Bridget looked away from him. How could he understand?
He reached for her arm, grounding her with his touch. “Whatever drove someone to do this, Mark Alastair didn’t deserve it. I will do all that is in my power to bring them to justice. Are you with me on this?”
She blinked, visibly startled. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. The man before her wasn’t just a soldier, or outsider, but a man willing to stand with her. For Lord Alastair. For justice.
“You’re asking me… You want my help?”
Grenville held her gaze. “I need someone with your tenacity, someone who won’t let this be brushed aside. You see things others miss, you trust your instincts, and you don’t back down when the truth is hard to hear. You know the Highlands, the old ways, things I don’t. And you can move through these circles and ask the right questions without raising suspicion. I need you. No, Alastair needs you. Will you work with me to bring him justice?”
Chapter Ten
Grenville’s gaze sweptover the scene, his practiced eye catching something off. It wasn’t just the sight of his lifeless friend. It was the position of Lord Alastair’s body. It was too deliberate, too…arranged. Someone wanted this to be found.
He took a step back, taking stock of the irregularities. His coat was bunched oddly at the side. His boots were streaked with mud in uneven patterns, drag marks. Alastair hadn’t fallen. He’d been placed here.
Grenville crouched, pressing his gloved fingers against the disturbed ground. “No. He didn’t fall,” he murmured.
A quiet rustle at his side caught his attention. Bridget was already at Alastair’s horse, her movements careful, methodical. He watched her examine the animal and noted her steadiness. That, at least, he could count on.
“The horse is too calm,” she called softly. “A horse that had thrown its rider or witnessed violence should still be agitated, but this one had settled, suggesting the incident had occurred some time ago.”
She ran her fingers along the animal’s flank, feeling for any abnormalities. The horse twitched beneath her touch, flinching slightly when she pressed just behind the saddle. Frowning, she traced the outline of what looked to be a deep bruise forming along its side. “This isn’t from the ride,” she called to Grenville. “This looks like… he was thrown over the saddle…carried.”
Grenville straightened. “Carried?”
Bridget nodded and pointed. “Blood pooled on the leather, not spattered. He was already injured when he was put up here.”
Grenville’s jaw tightened. “Then he was killed elsewhere and brought here. That means whoever did this wanted us to find him, but not where it happened.”
Bridget’s voice wavered. “The scream?”
Grenville’s eyes narrowed. “A man’s scream, not from pain, but intent. A lure.”
“Lord Blackwood,” she murmured.
Grenville didn’t answer her immediately. He didn’t want to leap to conclusions, yet. Though the thought of Blackwood’s involvement had already taken root. Instead, he bent again over the body, trying to keep emotion at bay. He needed facts. He needed control. It was the only way he’d get through this.
“Marjory,” Bridget murmured, her voice trembling. Her voice pierced the stillness. “They were riding together. Where is she?”
That struck harder than it should have. Grenville rose swiftly, scanning the woods. He hadn’t seen her, not once, on the course. “She can’t be far. We’ll find her.”
Grenville turned from the body, whipping his hands clean on a cloth.Focus, he told himself. Emotions clouded judgment, and he’d been trained to override those. But Alastair had been a friend. And Marjory… her absence added another layer of urgency.
Bridget’s breath hitched as her gaze fell to Alastair’s hand. His fingers were curled tightly, gripping something, a scrap of paper, barely visible between the mud-streaked knuckles.
Bridget moved to Alastair’s hand. Grenville watched as she carefully pried it open. He noted the stiffness, the way her fingers hesitated. There was something there. A scrap of parchment. His eyes followed it, and for a moment, he meant tospeak to her about it. But at the sound of hoofbeats, her fingers closed around it, and she slipped it into her pocket.
Grenville’s instincts flared. He shifted closer to the body, his hand brushing near the hilt of his knife.
Davenport arrived, pale and stammering. Grenville barely acknowledged him beyond a clipped, “We found him like this.”
Another set of hoofbeats approached, slower this time, more measured. Barrington rode into the clearing. Grenville watched him take in the scene with that unreadable expression of his. But his gaze lingered on Alastair and the mud splattered along his coat. Without a word, he dismounted and stood still, scanning the ground before taking a careful step forward.
As Barrington and the others spoke of Alastair’s position, the scream, the red ribbons, Grenville’s eyes remained fixed, but his attention had already fractured. Yes, details registered, but they skated across the surface of his thoughts. Beneath it ran something deeper. Alastair, his close friend, was dead, and his concern for Marjory gnawed at him. He glanced at Bridget; her calm, her persistence, kept slipping past his defenses in ways he hadn’t yet named.
“I heard the scream just as I cleared the far hedge,” Davenport offered. “I rode this way as quickly as I could.” He paused, visibly rattled, his fingers tightening and loosening around his reins. “I caught a glimpse of Alastair earlier. He wasn’t with the main group. He rode ahead alone. Odd, but I assumed he knew where he was going.”
Grenville watched as Barrington crouched near the body. He pressed his boot lightly into the mud, noting how it resisted, then flicked his gaze toward Alastair’s outstretched hand. Was he drawn, as Bridget had been, to the way his fingers were curled? He didn’t say anything.
