Page 16

At the head of the group, Davenport, dressed in a blue morning coat and tan breeches, sat astride a roan mare like a hunt master leading his company. At Alastair’s request, he issued the last-minute instructions, his voice carrying easily over the commotion.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Davenport called, raising a hand for silence. “Before we set off, let me remind you of a few important details regarding today’s course.”

The group quieted, their attention fixed on him.

“As you all know,” he continued, “the heavy rainstorm has rendered certain areas of the grounds treacherous. Hazardous sections have been marked with red ribbons, while the yellow flags, uniquely chosen for today, indicate the proper route to follow.

He paused, letting his authoritative tone settle over the gathered riders. “And one last reminder. Beyond the east hedge lies a stretch of land that is waterlogged and deceptive. Do not test your luck there.” His meaning was unmistakable.

Grenville swung into the saddle, feeling the familiar comfort of Valor beneath him. His gaze swept the gathered riders before pausing on Bridget. Clad in a deep green riding habit, she sat astride a chestnut mare, adjusting her reins with practiced ease.

There was a spark in her eyes that caught him off guard. It was defiant, amusing, and far too intriguing for comfort.

Her focused, unyielding expression stirred something unfamiliar in him. Was it mere admiration for her spirit or something altogether more troublesome?

As the riders took their positions, Blackwood’s voice cut through the murmur. “Ready for the chase, Captain?” he taunted lightly.

Grenville adjusted his gloves, casting a sidelong glance. “The chase is hardly the challenge.”

Overhearing their exchange, Bridget shot him a sharp look. “Do you make a habit of underestimating your competition, Captain?”

Their eyes met briefly, and in that shared glance was a tension neither named, one part rivalry, one part reluctant fascination. Whatever unsettled Marjory, it wasn’t only the weather.

A slow smile tugged at Grenville’s lips. “Only when they insist on proving me wrong.”

Bridget’s fingers tightened briefly on the reins. “A most welcome reprieve, Captain. No treacherous waters, no inclement weather, and most importantly, no gallant interference from unexpected quarters.”

His expression didn’t change, but there was something watchful behind it. It was as if he heard more in her words than she had meant to reveal.

“And yet, here we are, crossing paths once more,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “An unfortunate coincidence, I assure you.”

Before they could continue, Blackwood nudged his horse closer, speaking just loud enough for the surrounding riders to hear.

“Seems a shame to avoid the most interesting parts of the land,” he mused. “A true rider doesn’t fear a bit of mud.”

Bridget shot him a sharp glance. “A true rider knows the difference between bravery and recklessness.”

Blackwood smirked. “Recklessness? Or an opportunity for a true challenge?”

Bridget caught the tension in Grenville’s jaw before he replied.

“Some challenges aren’t worth the cost.”

A knowing gleam sparked in Blackwood’s eyes. “Ah, but the thrill of the chase is in its uncertainty, is it not? One never knows where the course might lead.”

Davenport cleared his throat. “Let’s not test our luck before we even begin, shall we?”

“Indeed,” Lady Worthington added with a sharp look. “Youth and arrogance are often a fatal combination.”

Blackwood merely grinned, tipping his hat. “Experience must start somewhere, my lady.”

Miss Gray laughed, guiding her horse between them. “I, for one, am quite content to leave reckless heroics to others.”

Bridget smirked. “Sensible advice.”

The horn sounded, cutting off further conversation, and the riders surged forward. The rhythmic pounding of hooves, the rush of wind, tore through the morning air.

Grenville kept his mount steady, scanning the course ahead, marked by fluttering yellow flags. He spotted Bridget leaning low over her mare’s neck, her form tight and poised. There was something fiercely alive in her, a wild joy that flashed like sunlight through storm clouds.

One of the flags twisted in the breeze, and he caught the brief tension in her posture, subtle but unmistakable.

Grenville urged Valor forward, and the formation tightened. As they advanced, the crowd’s chatter faded into the pounding of hooves and the thrill of the pursuit.

A flicker of motion to his left, Bridget. Her mare surged forward, nimble and unyielding, matching the stallion’s pace with surprising determination.

Grenville adjusted his hold on the reins, noting the way she moved in rhythm with the animal, her posture sure, eyes fixed ahead. She rode as though the wind answered to her will.

He closed the distance, his voice cutting through the rush of wind. “You ride well for someone who claims not to enjoy competition.”

Grenville glanced at Bridget, her bonnet nearly torn loose by the wind as she turned to glare at him. “And you pursue me with entirely too much enthusiasm for a man who claims to be a gentleman.”

He grinned, leaning closer in the saddle. “A gentleman knows when to let a lady win. I’m afraid I haven’t decided yet if you deserve such courtesy.”

She scoffed, flicking her reins. “How magnanimous of you, Captain.”

*

The terrain shifted beneath them, the path narrowing as they approached a dense thicket.

Twigs snapped beneath the pounding hooves, and branches clawed at Bridget’s sleeves as she forced her horse forward.

She stole a glance over her shoulder, others were falling behind, some veering toward another path, others struggling to maintain control on the uneven ground.

But not Grenville. He remained beside her, matching her stride for stride, his expression one of amusement and unwavering focus.

Ahead, the course split. Bridget’s eyes flicked toward the yellow flag haphazardly planted in the ground, marking the path set that morning.

She veered right, remaining on the trail. Her mare surged forward with renewed vigor, the ground undulating beneath them, treacherous roots and hidden dips threatening disaster. Bridget gritted her teeth, as she navigated every twist and dip with precision.

Behind her, Grenville’s dark stallion matched her pace and cleared a downed log, landing with an impressive display of control. He shot her a dark look. “You’re reckless,” Grenville called out as he pulled alongside her for a brief moment.

“You’re predictable,” she countered, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

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.”

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? ”