it was not his job to ask, but only to see the packing done well and efficiently.
Packing?
Yes, for a long and arduous journey, judging by the lady's demands. Caroline had been well spooked after the brigands broke into the house, though her personal guards had bested the villains and secured the house.
Boden shifted his weight in the saddle as he mulled over his thoughts. It had been five days since he'd left London and he hadn't had a decent meal since. The sun shifted irrevocably toward the horizon, reminding him he would go to bed hungry again. He wasn't one to complain, but his arse hurt.
It looked like it might rain again.
His knee still ached from its meeting with the Welshman's scythe. He had a headache, he was weary to the bone, and his chain mail was beginning to rust.
Beneath him, the dapple-gray destrier called Mettle cocked a hip and heaved a martyred sigh.
Theirs had been a long and arduous journey, and they were ready for it to end. But as of yet Boden had found no trace of the mistress or her entourage, though he had followed every available lead.
They were heading north, that much he knew, and though he would like to believe they were returning to Lord Haldane under their own power, Boden's luck had never been what one might call colossal. Thus, here he was, in the midst of nowhere, trying to imagine what had happened to the women for whom he searched.
Dusk was settling softly around him. Twould be another night spent on the soggy earth, and while that fate was not unusual, neither was it much appreciated. There would be little reason to hurry to his bed tonight. So he would follow Caroline's trail and hope to shorten his quest before morning.
Mettle stepped forward at a touch of Boden's spurs. Daylight slipped away, fading to a pearlescent luster. Quiet pervaded the earth, disturbed only by Mettle's solid footfalls against the dirt road. They rounded a corner, but suddenly the stallion stopped abruptly. His dark-tipped ears flicked forward above the black metal champfrein that armored his head.
Boden nudged him. The horse remained immobile but for a twitch of his tensed muscles.
"Tis no time for one of your moods," Boden murmured. He pricked the stallion's sides again.
Mettle shook his head in irritation, but finally moved forward, his gait trappy and jarring now, his huge body tense.
They'd not gone more than ten rods when Boden saw the scrap of crimson cloth. It was draped messily over a branch. But in a moment he saw that the fabric was not intended to be red. No, it was blood that made it so.
Bile rose in Boden's throat. Sweet sainted Mary, please, not more death, he prayed. But his pleas went unanswered, for not thirty feet into the woods, he found the first bloated body.
Boden closed his eyes for a moment, willing this to be a nightmare. But it was not, and there was nothing he could do but force himself to dismount and face the truth. His legs felt wooden as he approached the corpse. Memories of a dozen past battles haunted him—sightless eyes, torn limbs, the wails of the wounded.
But this was worse still, for this was a woman. Caroline. His lord's mistress. He remembered how Haldane had spoken of her freshness, her innocence. The thought twisted his insides into a painful knot, forcing out the contents of his stomach.
He wretched and wretched again, then stumbled backward, ready to run away like the coward he was. But the next body was only a few yards away. It was a man. His shirt and boots were gone and his chest grotesquely swollen.
The next corpse was that of another woman. It lay just outside a collapsed tent. A red plaid shawl was twisted about her. Her blond hair was matted with blood and her face half gone. Boden's stomach lurched viciously, but now only bile spewed. It was bitter and galling, and accompanied by the wild ferocity that had seen through dozens of nightmarish battles.
A ferocity that would exact justice—and take lives.
Sara whimpered in her sleep. Lord
Packing?
Yes, for a long and arduous journey, judging by the lady's demands. Caroline had been well spooked after the brigands broke into the house, though her personal guards had bested the villains and secured the house.
Boden shifted his weight in the saddle as he mulled over his thoughts. It had been five days since he'd left London and he hadn't had a decent meal since. The sun shifted irrevocably toward the horizon, reminding him he would go to bed hungry again. He wasn't one to complain, but his arse hurt.
It looked like it might rain again.
His knee still ached from its meeting with the Welshman's scythe. He had a headache, he was weary to the bone, and his chain mail was beginning to rust.
Beneath him, the dapple-gray destrier called Mettle cocked a hip and heaved a martyred sigh.
Theirs had been a long and arduous journey, and they were ready for it to end. But as of yet Boden had found no trace of the mistress or her entourage, though he had followed every available lead.
They were heading north, that much he knew, and though he would like to believe they were returning to Lord Haldane under their own power, Boden's luck had never been what one might call colossal. Thus, here he was, in the midst of nowhere, trying to imagine what had happened to the women for whom he searched.
Dusk was settling softly around him. Twould be another night spent on the soggy earth, and while that fate was not unusual, neither was it much appreciated. There would be little reason to hurry to his bed tonight. So he would follow Caroline's trail and hope to shorten his quest before morning.
Mettle stepped forward at a touch of Boden's spurs. Daylight slipped away, fading to a pearlescent luster. Quiet pervaded the earth, disturbed only by Mettle's solid footfalls against the dirt road. They rounded a corner, but suddenly the stallion stopped abruptly. His dark-tipped ears flicked forward above the black metal champfrein that armored his head.
Boden nudged him. The horse remained immobile but for a twitch of his tensed muscles.
"Tis no time for one of your moods," Boden murmured. He pricked the stallion's sides again.
Mettle shook his head in irritation, but finally moved forward, his gait trappy and jarring now, his huge body tense.
They'd not gone more than ten rods when Boden saw the scrap of crimson cloth. It was draped messily over a branch. But in a moment he saw that the fabric was not intended to be red. No, it was blood that made it so.
Bile rose in Boden's throat. Sweet sainted Mary, please, not more death, he prayed. But his pleas went unanswered, for not thirty feet into the woods, he found the first bloated body.
Boden closed his eyes for a moment, willing this to be a nightmare. But it was not, and there was nothing he could do but force himself to dismount and face the truth. His legs felt wooden as he approached the corpse. Memories of a dozen past battles haunted him—sightless eyes, torn limbs, the wails of the wounded.
But this was worse still, for this was a woman. Caroline. His lord's mistress. He remembered how Haldane had spoken of her freshness, her innocence. The thought twisted his insides into a painful knot, forcing out the contents of his stomach.
He wretched and wretched again, then stumbled backward, ready to run away like the coward he was. But the next body was only a few yards away. It was a man. His shirt and boots were gone and his chest grotesquely swollen.
The next corpse was that of another woman. It lay just outside a collapsed tent. A red plaid shawl was twisted about her. Her blond hair was matted with blood and her face half gone. Boden's stomach lurched viciously, but now only bile spewed. It was bitter and galling, and accompanied by the wild ferocity that had seen through dozens of nightmarish battles.
A ferocity that would exact justice—and take lives.
Sara whimpered in her sleep. Lord
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