Into the frigid stillness, Wesley eventually spoke again. “I wished to save you . . . from the pain I suffered.” His voice was shallow. “No punishment . . . worse than a woman’s . . . faithless heart.”
“I am disappointed . . .” The heat in Vitor’s body was nearly gone. His words did not even warm his lips.
“Hm?”
“Disappointed that . . .” A weight pressed upon his chest, the cold sucking at his lungs. “I shan’t have the chance . . . to prove you wrong . . . in this.”
After that there was only silence and cold and waiting for the end.
LORD VITOR AND his brother did not return during the night. The villagers had been alerted and, when dawn arose, those who were able assisted in the search. Ravenna tied on her boots and went out with the men, with Cecilia and Iona at her side. Crisp cold gripped the mountain again and puddles froze underfoot, every step treacherous.
On the bridge that stretched across the river that gave a view of the entire chateau through the trees, Ravenna clutched the wall and stared into the water below. Iona slipped an arm about her waist. Everyone thought the same, Ravenna suspected. But she had felt his strength and did not believe the river had taken him.
They searched for hours, the parties of three—for safety—returning to the chateau or ducking into the village wine shop to warm fingers and toes. On the path from the village, Martin Anders and Sir Henry met them with furrowed brows.
“The mayor’s nephew has confessed to lying,” Mr. Anders said grimly.
“Lyin’?” Iona exclaimed. “Aboot murderin’ a man?”
“Seems the fool’s roof collapsed under the snow,” Sir Henry said. “He only wanted a spot to sleep.”
“He thought that since his uncle was the mayor and there could be no proof to convict him, he would be set free before a trial,” Martin Anders said. “It doesn’t mean another drunken villager did not take me up on my boast.”
Cecilia grasped her brother’s hand.
“The prince’s two guards—the guard at the gate and the other,” Ravenna said, “were not to be found in the castle this morning. I do not believe a villager murdered Mr. Walsh.” She walked away from them, down the center of the icy bridge, not looking to the banks below. She had already searched by the river. They would not find him there. He was still alive. She could feel him alive.
As the sun slid into the western sky everyone straggled back to the castle. She resisted, but Iona and Cecilia took her arms and forced her inside with them.
She went to his bedchamber and found it empty of his valet. With an ecstatic yip, Gon?alo leaped off the bed and hurled himself at her. She fell to her knees and gathered his warm, wagging body into her arms and pressed her face into his fur.
“Where has your master gone?” she whispered, biting back tears gathering in her throat. “He said wild dogs would not keep him from coming to me. He is too honest to lie, so whatever spirited him away must be stronger than wild dogs, for you and I both know there is nothing more clever.” The pup smelled of the lord’s cologne and faintly of cheroot smoke.
He wiggled free of her hold and flew across the room to set upon a ruined boot as though it were a villain.
Wild dogs.
Wild dogs . . .
Nor tame.
Ravenna watched the pup tear at the leather and her breaths halted.
A dog of no more than ten weeks knew nothing of scent hunting. And who knew if Gon?alo was even a scent-hunting breed? But he had spent a sennight in the nobleman’s chambers, destroying his clothing and apparently sleeping in his bed.
No. It was impossible. But so was the ache in her chest, impossible yet more real than anything she had ever felt.
She sprang to her feet, and scooped up the puppy and a scrap of the boot.
Iona saw her. “Where be ye goin’, lass?”
“To hunt.”
She slipped across the ice of the forecourt to the gate and set Gon?alo on the ground. She allowed the pup to nuzzle the piece of boot, then withdrew it. “Now let’s go find him.”
She started off and the pup stumbled after her, his big paws clumsy on the slippery road at first but taking to it swiftly. He bounded about as she walked away from both village and river, biting at crusty ice and yipping. But also sniffing. His attention would stray to a bird or branch blown by the wind, then his nostrils would quiver and he would press his big nose to the ice and yip again.
Centuries ago an outer fortress wall had offered additional protection to the inhabitants of Chevriot from invasion from above, and protection for the stores of salt that had made the region rich. Remnants of the wall crept low along the slope of the hill that rose into the tree cover climbing the mountain. Ahead of her Gon?alo disappeared over a mound of earth flanking the ruined wall. Ravenna called to him. He did not reappear. She hurried, struggling to ascend the slick rise, her stomach tight. There were holes and drains aplenty around the castle walls. If he had fallen into one—
She rounded the mound and her breaths stalled. The pup stood at the mouth of a cave set into the far side of the mount, his forepaws against a waist-high earthen wall blocking the cave’s entrance. He yipped. Only the whisper of frozen branches above answered. Then a voice sounded from the shadows of the cave. His voice. Relief broke from her throat in a sob.
Gon?alo barked frantically as she stumbled forward to grab the wall. She jerked back. Not a cave. An ice cellar. She bent to peer into the dark below.
She did not collapse or weep or shout in joy. She whispered, “You are alive,” and her legs nearly gave out.
He did not reply. He sat back against the wall directly below her. Lord Case lay on his side nearby. Both were still.
It was not far down, no more than six yards, still, impossible to manage without a ladder or rope. But if they’d been in the cellar for all this time, no time could be wasted returning to the village or chateau to seek help.
Hands shaking, she tore the lowest flounce from Ann’s gown, then the middle flounce, then the top. Blessing Lady Margaret’s poor taste, she tied the fabric together. But the rope was not sufficiently long to wrap around her chest and still to reach the bottom of the hole.
The skirt went next in broad strips that she secured to the flounces. In petticoat and shift, she hefted the rope over the wall.
“You must grab this and pull yourself up,” she said. He did not move. “You must,” she said louder. Below, both men remained still as death. “Wake up!” she shouted. “You must take up the rope and save yourself. You must, for I cannot do it without your help.” She tossed the rope about until it landed against the back of his hand. “Please,” she said. “I beg of you.”
His hand flexed and he grasped the fabric.
When he moved to bind the rope about his brother, she shouted and remonstrated with him until he obeyed her. Pushing first to his knees then his feet with labored movements, he took the rope in both hands. She crouched with her back against the wall and braced herself. Gon?alo danced about, barking. Then with perked ears he darted off.
“Now!” she called. “Climb now.”
The rope pulled at her chest until she couldn’t breathe. Eventually, after what seemed far too long, his hand, white to the bone, the knuckles bloodied, grabbed the edge of the wall. Footsteps crunched in the ice nearby and Gon?alo appeared leaping in circles around Martin Anders and Sir Henry.