“What?”
“She took him out early this morning, heading for the meadow. Took some carrots and brushes. Said he liked that. But now the horse has returned alone.”
Dread surged through Eammon, cold and swift.
Charity would never leave Ambrose alone. She adored that animal as if he were her child. Something had happened.
“Saddle my horse,” he barked, already turning. “Now.”
Hastings disappeared, and Eammon dashed upstairs, changing into his riding attire in a blur of motion. Within minutes, he was galloping toward the stable, praying he was not too late.
His stallion was waiting. He mounted, spurred the horse forward, and rode hard.
He knew where she would have gone. From their many conversations, he had pieced together the place she loved most—a meadow just behind the estate, near a cluster of old trees and a weather-worn fence.
It was there he headed.
The stallion flew across the open field, hooves pounding like thunder. As they neared the fence, Eammon pulled back the reins, slowing to a trot.
He scanned the area.
“There,” he said aloud, seeing something in the grass.
He leapt from the horse and tied the reins to the fence. There, lying on the ground, were Charity’s gloves. Nearby lay the brushes she’d brought for Ambrose.
“Good God,” he breathed.
He looked further, scanning for any other sign. Something orange glinted in the grass a few paces away. A carrot. Of course. She always brought carrots for the horse. A little farther, a slice of apple.
And then—more chilling still—a single shoe.
He rushed to it. It was hers. The very pair she had worn on their wedding day, with golden buckles that gleamed in the sun. He remembered them clearly.
“Charity!” he shouted, his voice breaking.
Silence.
“Charity!” he bellowed again, sprinting toward the trees.
Panic gripped him like a vice.
She was gone.
He knew it. She had not wandered. She had been taken.
But by whom?
His mind supplied only one name: Markham.
The man was desperate. He had confronted him at the club. He had implied threats. Now, he had followed through.
To what end? Ransom? Leverage for the book?
Eammon groaned aloud. Even if Markham demanded it, he could not produce the book. He did not know where it was. Only Charity did.
He turned and raced back to his horse, flung himself into the saddle, and tore across the field toward the house.
He needed men.
