Grif felt a knife of panic. “Left?” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible!”
“Impossible, is it?” she hissed. “The rotten bounder left in the middle of the night like a bloody thief, owing me six crowns!”
Stunned, Grif dumbly reached into his leather purse and handed her a five-pound banknote. “That should take care of yer troubles,” he said angrily, and left, stalking back into the village, feeling terribly confused. Nothing made sense—Hugh had left London with no more money than Grif, and probably had much less after last night’s celebration. Unless he’d been gambling… still it made no sense that he’d leave without the beastie—
He stopped mid-stride. No. No, no… Hugh was many things, but he was not a thief! Still… Grif hurried on, the panic taking hold.
Shop after shop, he inquired, and received the same answer. No one had seen a man resembling Hugh this day. Grif’s last call was to the smithy, and there he felt the deep, sharp pang of fear.
“Aye, he was here,” the smithy said, eyeing Grif. “He took his horses, he did, without bothering to pay for their keep.”
“When?” Grif asked, reaching for his leather purse again.
“In the dead of night,” the smithy said, snatching the banknote Grif held out.
“The lass too, aye?”
“Aye.”
Grif nodded, and walked to the edge of the smithy’s barn. He put his hand on a post there, and tried to draw a breath.
He knew, of course. He knew what Hugh had done before he could even reach the inn and confirm it. The lad had betrayed him in the worst conceivable way.
Somehow he managed to stumble out of the blacksmith’s barn onto the main thoroughfare, his mind racing with sickening thoughts. Twice he had to pause and put his hand to the wall, and lean over, eyes closed, trying to catch the breath that had been snatched clean from him.
Grif staggered toward the inn, attempting to convince himself that he was jumping to conclusions, that it might have been someone else altogether. He even tried to believe Hugh was waiting for him now.
Yet his gut fear roared louder than his common sense, telling him that last night Hugh had used the excuse of readying their wedding room to take the beastie, and once Grif and Anna had gone up to their marriage bed, he and Keara Brody had taken the beastie and ran, making Grif to be a bloody fool.
When he returned to the inn and the room where Anna was waiting for him, he leaned against the door, fearing he might be sick. He had just married this woman—and now he would tell her that their future was ruined? That he had taken her from the lap of luxury to certain poverty?
“Grif!” she cried happily from the basin, where she was winding her hair into some sort of coif, wearing a chemise. “I didn’t expect you so soon! I finished my letter home this morning, and told them everything. Well,” she said batting her lashes coyly, “perhaps not quite everything.” She laughed.
He looked at her, feeling nothing but a growing ache. What of his parents? Dear God, what of Mared? How could he possibly disappoint them all?
“And where is your valet this morning, hmm?” she asked gaily.
“Ye’ve no’ seen him, then?” he managed to ask.
She paused in the styling of her hair and looked over her shoulder at him. “Seen him? I should hope not sir, for I would have seen him from my bath!” She laughed again, and when Grif did not smile, she lowered her arms. “Grif, what’s wrong?”
“He’s gone, Anna. He and Miss Brody are gone.”
“Oh! Well, then,” Anna said, her bright smile returning. “They seemed rather comfortable, did they not? Perhaps they have sought the vicar—”
“I’ve just come from the vicar. And the innkeeper. And every bloody shop in this village. He left in the dead of night without paying his debts,” Grif said, and forced himself to shove away from the wall, to look in the satchel.
Anna stood there, watching him. “What are you doing?”
“The beastie,” he said, choking on the word, and tore open their small satchel.
“No,” Anna said sternly. “He’d not betray you so!”
But he would and he had. Hugh had brought their things to the room, and in his happy delirium Grif had forgotten to be vigilant. He’d forgotten the bloody beastie, and Hugh knew he would.
Grif tossed the empty satchel aside and turned around to face his bride. “’Tis gone.”
Her eyes widened with shock, and she looked wildly about, then suddenly ran across the room, pouncing on the bed, pawing through the linens. “No, no! I will not believe he betrayed you!”
Grif said nothing. She caught his hand, pulled him to the bed. “Think! Where would he go? Talla Dileas?”
Grif clenched his jaw and shook his head. “He’s stolen it, leannan.”
Anna collapsed onto her heels on the bed. “But… but why?”
Grif pressed a fist to his forehead to stave off the blinding headache he felt behind his eyes. “Money, I’d wager. He’s a gambler, Hugh.”