in case she’s not made it to Boscarne.”
Stiles’s meaning could not have been plainer.
In case she’s not made it to Boscarne alive.
With his friend’s words ringing in his ears, Ross hunched his shoulders and set off into the night, praying that his beloved wife would be found safe and well.
By the time Ross reached Boscarne House, his chest ached from running. He drew in a deep breath and the cold air stabbed at his lungs. He’d picked up a trail of fresh footprints almost as soon as he’d left Pengarron. Too small to be those of a man, they could only be his wife’s—and beside them ran a smaller trail of light, round tracks.
That damned dog! Why couldn’t she have left it?
At the entrance to the estate, the footprints veered toward an outbuilding, but as he moved forward, he caught sight of a second set of footprints. They ran from the outbuilding toward the main house, which loomed up in the night—a dark monolith, presiding over the landscape with an air of malevolence.
Two windows were illuminated—one on the ground floor, the second, higher up, creating the illusion of distorted face. The light flickered on the lower window and a shape passed in front of it.
Was she there?
The shape moved again, and a faint cry echoed from the building.
A voice he knew and loved.
Alice…
He sprang into action and sprinted toward the house.
The front doors were unlocked. Ross pushed them and they yielded with a groan. Curling his hands into fists, he stepped inside, his breath forming a puff of mist in the cold, damp air.
The hallway was dark, but he could make out blurred shapes in the diffused light from the moon. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of decay. A vase stood on a plinth near the main doors. He’d have preferred his sword, but any weapon was better than none. He picked it up, and moved deeper inside the building, turning into a corridor.
A sliver of light stretched across the floor from the room about halfway down the corridor. He made his way toward it, pushed the door open, and froze.
His wife lay on a bed, body still, her face ashen. Her eyes were closed, and his heart withered at the sight.
She was not moving.
Alice…
Footsteps approached from behind—a weighty, determined gait. Ross turned and lifted the vase as a tall, heavily-muscled man, entered the room.
“What have you done to her, you bastard!”
He rushed toward the man and was interrupted by a scream.
“Ross—stop! Leave him alone!”
“Alice?”
He turned to see her struggling to sit.
A large hand clamped round his arm. “Who the devil are you?” a deep voice boomed.
“It’s all right,” Alice said, “he’s not here to harm me.”
“I should bloody well hope not!” Ross said.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Ross.” Alice lowered her gaze to the vase in Ross’s hand, then she addressed the stranger. “Edward, this is my husband. I trust you’ll forgive his outburst.”
“Edward?” Ross glared at the man, jealousy flaring inside him. “Who the devil are you, to command such familiarity?”
“He’s the man who saved my life,” Alice said, smiling. “Look.”
She pointed to a box beside the bed. No—not a box, a crib. Swaddled in a soft, pink blanket was a small, perfectly formed little human. A baby—its face still wrinkled from a birthing, with a head of thick, dark hair. As he watched the tiny creature, it yawned and stretched, and a perfect little fist appeared from beneath the blanket. Then the baby pursed its lips and gave a contented little grunt—a gesture which gave him a shock of recognition, for it was exactly the same gesture Amelia had made when she was born.
“Say hello to your daughter, Ross.”
“M-my daughter?” He shook his head. “But your confinement was a month away!”
“Your daughter clearly thought differently,” she said, pride in her expression. “Did I not tell you she’d prove to be a troublesome Trelawney?”
The man in the doorway cleared his throat, then shuffled back, retreating from the room.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Alice said firmly. The man stopped, as if, despite his size, he were a child being scolded by his nanny. Ross smiled to himself. His wife might not admit it, but the Trelawney children had not inherited all their troublesome traits from their father.
“Come here, Edward,” she said. “Let me introduce you to my husband. Ross, there’s no need to remain armed. As you see, I’m quite safe.”
Ross set aside the vase and took a look at the fellow. Though he was a physically imposing