"There was a slight problem in the village I felt I needed to attend to," he told her, pulling on his riding gloves.
"But it's settled now? What was the problem?"
He held Athena's head as Cassandra mounted the block and lifted herself up onto the sidesaddle. Morgan may have shunned a sidesaddle for the most part, but Cassandra didn't feel the sidesaddle constrained her overmuch. After all, unlike the always hey-go-mad Morgan, she couldn't much see the point of attempting to sail over five-bar fences.
"Someone died in the middle of the night," he said quietly, mounting Poseidon. "I was arranging the burial."
"Oh, no, who? I know Demetrious hasn't been well, but surely— "
"Nobody from the village, Cassandra," Courtland broke in, wearing an expression that told her he'd spoken without thinking the thing through, which meant he was definitely upset by this death.
She probably should let it go, not push at him for more information, but he looked a bit pale, and not just because his lower cheeks hadn't seen as much sun as the rest of his face for many years. "Someone came to the village, Court? But nobody comes here, not without an invitation, and we don't give out many invitations. Most certainly not now."
They walked the horses, side-by-side, out of the stable yard and headed inland, away from the Channel and the now dangerous, heavily defended beach. "Let's give them their heads, all right? Poseidon seems ready to run. Then we'll talk."
Cassandra rolled her eyes as Courtland urged the stallion ahead with his knees, leaving her and Athena to catch up as best they could. He would probably start up some other conversation once they'd drawn the horses back down to a walk, saying that they'd already spoken enough about the person who had died, but she wasn't about to be put off so easily.
Courtland was waiting for her beneath the tallest of the few trees in this area of the Marsh, an aberration that had somehow managed to avoid being bent nearly in half by the winds from the Channel as it grew.
She reined Athena in beside his mount and spoke as if they hadn't left the conversation behind them, in the stable yard. "If this person wasn't from the village, Court, where was he from? Did he say, before he died?"
"Callie, there are questions you simply shouldn't ask. Not right now. I shouldn't have said anything. It's my fault, but let's drop it now, please."
She tipped her head to one side, her curls bouncing as she knew they did— Courtland seemed to like her hair falling free, even as she hated the way it tangled— as if considering his plea. "No, I don't think so. I think I need to know who this man was, and why he died. It was a man, wasn't it?"
Courtland turned Poseidon and Athena simply followed, the two horses walking along beneath a thin November sun. "Yes, it was a man. One of Beales's men, sent to find the best way to approach Becket Hall. But you know all of that, thanks to eavesdropping outside your father's study last night."
Cassandra bit her bottom lip between her teeth. So, it was just as she'd already suspected, but she'd needed to hear Courtland tell her. "Uncle Jacko questioned him. Isn't that what happened, too? At the smithy? I saw Uncle Jacko just before you arrived. He looked awful, as if he'd been awake all night. Did he…did he kill the man?"
"Callie, please…"
"No! Tell me. Did my uncle torture and then kill this man? And my papa. He was there, wasn't he? Are we…are we barbarians now?"
"Jacko didn't kill him, Callie. Your papa had a plan," Courtland told her quietly. "We wanted the man to escape so that we could follow him, so Jasper tied him up very badly, and then pretended to go to sleep in the smithy. Hell, we even left the doors unlatched and tied a horse up just outside as if it was there to be shoed in the morning. We did everything save saddle the damn horse and point the man in the right direction. All of it your papa's idea, and a good one."
"But you said the man is dead."
Courtland nodded, heading the horses to the left, as if he had a particular destination in mind, although Cassandra wasn't paying much attention. "We followed him, simple enough to do when a dark silhouette against a flat landscape and a cloudy sky is easy enough to make out from a distance if you know what you're looking for. But we kept too much distance between us, and couldn't react in time when another rider came flying out of nowhere. The two horsemen met up and we— Ethan and myself— thought Ainsley brilliant, that our plan was working. Or we did, until the second rider got close enough, pulled out a pistol, and shot our prisoner in the face before galloping off again. The poor dumb bastard had served his purpose, you see, and wasn't needed anymore."
"That means someone else knew you'd captured the man in the first place, doesn't it?"
Courtland smiled ruefully, nodded. "Exactly. It also means that the man we captured was a fool, a dupe sent purposely to lure us out, and we shouldn't have been looking at him, but at whoever else was in the inn, watching him, hoping we'd take him. Which we did, allowing this second man to follow us straight back to Becket Hall."
"By the most direct route, as well." Cassandra shivered.
"And now Beales is certain that we
know
he's out there, watching, waiting. Ainsley says he's playing cat and mouse with us, and right now, the cat is winning. We're stuck here, waiting, while Beales is making all the moves."
For only a moment, Cassandra believed her father was not alone at wishing her back in the nursery, where she could still be innocent, unknowing. What she was hearing, what Courtland was telling her, might prove he no longer thought her a child, but his words were difficult to hear. "And Papa? Is he upset?"
"He's concerned," Courtland said, looking over at her. "There's a reason I'm telling you all of this. Ainsley said again this morning that he's begun to think Beales will never come at us directly, not in force, not the way he attacked the island. He wants you to go to Fanny, all of you women, even Eleanor. Odette says no, Eleanor can't be riding these roads in a carriage, but your papa is adamant, and so is Jack. You'll all leave in the morning, before dawn, with half our men riding with you for protection. Two days of easy travel, possibly a little more, because of Eleanor, but by keeping to main roads once you're away from Becket Hall, Beales would find it impossible to launch an attack. You'll be safe."
"Will you be one of those men taking us there?" Cassandra asked as the horses approached a ruined stone cottage that was little more than a few broken fences around three half-walls and a chimney, open to the sky. A sad, abandoned place.
Courtland dismounted and came around to help Cassandra from the saddle. He held her waist once she was safely on the ground, looked at her closely. "No, Callie, I won't be going to Brede Manor. The only ones to remain at Becket Hall will be those directly connected to the island. We're what Beales wants, and that's who we're giving him. We're the only lure we have left. We can't let this stalemate go on much longer, and we won't."
She put her hands on his arms, dug her fingertips into his sleeves. "But the Red Men Gang was so large. Hundreds of men. How could you possibly fight them all, with half our men at Brede manor, protecting a few women?"
He smiled. "There were landsmen, carters, those that rode the ships. Beales's hired riders who protected them rarely numbered more than one hundred, and that was years ago, not now. Beales couldn't possibly amass that sort of small army in the time he's had since Lisette wounded him. And remember, we've got Becket Hall, all of our defenses in place. I'm not worried about Edmund Beales. I'm worried about you. I need to know you're safe at Brede Manor. So does your father."
"And if I refuse to leave you? If all of us refuse to leave? What will you do then, Court? Tie us up and throw us into carriages?"
"Callie, please— "
"No! Now you're going to ask me to be reasonable, aren't you? Because you're always so reasonable." Her voice had begun to quiver slightly, making her angrier than she already was, because she didn't want to cry. She wanted to yell, to scream, to shake him until he understood. Her place was here, with him. "I don't want to be reasonable, Court. I just want…Please…just hold me…"
"Callie, I— Damn it! Get behind me.
Now!
"
Cassandra obeyed him without question, even as Courtland drew his pistol free of his waistband and reached for the rifle at the same time.
She heard the hoofbeats now, and ventured a look past Courtland's shoulder, sure that Edmund Beales himself had come to kill them. But then she relaxed, just as Courtland swore under his breath and lowered his rifle.
"Rian," he muttered, shaking his head. "Rian! What in bloody blazes are you doing out here? I was about to blow your head off, you know."
Rian Becket pulled his horse to a plunging stop, grinning from ear to ear. "Interrupted you mid-wooing, have I?"
Cassandra, feeling her cheeks grow hot, stepped completely behind Courtland.
"We thought you should know," Rian said, remaining in the saddle. "A message just arrived from Chance. Beales has most definitely surfaced."
"What? Where?"
Rian lost his smile. "Chance had dinner at one of his clubs two nights ago and overheard two men talking about having taken dinner with Nathanial Beatty. I don't know— someone named Roberts, and a Sir Horatio somebody-or-other. One man said the name Nathaniel Beatty, the other told him to stifle himself if he knew what was good for him, and Chance now has men watching both of them, every move they make, in case they make contact with Beales again. We're getting closer, Court."
"Yes, and Beales is becoming bolder. So he's back to Nathaniel Beatty, is he? His given name, the name he gave to Lisette. He must feel very sure of his victory."
Cassandra watched Rian's face even as she slipped her hand into Courtland's. "Does this mean we can stay here at Becket Hall? If Beales is in London…"
"I don't know, Callie," Rian said. "Court?"
"I'd rather they still left for Brede Manor in the morning. After all, Ainsley will never go to London, give up our superior defensive position, so Beales still has to come here to us, sooner or later."
"And I agree," Rian said, nodding his head. "Before you ask, so do Spence and Ethan. Jack? He's starting to worry more about Elly, that Odette's right, and the journey could prove too dangerous for mother and child. When are you coming back to the house? We need to put our heads together."
"Soon," Courtland said as Cassandra squeezed his hand a little tighter. "We'll be back soon. We still have things to…discuss."
"Callie?" Rian asked, suddenly all brotherly concern. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, Rian," she told him, wishing him on the other side of the Marsh. "Tell Papa we'll be back soon. I want to give Athena another run."
"Court? Within the hour, yes?"
"She said she's fine, Rian," Courtland said tersely. "We'll be back by noon."
Rian nodded once more and turned his horse, took off at a gallop, as beautiful and competent a rider as he'd been before his injuries at Waterloo.
Courtland looked at Cassandra. "We could go back now, you know."
To answer him, she removed her fashionable shako hat, hanging it from the sidesaddle, and then turned away from him, to walk around the lowest stone wall, into the ruins of the cottage. What happened between them next would be up to him….
CHAPTER TEN
COURTLAND DAWDLED. There was no other word for what he was doing; checking that the horses were tied up securely, rechecking the pistols in the pouch, turning in a slow, full circle, his eyes on the flat, distant horizon broken only by the two church steeples he could see, one to the East, one to the West, although they were miles apart. The joke had always been that only a fool would think the Marshmen were so close to God— the steeples served as very tall, holy signposts on moonlit nights, and the churches often held more smuggled tea and tobacco than parishioners.
He'd brought Cassandra out here so that they could talk, away from the bustle and observant eyes of Becket Hall.
He'd brought her here to hold her, to kiss her, to perhaps even dare to talk about their future.
No, that wasn't true. That's what he'd thought he wanted to do, before sanity took over, knocked that idea from his head. He'd brought her here to say what had to be said, even if that meant he might be saying goodbye.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," he muttered beneath his breath.
When had it happened? When had everything changed?
When had she become his delight, his joy, the hope of seeing her smile the reason he woke up every morning, the sound of her voice, calling out his name, the only thing that could make his life complete?
For he knew that, in his eyes, his mind, his heart, she was no longer Isabella's child, Geoffrey's child. She was, simply, Cassandra. Callie.
His.
And yet not his.
Stripping off his riding gloves and shoving them deep into his pocket, Courtland walked past the sagging length of fence, trailing his fingertips along the rough, weathered stone of the cottage wall, stopping just at the end of it. He leaned against the stone, looked at the young woman who sat primly on what was left of the fireplace hearth, combing her fingers through her thick, honey-colored ringlets that might be the bane of her existence but that so flattered her face; her sea-green eyes, her softly rounded chin.
