The heaving horses closed in from behind. Elise's heart thudded in unison with the pounding of her mount's hooves. Tears stung her eyes as she clung to the horse, the jerky rise and fall of the animal's neck jolting her body with each swift stride. Allister's horse nosed ahead and Elise knew the young man was restraining him in order to keep pace with her.
From the corner of her right eye, she glimpsed the nose of a horse gaining—then a flash of metal and a man's cry as Allister's dirk found its mark. The other men shouted and her heart leapt into her throat. She cracked the reins over the rump of the horse, then suddenly pitched forward. She tumbled over the horse's head as the mare hit the ground nose first. Allister shouted her name.
The mare somersaulted over herself, and Elise saw the hooves bearing down on her as she and the mare plummeted downhill. The wind gushed from her lungs, then a splitting pain shot through her head when she thudded to the ground, grinding her cheek into the hard, rocky soil. The blurry figure of the horse landed a few feet away, rolled, then jumped up, and disappeared.
A shot sounded.
"Bloody animal got away," a man muttered as horses drew up alongside her.
Booted feet appeared at her side.
"She's broken her neck," another said.
"What of the boy?" another asked.
Fingers gingerly probed her forehead, then temples.
"Dead."
"She's hit the front of her head," said a deeper voice—not Marcus's voice, but who—Sudden pain registered through the fog as she was rolled to her side. She groaned.
"She's not dead," the deep voice said.
Fingers ran along her spine.
"She hasna' broken her back. She'll live."
Arms slid beneath her, then lifted her from the ground and pressed her against a warm body. She opened her eyes, but her blurry vision made out only the wall of flesh her face was shoved against.
"Leave her," said the other. "If we bring her back damaged, it'll be our heads."
"Toss the saddle over the mountain." The speaker shifted her in his arms. Pain splintered through her back "Round up the gelding," the man said, "and throw Greig's body over his back. Damn the MacGregor dog who killed him. If he wasn't already dead, I would kill him myself."
Shock reverberated through Elise. Young Allister was dead?
As Marcus approached the village stables, he glimpsed movement through the open door. He yanked aside his steward Harris as a rider burst from the stables. The youth riding the horse seemed not to notice he had forced them from his path and galloped toward the village.
"Youth," Marcus muttered, and entered the stables. "I want Gaelan's, Logan's, Sloan's, and Neal's places finished by summer's end." He strode along the line of stalls.
Harris made notations in his notebook. "We can have them patched by month's end."
"Patch Sloan's," Marcus said. "The others, replace."
"That'll take 'til Fall, and we will need materials."
"Order what you need from Edinburgh. In the meantime, get started on the minor repairs for the other cottages. I want you back in Ashlund by month's end. I don't plan on returning for"—he thought of Elise in his bed, her hands on him—"for some time." Marcus halted at the stall that housed the horse he wanted to examine. "Gerald," he murmured to the gelding, who stood, head hanging over the stall door. Marcus rubbed Gerald's nose while he unlatched the door and stepped inside. "Getting along in years, are you, lad? Harris," Marcus called.
Harris entered the stall.
"What do you think?" Marcus ran a hand down the horse's leg. "He stumbled last week."
Harris squatted and looked closely at Gerald's knee. "A might knobby." Harris stood and walked around the horse, feeling belly and rump as he went. "His coat is dull and"—the steward came around to the horse's head again—"his head is hanging low."
"Aye," Marcus agreed. "We'll need two more plow horses then. Alen could last another season, but we will use him for delivery. Don't order from MacFie. I have another seller in mind. Belgian draft horses."
"Aye," Harris replied.
Marcus went around the rump of the horse. "Go yourself. There's a Russian Trotter I want you to look at. You can order the supplies while in Edinburgh."
"What are ye saying?" A shout from outside the stall intruded upon their conversation.
Marcus recognized the stable master's voice.
"Where did they go?" Brady demanded.
"Mary didna' g-go with Elise," Craig, the stable boy, stammered.
Marcus stilled.
"Bloody fool," Brady shot back. "You didn't wonder why she wanted the mare?"
Marcus cursed and started for the door.
"W-why should I wonder?" the boy stuttered. "You let Mary use your horse before. How could I know you changed your mind?"
"Christ," Brady's voice was hoarse. "MacGregor will whip us both."
Marcus lunged from the stall and Craig went pale. Brady glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened.
Marcus strode toward them. "Hold," he commanded when it looked as if they would bolt.
"I had no notion—" Brady began, but Marcus raised a hand.
He grabbed Craig by the collar, nearly lifting him from the ground. "What happened?"
"Th-they came a-a-and g-go—"
"Pull yourself together," Marcus snapped.