Page 17

G renville’s gaze swept over 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 to speak 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.

“We need to ensure nothing is disturbed until we’ve had time to assess,” Barrington said smoothly.

“Did you see anyone else?” Barrington asked, his voice low and edged with authority.

“No,” Davenport replied, shaking his head. “The path was clear, though the red ribbons were…odd. I pulled one off a tree.” He held it up. “Look at it. They were tied in a crude knot, the fabric frayed. These weren’t placed by my men.”

“What about Marjory?” Bridget asked, her voice breaking slightly. “She was riding with him. Have you seen her?”

Davenport shook his head, looking genuinely distressed. “No, my lady. We haven’t seen a trace of her.” He looked at Grenville with a pained expression. “The ribbons…”

“We’ll address that later. We need to spread out and search. Lady Alastair can’t have gone far,” Barrington insisted.

“Do you think she might…be hurt?” Davenport asked, confusion etched in his tone. “Or worse?”

“We won’t know until we find her,” Barrington said sharply.

Barrington issued orders. Grenville nodded, accepting the silent responsibility passed to him. Find the girl. Bring her back.

He turned away, meant to go alone. That would have been simpler. Cleaner. But something about Bridget, her refusal to flinch, the steadiness in her voice when others stammered, cut through the old instincts. She wasn’t acting out of panic. She was choosing courage.

And damn him, but he recognized it.

He turned back to her. “Come with me. We’ll lead the horses.”

Barrington’s gaze flicked to Davenport. “Mrs. Bainbridge went back to the manor to alert them that someone was hurt. Get word to Mr. Simmons to have someone come here and stand watch over Alastair’s body. I’ll remain here and make sure no one disturbs the scene.”

Davenport, still shaken, turned and mounted his horse.

Barrington’s gaze flicked to Bridget, assessing. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said. “Only…shaken. I’ll be alright with the captain.”

Barrington nodded, and Grenville and Bridget headed for their horses. “I thought you would leave me with Alastair.” It wasn’t a statement or an acknowledgment. It was said with gratitude.

“Not taking action, even if it comes to nothing, would have eaten you alive,” Grenville said softly. “She is your friend, and friends don’t abandon each other, especially in the face of danger.”

She reached out and gently touched his arm.

Startled, he glanced at her hand and then at her face.

“Thank you, Captain.” She withdrew her hand. “For understanding.”

He said nothing. He helped her into her saddle and mounted his horse. He leaned in toward her. His voice was quiet but firm. “Marjory needs you. And whether you admit it or not, you need to be here, too.”

They moved through the trees with purpose, the damp earth muffling their approach as the tension deepened with each stride.

“She must be somewhere nearby,” Bridget insisted, her voice taut with urgency. “Marjory would never leave Alastair, not willingly.”

Grenville cast her a sidelong glance. “Let’s hope you’re right. We need to be prepared if she’s hurt…or worse.”

He watched as Bridget moved ahead, each step deliberate, her breath tight in her throat. The oppressive silence stretched between them until she froze. He followed where she was staring and saw a glimpse of fabric through the tangled ferns.

“Captain!” she gasped, pointing toward the base of a tree.

“Captain! Over there!” she called again.

He hurried toward the crumpled figure lying near the tree’s base, partially hidden by a tangle of ferns.

“Marjory?” he said urgently.

A weak groan. Marjory stirred, her bonnet askew, her riding habit muddied. One hand clutched her side while the other fumbled at the damp earth as if trying to push herself upright.

Grenville dropped to one knee beside her, his voice low and steady. “Marjory, it’s Grenville. You’re safe now.”

Bridget dropped to her knees beside her friend, helping her sit up. Marjory’s head shifted against Bridget’s shoulder as her lashes fluttered open. Her eyes were unfocused, her expression caught between confusion and grief.

Bridget smoothed the damp curls from her forehead. “Marjory, you’re safe now. Can you tell us what happened?”

Marjory’s lips moved, barely forming words. “He…he was looking for it…”

Bridget exchanged a quick look with Grenville. Whatever happened, it was more than a fall.

Marjory’s breath came in shallow bursts, her gaze darting between them as though searching for an anchor.

“We were riding together. He said he needed to check something… told me to stay on the path.” Her voice wavered, her fingers trembling against Bridget’s arm. “I waited, but he didn’t come back.”

Grenville’s stance remained steady, his voice measured yet firm. “You didn’t see him after that?”

Marjory shook her head. “I called for him. I thought I heard something, but the wind, it was loud.” She swallowed hard, her brows knitting together as she fought to recall. “I didn’t think…I didn’t know…”

Grenville watched as Marjory faltered, her words thinning. It was hesitation, not from fear, but from knowing more than she could bring herself to say. Grenville exhaled and lowered his voice. “Marjory… we found Mark.”

The words hung in the air like a slow-falling weight. Marjory’s breath hitched. “Where?” she whispered, her fingers curling into Bridget’s sleeve.

Bridget hesitated, glancing at Grenville. He met Marjory’s gaze evenly, his expression grave. “Near the clearing. I’m sorry.”

Marjory’s lips parted, her breath stuttering as if the truth hadn’t fully taken shape. For a moment, disbelief flickered in her eyes, a desperate hope that she had misheard, that the meaning could be reshaped into something less final.

Her grip on Bridget’s arm tightened. “No—he can’t be—he was just—” Her voice cracked, a sharp sob breaking free before she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Bridget pulled her into a firm embrace, steadying her as the tremors overtook her. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Marjory clung to her, the weight of reality sinking in, though part of her still seemed to war against it. “I should have gone after him,” she rasped. “I should have—”

Grenville’s voice cut through gently, though with a firmness that brooked no blame. “You couldn’t have known.”

Marjory squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against Bridget’s shoulder as silent tears spilled down her cheeks.

Grenville glanced at Bridget, his jaw tightening. “We need to get her back to the house. She’s in no state to be out here.”

A low rustle in the underbrush snapped Grenville’s attention to the tree line. His fingers hovered near his knife. It was too slow for an animal and too quiet for an approach by chance.

Bridget stiffened beside him.

A moment later, branches swayed, and Blackwood stepped into view. His expression was composed, too composed. His gaze flicked over the scene, lingering a fraction too long on Marjory’s disheveled state.

“So,” Blackwood said, his voice light but measured. “She was here all along.” His gaze flicked over Marjory, assessing rather than concerned. “I heard the scream, but by the time I reached this part of the course, it had gone quiet. I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“She’ll be fine,” Grenville said shortly.

His voice rang colder than he intended, but the control steadied him.

It always had. Control, discipline. These were the rules he lived by.

But standing in the woods with a grieving woman, a silent partner who kept pace with him, and a man he no longer trusted, he felt the fault lines shift beneath those rules.

Grenville’s gaze sharpened as he took a measured step toward Blackwood. His posture stiffened, his shoulders squared, tension radiating from him like a drawn bowstring. “Where were you, Blackwood?”

The other man raised a brow, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Following the course, like everyone else. It seems we’ve all been thrown off track.”

Bridget bristled, but Grenville silenced her with a look. “Let’s get back to the house,” he said, his voice low.

Grenville exhaled sharply. He cast a glance toward Bridget. “She’s in no state to ride alone.”

Bridget nodded, already shifting to help. “She’ll ride with me.”

Grenville didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward, scooped Marjory up with practiced ease.

She gave a faint protest, but her limbs lacked the strength to resist. He lifted her onto Bridget’s horse, settling her carefully in the saddle.

Bridget swung up behind, wrapping an arm around her friend to keep her steady.

“Keep her talking,” he murmured, passing the reins into Bridget’s hands. “Don’t let her slip under.”

Bridget tightened her grip around Marjory. “I won’t.”

Once Grenville and Blackwood mounted their own horses, the group turned toward the house, moving swiftly but carefully through the dense wood.

Side by side, they made their way back to the manor house. Grenville cast a glance at Bridget, half-expecting her to challenge him, to press for more answers. But she didn’t. Instead, her expression matched his own, focused and determined.

As they pressed on, Grenville felt a shift, not just in the investigation but in something deeper, in her.

Bridget rode with composure, sharp and ready, her eyes always forward.

He had expected resistance or questions.

Instead, she met the moment with determination.

And for the first time, he didn’t just tolerate her presence, he counted on it.

He didn’t trust easily. But she’d earned it, not with words, but with how she moved through fire. And in this, perhaps, they were more alike than he’d dared admit.