Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

NED HAD GONE PAST the small shepherd’s cottage on the ridge—a tidy construction of stone and mortar—a thousand times without ever attaching any particular significance to it. There had never been any reason to do so, after all. Sometimes shepherds were in residence. Often they were not. When he was twelve, he’d once crept inside on a wager and found himself disappointed by the tidy, prosaic interior. He’d had no reason to think about the structure since.

Now he eyed the thing warily. His gray mare sensed his unease and shifted beneath him. This visit should have required a matter-of-fact glance inside, prerequisite to ticking an item off of Harcroft’s list. The hut itself looked preposterously harmless in the morning light. Picturesque vines crept halfway up the doorframe, and a tiny wisp of smoke slipped out the chimney, before being smudged by the wind into insubstantiality. The cottage seemed small, cozy and eminently unworthy of his attention.

Except for one small thing. The place was supposed to be unoccupied, and someone had lit a fire. That, coupled with Kate’s behavior last afternoon, Harcroft’s strangeness in the evening…

Well. He dismounted and looped his mare’s reins on a post near the entry. It was inconceivable that Harcroft’s fancies might have come true, that his wife might be here, on Ned’s property. But there was that smudge of smoke. Maybe it had been taken over by ruffians, after all.

In the cold light of an autumn day, last night’s fears seemed truly ridiculous.

Ned shook his head. His imagination, always fertile, had a tendency to run amok, if he let it. There were a few points to keep in mind. One, it was a drafty shepherd’s cottage; ruffians generally preferred easy access to ale. And women. And future victims. Two, it was on Ned’s property. Ned was not precisely an expert on the subject, but he suspected madwomen were more likely to wander the moors, tearing their hair out, than they were to build boring little fires in tiny buildings.

It was probably just one of the shepherds, come to inspect the land in preparation for winter. No doubt they intended to do some final cleaning before winter set in. To patch the roof. There was undoubtedly a simple explanation. Anything was more likely than the possibility that he would encounter a band of unknown brigands stealing Harcroft’s wife and secreting themselves in a shepherd’s hut on Harcroft’s friend’s property.

He strode to the door and knocked loudly.

Inside he heard nothing. No footsteps. No hasty, frightened shouts. No bugle, sounding a piratical call to arms.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He glanced up, to make sure he hadn’t imagined that sign of habitation. That stream of smoke still purled from the chimney; waves of heat distorted the air above the capstones. There had to be someone inside; no shepherd would leave a fire alone and untended, not during these dry days of autumn.

“Draven?” he tried.

No answer.

“Stevens? Darrow?” He cudgeled his brain, trying to remember more of the shepherds who worked this land. “Dobbin?” he tried at last. Desperation, that; Dobbin was a sheep dog. Still no answer, neither from canine nor human compatriot. Whoever had once been inside had undoubtedly wandered off for a few minutes. Ned would have sharp words for the fellow, leaving a fire burning with the fields so dry.

But there was no reason not to have fun until the man returned.

Ned set his fingers on the handle of the door.

“Well, then, Lady Harcroft.” He spoke loudly, pitching his voice to deepness, a grin on his face. It helped to mock his own fancies, to show how ridiculous they were. “You are exposed. I have found you all. Ruffians, prepare to be brought to justice! Ha!”

If this had been a story, and Ned a Bow Street Runner—or a knight of old—he would have kicked the door in dramatically. Of course, that would have necessitated an embarrassing explanation, when he shamefacedly asked his estate manager to repair the damage. Ned settled for swinging the door inward.

He expected to see the tiny front room of the cottage—barely large enough to contain a trestle table and the fireplace. He was a little taken aback to find the floor of the room piled with lumpy sacks that might have been potatoes or turnips, and another smaller sack of flour. The only reason he knew he wasn’t dreaming was the rope, strung from one side of the room to another. A multitude of damp cloths had been strung to dry. He never would have dreamed of anything so prosaic.

And when he moved his eyes from that curiosity, he was astonished to see Lady Harcroft herself, standing as far from the door as she could. Her auburn hair was braided and pinned to her head; she wore a deep brown gown, bereft of embellishment. He was so surprised to see her, after all his self-mockery, that it took him a moment to comprehend what she held in her hands.

It was a silver-tooled pistol. The stuff of his nightmares. And she was aiming it at Ned’s midsection with hands that seemed surprisingly steady.

His good humor evaporated. That sense of unease he’d entertained last night returned, this time in full-blown panic.

“Damn me.” His lips seemed to move of their own accord. He let go of the door handle.

Lady Harcroft didn’t respond. Her lips pressed together.