Page 36 of A Bride for the Scottish Duke (The Gentleman’s Vow #5)

CHAPTER 36

Eammon

T he following morning, Eammon rose, his stomach tight with unease and his body worn with a dull weariness that no rest could soothe.

She knew the truth now. At last, she knew everything. And all he could do was wait for her verdict. Would she forgive him? Could she?

He had told her he loved her, and she had said nothing in return. Not that he blamed her. Even if she harbored such feelings, this was not the moment to confess them—not after uncovering his secret.

His own words echoed again and again in his mind. She hadn’t truly known him. But that was not her fault. He had not let her see through the mask he wore. He had not trusted her, and he should have.

Now, he feared he had ruined everything.

He rose, rang for his valet, and once dressed, made his way down to breakfast. Perhaps she would be there already, seated at the table, waiting to give him her answer.

But when he entered the dining room, he found the breakfast laid, and only one plate remaining.

“Did Her Grace already take her breakfast?” he asked Mrs. Frames.

“She did, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied. “Nearly two hours ago.”

He glanced toward the clock on the wall. It was just past eight. She had risen at six.

“She was up early,” he muttered.

“She said she could not sleep and wished to take her horse out,” Mrs. Frames added.

“I see,” he said.

“The tea is fresh, Your Grace. I was just about to fetch more cream.”

“Good,” he nodded. “And oatmeal, if you please.”

She paused a moment, her eyes meeting his with a hint of concern, then nodded. “Of course.”

He rarely requested oatmeal. He did not enjoy the taste and only ate it when unwell. But this morning, he couldn’t fathom anything heavier, and even the thought of oatmeal turned his stomach.

Doing his best to pretend everything was ordinary, he opened the London Times , sipped his tea, and tried to lose himself in the news. When the oatmeal arrived, hot and salted as he preferred on rare occasions, he forced it down bite by bite.

Mrs. Frames had departed. A single footman remained, standing silently by the sideboard, ready to refill his tea as needed.

Still, Eammon kept glancing out the window, hoping to see her returning. But Charity did not come.

What if she had left? Again? No—surely not. She wouldn’t.

Would she?

A sharp prickle of worry shot through him. He stood abruptly and rang the bell.

Mrs. Frames returned a moment later. “Your Grace? Is something amiss?”

“Send Jean to me at once,” he ordered.

The housekeeper nodded and disappeared.

Jean appeared not long after, a little breathless.

“Has Her Grace taken anything from her chambers?”

Jean blinked, confused. “No, sir. Nothing unusual. I hung some of her gowns and put away her hats. Everything is as it always is.”

“I see. And did she take her riding habit?”

Jean hesitated. “No, sir. She did not intend to ride. She doesn’t usually ride Ambrose. She only took a few brushes and a lead rope.”

Eammon nodded slowly. Of course. Of course, she hadn’t meant to ride. “Thank you. That will be all.”

As Jean left, he walked toward his study, but he knew well he would not be able to focus on any of his ledgers or letters. Instead, he paced. Back and forth, arms behind his back, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities.

Then a knock.

“Come,” he called.

To his surprise, it was not Charity. Nor was it Mrs. Frames.

It was Hastings, the stable master.

“Your Grace,” the man said, removing his cap and stepping inside, “I’m afraid I’ve news that may concern you. Her Grace’s horse—Ambrose—he returned to the stable just now. Quietly. Without his mistress.”

Eammon stared.

“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.

He needed a search party.

He needed to find her—before it was too late.