Rain slashed harder as William grabbed a rock with both hands and pulled himself up. He had left Duke at the bottom of the mountain, and though a foot trail had been obvious, he had determined he would be less likely noticed if he forged his own path.
Head pounding from exertion, William climbed the steep slope with mud sticking to his clothes. He scrambled up the last few feet, leaned against one of the giant rocks until he caught his breath, then followed the towering stones until he spotted an opening.
The grass was worn away before the hole, as if many a boot had stomped in and out. His nerves sharpened. If he could peek inside long enough to determine the layout, perhaps a plan would come to—
“One step more, gent, and ye’ll be gettin’ yer head knocked off yer shoulders.”
William stiffened, fists balling, as a man leaped out from behind a mossy boulder.
Clothed in nondescript coat and trousers, with a dingy red handkerchief about his neck, the ragged blond stranger lifted a sword. “Thought the likes o’ me ne’er saw ye comin’, didnae ye?”
“I am come to speak with Lord Livingstone.”
“Och, the lordy, eh?” A grin split the man’s face. “Ye’re a wee bit doaty in the brain, ye are. What ye be wantin’ with his lordship, then?”
“A private word.”
The stranger stepped closer, sword leveled at William’s throat. “Ye ken how to write, do ye?” The point of the blade touched William’s neck. “Might be the only word ye can manage, gent, if ye hae no throat.”
“Lochlan!” A shout from the other side of the opening. “His lordy wants you should bring the fellow in.”
“Hear that, do ye?” The man called Lochlan dragged the point of his sword lower on William’s throat, though it did not break the skin. “Come on with ye, and ye had better hope yer private word is a bloody good one.”
Chest thundering, sword at his back, William squeezed through the hole. Dull, splintery hovels with sinking thatched roofs crowded along the stone walls. The ground was barren. Disheveled men roamed about—some feeding fires, others digging a hole behind a cluster of lifeless trees, others standing in the open doorways of their huts, seemingly oblivious to the rain blowing in their faces.
“This way.” Lochlan jabbed his shoulder blade with the sword.
Pain pinched as William approached the one abode that was not made of broken grey wood. Dogs lunged and barked, but as soon as Lochlan shouted, they slunk back with whines.
William’s chest tightened when he entered.
Lord Livingstone—or rather, Robert Digby—sat at a polished writing desk beneath a window, his clothes as pristine as they’d been in London, his position as erect and proper. He glanced up without a rankled expression. “How very kind of you to visit, Mr. Kensley.” He stood. “You may go now, Lochlan.”
“But Lordy—”
“Do not worry. We are not so rustic in our little village that I cannot entertain a guest.” When the door thudded at Lochlan’s departure, Digby swept his hand to a decanter on a gilded stand. “Can I interest you in a drink, sir?”
“Where is she?”
“Where are we all, at any time?” He settled onto a settee, crossing his legs. “We are here and there, caught in a realm between heaven and hell. I sometimes wonder if we are in the latter already.”
“Where is she?” The words burned out. William stepped forward, fury straining against the thin confines of his patience. “Where is—”
“It is amusing to me, Kensley, that you still assume a manner of pride. You know, of course, I have no intention of releasing you alive.”
“Is she?”
“Who?”
“Isabella. Is she—”
“Should you like to see for yourself?” Digby rose and walked toward the window. “Were it not raining, you could see better. Come closer, won’t you?”
Pressure slammed William as he approached the water-streaked window. His mind raced with frenzied thoughts.
The men. The lifeless cluster of trees. The digging. The body facedown, dress sullied, skin white against the mud.
“Beast.” William lunged at Digby, slammed his back into the window with one swift shove. He bashed the man’s head into the pane. Glass shattered. He clamped his hands around the neck and twisted, growled, squeezed—
