Linda Barlow (16 page)

Sweet Jesu, she thought, tapping her quill against her chin as she read over what she had written. Laid out in harsh black ink, the case against Roger seemed convincing. Or, if not quite convincing, at least it seemed
possible
. And yet, how could it be true? He was her oldest, dearest friend.

A loud knocking on the library door interrupted her. She jumped up to open it. There on the threshold stood the object of her ruminations.

"Roger?" She retreated as he strode into the room, still wearing his cloak, his boots, and his sword, and oblivious of the mud he was tracking onto the floor. It was raining, and he must have been out in the thick of the storm.

"I need you," he said without preliminary.

She edged around him, making for the writing table and her notes. Dear God, what if he saw them? "Why?" Her voice wavered. "What's wrong?"

"Alan and I had a row this morning in the forest. He mounted his horse and went tearing off alone. That was hours ago, and his horse has just come home with an empty saddle. I've already got people out searching, but you know the woodland better than anybody, and I want you with me."

Her heart kicked and doubled its rate. She was instantly propelled backward in time to the day when Lady Catherine's horse had come home alone. And to the night when Will had been found gravely injured in a ditch. She drew a deep breath and had a fit of coughing.

"I'm sorry to be dragging you out in this weather. Are you well enough to come? Will your mother prevent you?"

"It's only a cold, and my mother's gone to the village. I'll come, of course. But..." She hesitated, her newfound distrust of Roger raising numerous objections. "You mean he hasn't come home since this morning?"

"Aye. I met him in the forest this morning. He was following me. We argued."

A cold hand clenched in Alexandra's stomach. If Alan was hurt, it was her fault.

"He's been acting damned odd." He was pacing, looking more wound-up and nervous than usual. "This always happens to me," he went on, more to himself than to her. "Some blind young fool sets me up for an idol and breaks his heart when I prove a man. Or, in this case, his bloody neck."

"I doubt if he's broken his neck. He's been known to fall off his horse before without coming to any serious harm. He's probably just lost. He's hopeless at finding his way around in the forest."

Roger leapt at this reassurance. "You think I'm overly concerned? He's been gone most of the day, and 'twill be dark in a couple of hours. After what happened to Will—"

"Of course. I'll just go up and change my clothes."

"Good. Hurry up." To her dismay, Roger moved past her and sank down on the stool behind her writing table, drumming his fingers on her notes. Alexandra's palms went damp.

Her writing was large and clear. All he would have to do was look down and he would know that she suspected him of fratricide. "In the meantime, you know Joseph, our bailiff? You'd better go at once and tell him I said to get the men out to help us search. Why don't I meet you out by the stables?"

"Aye, good idea." He made no move to get up. His dark eyes challenged her. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

"You're dripping all over my Greek translation." She leaned over the table and tried to jerk the papers out from under his arms. To her horror, they didn't come.

Roger's eyes had narrowed. "What are you made of, Alix? Alan's lying out in the woods somewhere and you're worried about your blasted Greek?" He picked the papers up and threw them in her direction. With trembling fingers she gathered them up and held them protectively to her chest. "Go change!" Roger yelled at her, and she ran.

Up in her bedchamber, Alexandra changed into boy’s clothing, boots, and a warm cloak with a hood to repel the rain. Her maid Molly, the village girl whom Alexandra had employed despite her mother's disapproval, helped her dress.

"Ye're never goin' out in this weather, are ye? Ye'll catch yer death."

"I have to find Alan."

"Yer mother'll skin ye."

"Never mind. Where's my bundle of medicines? I'll need them if Alan's hurt."

"If he's kilt hisself it's no use ye makin' yer cold worse over him. If 'twas the other one, Master Roger, I could see it. That 'un would be worth takin' a risk fer. Be ye goin' off with him, then?"

"With Roger, yes."

"Alone?" Molly was smirking.

"Not alone, no. Some of the men are going with us." If her voice was sharp, it was because the question had aroused all her doubts: was it safe to go anywhere with Roger? Under the circumstances, it might be a foolish thing to do.

Her head whirled with confusion. Seeing him face to face had made her suspicions seem nonsensical. He was clearly worried about Alan.

Still, she stared at the notes she'd written. It wouldn't hurt to take an elementary precaution. It might be melodramatic, but Will was dead, and now Alan was missing. She folded the papers and sealed them, writing on the outer fold, "To be opened only in the event of my death."

"Here, Molly, take this and put it in my cupboard."

Molly squinted at the words on the outside of the papers. She could not read. "What's this, then?"

"Nothing that need concern you, unless—and this is highly unlikely, mind you—unless I should fail to return home. If you heard, for example, that anything had happened to me, then I would wish you to deliver those papers to my mother. Do you understand?"

Molly's gaze was shrewd. "Be ye runnin' off with him, then?"

"No, certainly not."

"Mayhap ye are and mayhap ye're not. He's a fine-lookin' man, they all say belowstairs. One o' the servin' maids over to Whitcombe swears she's been in his bed, but the others say she's just a-braggin'."

"That's enough, Molly," Alexandra said with dignity, gathering up her medicines and a few other items into a small knapsack that she slung over her back. As she exited the room, she said, "Kindly hang my clothes up properly before you go; this chamber is a disgrace."

When she reached the stables, she found Roger had already ordered a groom to saddle her horse. He was waiting for her in the courtyard, pacing impatiently. There was a flurry of activity as other mounts were being readied to join the search.

Roger took note of her costume with a slight elevation of his eyebrows. "I hardly recognize you, lad," he teased, but his voice was abstracted. He can't be a murderer, she told herself as he helped her mount. His eyes, his every gesture, belied it.

As they rode out the gates she asked, "What did you and Alan argue about?"

He scowled and refused to answer.

Roger rode ahead to give orders to the search party, and Alexandra seized the opportunity to order Jacky, one of the young Westmor grooms, to remain by her side during the search. Roger was sending people off in different directions, and she preferred not to be left alone with him. She gave the boy a torch to carry, since it would be dark in a couple of hours, and the woodland, even during the day, was gloomy. There would be a nearly-full moon this evening, but if the rain continued, moonlight would not penetrate the thick clouds.

As they got deeper in the forest, she was glad of Jacky’s company, for it was not long before it was just the three of them pursuing a trail Alexandra had identified as a favorite of Alan's. It was still raining intermittently, and the forest seemed unusually menacing. All was silent except for the sound of their passage and the hissing of the rain as it fell through the leaves.

They stopped frequently, looking for tracks, but there was no sign that Alan had come this way. Alexandra called out his name every few yards. The muffled echo of her voice was disconcerting.

"Nothing," said Roger, remounting after checking a sheltered grove she and Alan occasionally visited. "Any other ideas?"

"Have you tried Merwynna's?"

"I ordered several of my men to do so."

"You say he fled from you in a northeasterly direction?"

"Aye. Toward this quarter of the forest."

"There's not much in the way of shelter around here."

"What is there in the way of hazard?"

"Only the bogs, farther to the east. And to the north, Thorncroft Overhang. But he can't have gone there."

Roger's dark eyes met hers. "Why not?"

"I don't know. Why should he? There's nothing there."

She spoke uneasily. Thorncroft Overhang was the cliff where Roger's mother had met her death. It was the one part of the woodland that Alexandra habitually avoided. She could not look upon the slippery cliff and the rocks that lay like sharpened knives beneath without trembling. She had been with her father, Sir Charles, on the day they had found Lady Catherine's broken body. She still remembered the ashen look on her father's face when he'd discovered the corpse.

Roger turned off onto a path that would lead them to the ascending track that wound along Thorncroft cliffside. "He won't have come this way," Alexandra protested. "No one ever does."

"Maybe not, but I must be certain. I've been obsessed with fear ever since the moment when I saw his riderless horse come trotting into the courtyard."

"Roger, 'tis a waste of time. You said yourself it'll be dark before long. He's not there, I promise you."

"Go on without me, then, for I must see for myself."

Instead she followed him, unwillingly. Jacky was muttering to himself behind her. He was only ten, and scared of the forest. Alexandra had to turn and smile encouragement at him.

The fog was thick around them, and although the air was warm, the drizzle made her shiver. Damn Alan, she thought. But a moment later she was praying to heaven that he was safe.

They came, eventually, to the rocky bottom of the cliff. Thorncroft Overhang brooded above them, misty and still. There was no sign of Alan. "You see?"

Roger was staring toward the summit. He spurred his mount toward the path that led to the top.

"I'm not going up there."

"Then don't."

"He's not the sort of person to go recklessly up to that ledge and jump. Surely you don't think that?"

He frowned at her. "His final words to me were something on the order of 'You'll be sorry for this when I'm dead.'"

This didn't sound like Alan. He was afraid of death. He wouldn't deliberately court it. On the other hand, he could get whiny when he was upset.

"What did you do to him?"
And what, if anything, did you do to Ned?

"He's disillusioned with me."

"I suppose you bullied him into another of your nasty, mocking battles, taunting him the way you taunt your father."

Roger halted his horse and turned on her. She could see the tension around his eyes and mouth. "You have a right to be outraged after the way I dealt with you last week, but I've been bending over backwards lately to control my bloody temper in front of my father."

"Surely not because of what I said to you?"

"Until you spoke up, nobody had bothered to tell me the truth about his health." He sounded angry. "Not even Francis. They all assumed I knew, as if I were possessed of some sort of supernatural insight."

"You must have noticed his bad color, his loss of vigor."

"I haven't seen the man for ten years. I thought it was age. Oh, no doubt I saw what I wanted to see. I'm not claiming to be free of malice. But I didn't know his heart was weak." He paused a moment, then added, "I meant it when I told you I won't grieve when he dies, but I don't wish to be the instrument of his death. As soon as we find Alan, I'm leaving here. I haven't enough self-discipline to control my angry passions around my father."

He had listened to her, she realized with awe. Even though he resented her interference in his affairs, he had taken the time to reflect on what she'd said to him, and amend his behavior accordingly.

He added, "I am a harder man, perhaps, than you believe, but I'm not hard enough to add a father's death to the manifold sins already weighing on my conscience."

His words lifted her spirits, making her feel more lighthearted than she'd felt in days.

"I don't wish to add Alan's death either, so let's hurry. I can't get from my mind the image of him hovering up there on the ledge, wishing someone would come and prevent him from leaping."

"Alan's not your mother," she said sensibly. "I've never heard him talk of suicide, not seriously, at least. He's probably safe at home by now."

"I fought with my mother on the day she died. I've always felt guilty, thinking that it might have been the proverbial final straw. If Alan..." He paused, twisting his lips together in a way that moved Alexandra's heart. "I'll just take a quick look."

She argued no further. He'd fought with his mother? She'd never known that. Roger and his mother had been close, but both had had reckless, unruly tempers. Poor Roger. He'd accused his father of killing his mother, but all these years, he had also felt responsible. Death causes so much guilt in the living, she thought miserably, following Roger as he rode as fast as he could along the treacherous track.

Thorncroft Overhang was a rocky promontory that rose out of the woods at the northern edge of the Douglas property. Its soft, crumbly stone was particularly dangerous because of frequent rockslides. The track winding up to the top was blocked by fallen branches and scrub, which forced them to detour through dense undergrowth. About halfway up, they had to dismount and continue on foot. Roger ordered Jacky to stay with the horses.