“No! Wait!” a woman exclaimed, moving forward to stand just over the man’s shoulder.
A trembling breath of relief filled my lungs, though I tried my best to hide it.
“Bess, no!” the man told her.
“Shut yer gob,” she ordered him angrily. “I’m no’ gonna let ye be killed for this.” Then her defiant gaze swung to meet mine. “They’re stayin’ at the ole Selby farmstead at Pawston Lake.”
I studied the young woman, trying to decide whether to believe her. Onion Breath’s cringe as she relayed this information seemed proof enough, for I doubted the man could act so well, especially foxed, but I wanted to be certain. When her gaze never wavered from mine, I nodded. “Thank you.”
She returned my nod, and I slowly began to back away from her brother or lover, whoever the man was to her. I heard Trevor’s and Anderley’s footsteps creak across the floor behind me, trusting they were watching my back.
Once we were through the door, we swiftly mounted our horses and rode west out of town before any of the villagers decided to stop us. I had a vague notion of where Pawston Lake was located—somewhere west of Kilham and northeast of Shotton Pass. It must have been hidden from our eyes by the ridges as we galloped deeper into the Cheviot Hills from the pass. Dixon agreed to lead us to Pawston Lake and then travel on to Shotton Pass, on the chance that he could intercept my uncle and cousins before they made for Kilham.
We rode silently in pairs through the bleak, moonlit countryside, traveling as swiftly as possible, though we didn’t dare press our already fatigued horses too hard for fear they would stumble. My heart pounded in rhythm with the horses’ hooves, anxious to see Gage with my own eyes, to know that he was alive and well. Too much time had passed for my peace of mind. What if they’d tried to extract information from him, and find out what we knew? What if they’d abandoned him beaten and bound somewhere in the Cheviot Hills? Or worst of all, what if they’d already decided he was too much trouble to them alive?
I shook my head, refusing to contemplate the possibility. We would find him. Alive. We had to.
Gage had rescued me at Gairloch and again at Banbogle Castle. I would not fail him. I could not. The alternative was too awful to bear.
We soon found ourselves in a narrow space between two ridges. With each quarter mile, the amount of vegetation increased, until the path was bordered by tall grasses, shrubs, and a few trees. When the boggy smell of mostly stagnant water assailed my nostrils, I knew we were close. We passed around the side of a hill and there before us lay the lake—its dark mass shimmering in the moonlight.
We carefully followed the trail around the southern side of the lake to the farmhouse standing in the shelter of the hills at the southwest corner. Nestled in a small clearing behind a strand of yew trees, we dismounted and tied our horses off so that they could munch on the grass at the lake’s edge.
Dixon turned south away from the lake, searching for a trail that would lead up over the ridge toward Shotton Pass while we surveyed the shadowy outline of the house. It was decided we would have to creep closer to discover exactly what we were dealing with before a plan could be formed. In a single file, we moved as stealthily as we could through the tall grasses, hoping the shuffle of our feet would not be heard.
As we moved nearer to the house, it became evident there were actually two buildings—a two-story farmhouse and either a one-or a two-room cabin. Only one room at the front of the farmhouse was lit, but the cabin was ablaze with light, which appeared through the cracks at the door and windows, and even between several loose boards. I had a strong suspicion that was where the Edinburgh body snatchers were keeping Gage. Just as I was about to say so, the cabin door opened and a man emerged.
I knew immediately who it was, and from the manner in which Trevor tensed beside me, I suspected he knew as well. Mr. Stuart began to cross the yard toward the farmhouse in long angry strides when another man emerged from the cabin and called out to him. Mr. Stuart halted and swung around to face him, his posture stiff, his arms tight at his sides. As the other man approached him, I noticed he’d left the cabin door open a crack, but frustratingly we could not see inside.
The man said something Mr. Stuart did not like, and they began to argue. However, whatever the man said next silenced Mr. Stuart. His back went rigid as the other man glared down at him. Then the man turned to amble back to the cabin, clearly feeling no threat from Mr. Stuart. Once the door to the cabin was closed, Mr. Stuart turned around and marched the rest of the way to the farmhouse.