The following morning after lighting the fire in her own bedchamber, washing with frigid water, and walking the pugs through the yard, Ravenna returned to the parlor in which the ladies had gathered the previous day. She found only the butler, clearing away teacups and saucers. In his pristine coat and pantaloons and at his age, he looked peculiar performing the task. But with only the cook, scullery maid, and a few footmen still in the castle, and they with their hands full preparing and serving meals, lighting fires, and seeing to all the personal demands of the guests, Monsieur Brazil had to do the work of two dozen servants.
“Lord Vitor has gone, mademoiselle,” he said, as though he knew her intent.
Her heart did a little uneven thump. “Gone?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
Ravenna looked out the window at the forecourt below, a stretch of pristine white. Throughout the night, snow had again fallen upon towers and battlements and the hills and treetops around the chateau. Now the sun shone in a brilliant sky. “But where to?”
“He did not indicate, mademoiselle,” the butler said stiffly.
“Did he go on horseback?”
“Non, mademoiselle.”
She went down to the foyer, where she tugged on her cloak, threw the hood around her ears, and went out into the forecourt. Her eyes teared at the bright sparkle. A single set of footprints in the snow made their way toward the main gate. Turning to look at the castle, she caught movement at an upper window, a drapery falling back into place.
A guard stood at one side of the open portcullis. “Good morning,” she greeted him. The prince had given orders that no one was to leave the castle grounds. The guard bowed but said nothing. She hurried through the gate.
In the fresh snow, the single track of footprints turned not down to the village but to the right from the gate toward the castle’s north flank, following the wend of the river below. Trudging through snow above her ankles, Ravenna followed the footprints along the external lower wall. To one side a line of trees sloped to the river. To her left a cluster of aged cedars bordered a cleared, ascending hill. She had walked this road two days ago before the snowfall. Now unrecognizable beneath the covering of white, it ran above and roughly along the river to a saltworks three-quarters of a mile distant. Hundreds of years ago the masters of this mountain had built the fortress to protect the valuable industry.
The going proved slow as she followed the footprints; her skin grew damp and her breaths hard. She paused on the hill and turned to look back. Rising from the silver river, the castle’s towering walls grandly outstripped pines and cypress. Layered with white on roofs and battlements and dark like the river below, it seemed almost at home in this graceful wilderness, a sleeping giant set into the wintry landscape.
At the edge of the bushes across the road, a rabbit, light of flesh from the long winter, poked its nose from the foliage and sniffed the sunshine. Ravenna smiled.
An arm snaked around her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled, tried to scream, tears leaping to her eyes again.
“Foolish woman,” a hard voice rasped at her ear. But through her own scent of fear she recognized his—clean, masculine, leather. She sagged in his hold.
Lord Vitor released her and with his hands on her shoulders turned her to face him. The sunlight slanted off cheekbones cut as though with a sculptor’s blade. “That is how you could come to be the murderer’s second victim. Do you have a death wish?”
“I have a clue.” She pulled free and stumbled backward. “But if you grab me again without my permission I will do to you what the murderer did to Mr. Walsh.”
His midnight eyes glimmered. “Without your permission?”
“Ever.”
“A clue?”
“To the murder.” Her face felt atrociously hot, her feet frigid. All around, the snow quieted the world, leaving only the twitter of winter birds and her quick breathing. “I know how to do it, you know.”
The corner of his perfect mouth tilted upward. “Cattle and sheep?”
“Well, I haven’t done it myself. But I have assisted in the procedure a number of times.”
“My anxiety on the matter is relieved on account of your professional expertise. Could we now address the clue?”
“You don’t object to me attempting to solve this crime?”
“If I did, would it make a difference?”
“Probably not. The murderer was not a man.”
“How do you know this?” The sky framed his handsome face in azure. Beyond him, the line of cypresses rose up dark and thick.
“Why are you out here? Hiding behind trees so you can jump out at unsuspecting women?”
“I was at the village observing Monsieur Paul interrogate the servants. The mayor under-exaggerated his deputy’s incompetence.”
“He is less than helpful?”
“He’s a drunken simpleton. Also, the mayor’s nephew.” His grin reappeared. “Alas, mountain communities.”
“You are now here. On the north side of the castle. The village is to the south.”
“I must have gotten lost.”
She pursed her lips. “You are withholding information from me. This is clear. But Monsieur Sepic is a numbskull. If we hope to discover the identity of the murderer, it will be best if we work in concert. Agreed?”
He seemed to consider this, or rather her, then said, “What have you learned?”
She pulled off her gloves and flapped her cloak open to dig in her skirt pocket. She felt watched. It had never before bothered her to be watched by a man; no man ever did unless she worked on his animals. Now her fingers slipped on the packet.
Lord Vitor caught her hand. His were large, without gloves but warm. She jerked back.
“I spoke with Mademoiselle Dijon, and with Lady Margaret and her daughter, Ann,” she said too quickly, “then the duchess and Lady Iona. I learned nothing useful, unfortunately. Gossip may not suffice to draw them out.”
“You are honest to admit it.”
“I haven’t any pride to be wounded by admitting my mistakes.”
He stepped close to her. “That is refreshing to hear. Pride is one of my worst faults.”
“You are admitting to a fault? I am astonished.”
“I’m hoping to turn up your good side.”
She looked up from the packet in her hands, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She loosed it with effort. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you intend to kiss me again.”
“I am not looking at you like that.”
“Are you intending it?”
“Since you have made very clear the consequences of doing so without your permission—”
“Ever.”
“—it would not be in my interests, would it?”
“I have never been swayed by a pretty face.”
A single dark brow rose. He wore no hat and the sunlight shone in his eyes, lighting them to sapphire like the jewel in his neck cloth the night before. “Pretty?”
“Rather, a handsome face. Beast was the ugliest pup in the litter.”
“Who is Beast, I wonder.”
“The best—” Her throat closed. “Just don’t.”
The color was high on his cheekbones and his eyes were abruptly serious, like in the drawing room when he and his brother had spoken. “I do wish to kiss you, Miss Caulfield, however unwise that would certainly be.”
Her pulse beat so hard she could nearly hear it. “But you will not.”