Solomon, his black gelding, Cynster-bred and trained, was more than a match for her flighty mare.

Thundering north and west beside her, streaking across the Heath, he scanned the open grassland for other riders while updating his mental file on Pris and Rus Dalling.

Joining her in the carriage on the drive to the Carisbrook house, he’d encouraged her to tell him more about her brother and, consequently, her family and herself.

At twenty-four years old, she and her twin were the eldest children. She’d said nothing of what had brought her brother to Newmarket, but he’d caught her hesitation in mentioning their father; he suspected some falling-out. Yet any thoughts that Rus Dalling might need to earn his keep were rendered ineligible by Pris’s frequent and unconscious citings of nannies, governesses, tutors, and grooms.

An only child himself, he’d felt a pang of envy over some of the childhood exploits she’d described; she’d always shared everything with her twin-she’d had someone with her, someone who thought like she did, who reacted as she did, throughout her life.

Until now. He hadn’t been surprised when she’d eventually fallen silent, then, as they’d reached the Carisbrook drive, she’d glanced at him, and asked, “You believe Rus is innocent, don’t you?”

Looking into her eyes, understanding in that moment not just why she’d asked but what his answer would mean to her, he’d found himself unexpectedly grateful for his past. “I know what it’s like to get caught up in such a scheme. Innocent or not-so-innocent, as was the case with me, there comes a time when such an enterprise threatens to consume you. Your brother had the sense, and the strength, to pull back of his own accord, and for that I can only admire him.”

In his case, he’d needed Flick’s and Demon’s help to break free; it seemed entirely fitting that he should aid Russell Dalling.

Reaching the house, they’d discovered that Lady Fowles and Adelaide were attending Lady Morton’s at-home. He’d kicked his heels in the parlor while Pris exchanged her mesmerizing black-and-white gown for her riding habit, that vivid confection in emerald velvet, the vibrant hue intensified by the crisp white of her blouse, with an enticing ruffle that led the eye to the deep valley between her breasts. Said valley might have been decorously concealed by thick velvet, but that hadn’t stopped his imagination from eagerly following the track.

They’d left the house and headed for the fields around Swaffam Prior.

Approaching the village, he took the lead; circling the cottages, he led Pris to an outlying barn. They dismounted and went in, but there was no one there.

It was the first of many such buildings they checked, all potential bolt-holes. Every distant barn, every shack, abandoned cottage, or ruin. They swept the area around the Rigby farm; halting on a nearby rise, Pris pointed out Harkness examining a black horse. A carriage rattled up; Cromarty got out. He paused to look at the horse, then entered the house.

Tightening Solomon’s reins, Dillon steadied the restive gelding. “I’ve been introduced to Cromarty, seen him around the coffee rooms and the club. Harkness”-his tone hardened-“I’ve never met.”

“Your gain.” Pris turned her mare away. “He’s an outright bully and a brute besides.”

Delivered in her soft brogue, the condemnation lacked force. Dillon studied Harkness for a moment longer, then followed Pris down the rise.

They continued their search as the day waxed, then waned. In a wide arc, they swept south across the Heath, turning aside into the bordering woodlands to check woodcutters’ huts and abandoned cottages.

Pris had had the foresight to pack sandwiches, cheese, and apples; they paused within sight of the area Harkness favored for exercising Cromarty’s string to consume the impromptu meal but didn’t dally.

As cottage after barn after shack fell behind them, Dillon expected Pris to grow disheartened. Instead, she seemed unperturbed, still eager as they rode on. As he led her onto the northern fringes of Demon’s stud, nearing the logical limit of their search, she caught his puzzled gaze, and raised a brow.

He hesitated, then said, “If our theory of your brother hiding close enough to spy on Cromarty’s horses is correct, then we’re nearing the last few places he might be.”

“I know.” Anticipation rang in her voice. She considered him for a moment, then looked ahead. “All the places we’ve searched-I know Rus never stayed there. Don’t ask me how I know-I just do. But while we haven’t crossed his path, I know-feel-that he’s…somewhere near.”

She glanced at him, met his eyes. “I know it sounds strange…it’s just a feeling.”

He held her gaze for an instant, then faced forward, holding Solomon to a walk. “I know another set of twins-girls. They’ve been together all their lives until recently. Now they’re married, one lives in Lincolnshire and the other in Derbyshire. I know their husbands well-neither is the fanciful sort, yet both swear that when their wife’s twin gave birth, their wife knew it. Not to the hour or the day, but to the minute, the instant, despite being separated by all those miles.” He glanced at Pris. “I don’t understand how that can be, but I accept it happened exactly as Luc and Martin claim.” He smiled. “Against that, you being certain your twin hasn’t been in a room recently is easy to swallow.”

Pris smiled back, then glimpsed a dilapidated cottage through the trees. “Is that where we’re going?”

Dillon nodded. He set his black trotting as, excited, she urged her mare on. She felt a building expectation, a funny, deeply familiar ruffling of her senses, still distant but…they’d been drawing nearer to Rus, or at least to where he’d been, for the last little while.

Dillon waved to the cottage’s rear. They swung that way, then dismounted. Pris studied the cottage, what was left of it. The roof had collapsed at the front and over one side. Walls were missing planks or stones; some had disintegrated entirely.

Tying their reins to a fallen tree, Dillon glanced at the cottage. “I hid here eleven years ago. Despite its appearance, the area around the hearth is dry and half a room is habitable.” Raising his brows, he took Pris’s hand. “Or was.”

She let him go ahead, following close behind, her hand locked in his. Mice, even rats, seemed likely.

As they ducked beneath some fallen timbers, a sudden scurrying had her jumping, tightening her grip on Dillon’s hand. He glanced back at her; his smile deepened as he faced forward again, but he had enough wit to keep his lips shut.

They had to clamber over debris; releasing his hand, hiking the skirts of her habit high, she stepped gingerly along a rubble-strewn corridor, then Dillon drew her into the structure proper, and she saw he’d been right. The area around the stone fireplace and hearth was clear. An old table sat before the hearth, along with a rickety stool. “The table’s clean, not dusty.”

Dillon turned to look, then grunted. “There’s a constant stream of vagrants through Newmarket-some look for work, others look and move on.” He examined the rest of the area. “Someone’s been here, but whether it was your brother…” He glanced questioningly at her.

She scanned the room, let her senses absorb…when she saw the split logs stacked beside the hearth, her heart leapt. The lowest layer went one way, the next laid precisely across it, then the following layer-the three pieces remaining-sat parallel to the first. “Rus was here.”

Dillon turned to her. She pointed at the pile. “He always stacks wood like that. And this place seems too neat for an abandoned ruin.”

“Is Rus neat?”

“Neater than I am, and I don’t like clutter and mess around me.”

Dillon continued his visual search. “I see no sign of anyone staying here now.”

“No.” She could see no baggage. “I can’t imagine Rus leaving Cromarty’s without his saddlebags. He left his horse back in Ireland, so if he hasn’t a horse, where are his saddlebags? If he’s out spying, he wouldn’t be lugging them with him-” She broke off as another thought occurred.

Dillon read her mind. “I haven’t heard of any horse being stolen, and there’s a very efficient grapevine about such happenings in this town.”

Moving through the fallen beams, he peered into less clear areas of the cottage, but she could see the undisturbed dust from where she stood.

She was disappointed, but not disheartened. “Rus was here, not long ago, but he’s not staying here now. I don’t”-she wrinkled her nose-“feel him about enough for that.”

Dillon looked at her, nodded, then waved her to retreat. They made their way back out, into the afternoon sunshine.

Reaching the horses, Pris halted and faced him. “That isn’t the last place he could be-it can’t be.”

He studied her eyes, saw hope glowing strongly, lighting the emerald green. The ruined cottage was the last likely place, but…“There’s one other place, but it’s a little way to the east, and not easy to find. Itinerants rarely stumble on it.” He hesitated, then asked, “You’re sure he’s close, aren’t you?”

She nodded, the feather in her riding cap bobbing over her ear. The sight made him smile. Standing beside her mare, with a look of impatience, she motioned commandingly for him to lift her up. Smile widening, he reached for her, closed his hands about her waist-then pulled her into him and kissed her. Thoroughly.

Eventually lifting his head, he looked down into her face; her lashes fluttered, then rose. “It’s the last place-our final throw. It’s an unlikely chance, but…let’s see.”

He stepped back, lifted her to her saddle, then held her stirrup for her. By the time he swung up to Solomon’s back, she’d wheeled the mare and was urging her east, under the trees and into the fields beyond.

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 way, 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.

At present, Rus looked tousled and worn, a day’s growth of black beard shading his jaw. He looked pale, tired, his eyes hunted; his clothes were of good quality but had taken a beating.

Pris, still beaming, was exuberantly hugging him, gaily whispering that Eugenia and Adelaide were there, too, that she’d told Dillon all, that Dillon would help him, that he’d turn green when he saw Dillon’s horses, that neither Harkness nor Cromarty had realized she was in Newmarket, that they were looking for him…it all tumbled from her lips in a scrambled mishmash. Dillon wasn’t surprised when, across the table, Rus Dalling met his eyes, sheer, stunned, incomprehension in his face.

Dragging one of the armchairs to the side of the table, Dillon seized Pris by the shoulders-by sheer surprise making her release her brother-and sat her forcefully down.

Inclined to take umbrage, she glared up at him.

He pointed a finger at her nose. “Stay there.”

Drawing out one stool, he pushed it to Rus, then subsided onto the other. “First, what’s been happening here?” He met Rus’s eyes. “Why were you in the tree?”

Rus glanced at Pris; her gaze was trained expectantly on his face, but her lips remained shut. He looked back at Dillon. “Harkness. He’s been searching for me since I left Cromarty’s stable.” He grimaced, glanced at Pris. “In fact, I left Cromarty’s because I knew he’d be looking for me.”

“You learned something you weren’t supposed to-we guessed that,” Pris said. “Were you in the tree because Harkness traced you here?”

Rus looked at Dillon. “I’ve been using what ever shelter I could find, trying to stay close enough so that I could keep an eye on the string exercising. I wanted to find proof-”

Dillon stopped him with a raised hand. “We’ll get to that. Safety first.” With his eyes, he indicated Pris. “Did Harkness find you here?”

“No-at least, not in person. He and his head lad have been searching as much as they can ever since I left, so I’ve had to keep moving. I finally found this place and thought I was safe, but then last night they rode up. Luckily, I’d gone outside to gather kindling. I saw them and hid. They watched the cottage for some time, then went in. They searched. I crept close and listened. They didn’t find my things, so they weren’t sure who was using the place. They went outside and hid in the trees, and waited for a few more hours.” Rus shivered. “It was nearly dawn before they rode away. Even then, I didn’t dare go back inside until I knew they’d be out with the string. With me gone, Harkness has to oversee all the training sessions.”

Dillon looked at Pris. “It was Pris who led Harkness this way. She went spying on the string, dressed as she is now. Harkness spotted her, thought she was you, shot at her, then chased her. By chance, she fled this way.”

Horrified, Rus stared at Pris, then swore-long and inventively. Dillon warmed to him even more. Pris looked bored.

“Hell and the devil!” Rus concluded. “What happened?”

“I happened,” Dillon dryly replied. “I was riding by, stopped Pris, then Harkness recognized me and decided he didn’t need to chase you if it meant meeting me.”

Rus snorted. “Meeting you in suspicious circumstances would be his worst nightmare.” His gaze returned to his sister. “But what by all that’s holy did you think you were about?”

Pris elevated her nose. “Looking for you.” Rus stared at her; she met his gaze levelly. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t, did you?”

An unanswerable question; having assessed their position, Dillon cut in, “We can’t stay here-I don’t even want to talk about your predicament here. The sooner we get you safely tucked away out of Harkness’s reach, the better. And I know just the place.” He stood.

Rising more slowly, Rus glanced from him to Pris. “Where?”

“No.” Dillon caught Pris’s eye as she came to her feet. “The less said here, the better. Get those bags, and let’s go.”

Pris turned and pushed her brother toward the storeroom. “He’s right. He’s pigheaded and dictatorial, but in this, he’s right.”

Rus cast Dillon another look, one both measuring and suspicious, but as Dillon had hoped, Pris’s acceptance of his direction if not his authority persuaded her twin to fall in without argument. Between them, they fetched the bags. Dillon took the traveling bag from Pris. “Douse the lamp.”

He hauled the door open and went out, speaking to Rus over his shoulder. “You take the mare and the saddlebags. I’ll take this, and take Pris up behind me.”

It was the only arrangement that would work; the mare couldn’t carry two people, and Dillon was too heavy for her. After one assessing glance, Rus assented with a nod. Pris came out, and dragged the door closed.

She turned to the mare and her brother. Rus caught her eye, with his head indicated Dillon. “Go with Caxton. I’ll follow.”

Pris hesitated, making her own assessment, then turned to Dillon.

He swung up to his saddle, then kicked one boot free to allow her to use the stirrup. He reached down; she grabbed his arm, placed her boot in the stirrup and swung up. She settled behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist. Shortening the reins, he waited while Rus adjusted the mare’s stirrups and mounted, then turned Solomon’s head to the west. “This way. Keep close.”

Pris clung to the warmth of Dillon’s back as they trotted away under the trees. Then she realized which way they were heading. She looked around, then leaned closer and whispered, “Dillon-”

“Shhh!”

She pressed her lips together and waited, but he continued along the path leading west-the same path they’d ridden in on that afternoon, the one that led to the ruined cottage. Another minute passed, and she could bear it no longer. With one finger, she poked his shoulder. “We’re going the wrong way!”

She’d kept her words to a whisper; he answered on a sigh. “No, we’re not.” After a moment, he added, “Just wait.”

Wait. It was the one thing she wasn’t particularly good at. As he well knew. She wriggled.

“Sit still.”

She stifled a sigh.

They reached the rock-strewn stream. Dillon eased his big black down the bank-then headed down the stream.

“Ah.” Pris leaned forward so her lips brushed Dillon’s ear.

He glanced briefly back at her. “Indeed.”

Relieved that it was as she’d thought and Dillon was taking Rus back to his house, she twisted around to look at her twin, guiding the mare in the black’s wake. She caught Rus’s gaze and flashed him a reassuring grin, then turned forward, tightening her arms about Dillon as he sent the black back up the stream bank, this time heading east.

Half an hour later, they clattered into the stable yard behind the manor. The stableman and a lad appeared, and took their horses.

“We’ll need them both in a few hours,” Dillon said.

The stableman saluted and led the horses away.

“This way.” The traveling bag in one hand, her hand in the other, Dillon turned toward the house.

Rus, his saddlebags over his arm, paced alongside her as they crossed a wide expanse of manicured lawn. She felt him glance at her hand uncompromisingly locked in Dillon’s, then he glanced across her at Dillon. “You’re the Keeper of the Breeding Register, aren’t you?”

Dillon glanced briefly his way. “Among other things, yes.”

Rus exhaled. “I’ve been trying to learn about that blasted register-”

“I know. Meanwhile I’ve been trying to learn who the hell you are, and why you wanted to know.”

Pris watched as Rus, his gaze on Dillon’s face, grimaced.

“That was you the other night, wasn’t it? At the back of the Jockey Club? The trap I walked into. Was the other one a friend of yours?’

Dillon’s lips curved. He nodded. “You can apologize when you meet him. Actually, he was quite impressed by your pugilistic style-if you want to make amends, offer to teach him.”

“I will.” Rus frowned. “But what I couldn’t fathom was who it was you went after-is there someone else trying to gain access to the register?”

“There was,” Dillon said.

“Who?” Rus asked as they reached the house.

Dillon paused before a door, and met Rus’s gaze. “Guess.”

Then he looked at Pris.