Thomas didn’t push her further. Instead, he hung back, watching as she urged her mare onward with fierce determination. He wasn’t going to intervene, not yet. She could do this. She would prove she could.
Bridget’s focus remained ahead, the rapid beat of her horse’s hooves syncing with the hammering in her chest. She was nearly through the worst of it when—
A branch snapped.
Her horse reared violently. She gripped the reins tighter, fighting for control. She barely had time to react before another sound reached her—
A distant, unmistakable cry echoed through the trees.
Before she could process what she heard, an obstacle appeared, a jagged rock, half-hidden in the underbrush. She jerked the reins, but the abrupt movement unbalanced her. She clung on, breathless, heart pounding as her mare steadied. Grenville was still behind her, watching, waiting.
She gritted her teeth. She didn’t need saving.
Then the cry came again, sharp, pained, and close by.
Bridget jerked her head toward the noise, her stomach twisting. The other riders were still navigating the divide, unaware of the sudden disturbance.
She yanked the reins, steering her horse toward the sound. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she broke into the clearing, pulling up sharply. Her mare danced beneath her, sensing her rider’s alarm, but Bridget barely registered the movement.
Grenville surged past her, his focus locked on the fallen rider. “Stay back!” he ordered.
Bridget ignored him, kicking her mare forward.
Grenville reached Alastair first, swinging down from his horse in one swift motion. His boots hit the ground hard as he crouched beside the unmoving figure, fingers pressing against his neck. He held his breath for a moment. Then he released it in a slow, controlled exhale.
Bridget’s stomach clenched. She swung down from her saddle, boots sinking into the damp earth as she rushed to his side.
Grenville’s lips pressed into a firm, unreadable expression as he checked again, first the wrist, then the chest. Nothing. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second longer before he let out another breath, his gaze locked on the lifeless form before him.
“He’s gone.”
Bridget’s throat tightened. Her gaze dropped to Alastair’s fingers, where dark moisture gleamed against his pale skin, red, wet, and spreading.
“Good God,” Grenville muttered, his voice edged with something between shock and fury. His eyes met Bridget’s, now dark with alarm and questions he hadn’t yet voiced. He understood something. Something she hadn’t yet grasped.
The wind stirred through the trees, a stark contrast to the stillness before them. The chase had begun as sport, a harmless diversion.
Now, it had become something else entirely.
Bridget scanned the area, her pulse still racing. The scene before her stirred a memory. “I remember the shadows that moved through the mist,” she said quietly. “Bodies left behind along with the helpless cries of those who had no chance to fight back. The Highland Clearances taught me what it meant to be powerless. I won’t stand idly by now.”
A muscle twitched in Grenville’s cheek. Bridget recognized the look. She had seen enough men fall in battle to know when death was unexpected. She watched as he ran his hands carefully along Alastair’s coat, methodically searching for signs of injury beyond what a simple fall could cause. His fingers paused over a dark stain that had already begun to seep through the fabric. Instead of pulling it back, he leaned closer, his expression tightening.
“The blood’s not pooling at the base,” he murmured. “It’s deeper… too clean. A wound like this. It was made with precision, not force.”
Bridget crouched beside him, her expression tightened. A sharp, bitter scent hit her nose, herbal, metallic, unsettling. She flinched, recognizing it instantly. “That smell. My mother used a plant to relieve pain and for fevers,” she hesitated. Her eyes flicking to Grenville. “It reminds me of wolfsbane.”
Grenville’s gaze snapped to hers. “Poison?”
She swallowed. “Aye. In the Highlands, hunters once laced blades with it. The wounds looked clean until the man collapsed.” Her voice turned grim. “This wasn’t a fall.”
Grenville gave a slow nod, the weight of her words sinking in. “It’s beginning to look that way.”
Her throat tightened as she spoke, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “Alastair helped Catriona and Killian escape Scotland when no one else would. If it weren’t for him, they would have been another casualty. I owe Alastair for that. I need to know what happened to him and why.” She glanced at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”
He studied her face, searching for something, but she didn’t know what. Was he judging her determination or his own?
Finally, he let out a deep breath. “I understand more than you think.”
