“Snaffles, come,” she said, patting her thigh.
But the dog didn’t move. He was sitting amidst the heather, looking anxiously between her and Magnus whowas quickly disappearing into the distance. He whined mournfully.
“Snaffles, come!”
When he still didn’t move, she threw up her hands in exasperation, and began striding off along the track, in the opposite direction to the one in which Magnus had gone. Snaffles stayed where he was for a moment, but finally lost his nerve and came trotting after her. Even so, he kept looking back and whining, his gaze fixed on the tall man striding purposefully away.
MAGNUS STOMPED THROUGHthe heather with fury boiling in his gut. He had never been accused of being a thief before, and Isabelle’s words stung like hail. Why would she accuse him of stealing her carriage? What on earth would he want with such a thing? He was not without blame for some actions in his life, but stealing another person’s property was not one of them.
The cold wind swept over him, pulling at his plaid and tousling his already disheveled hair. He could still hear the echoes of Isabelle’s voice, laced with suspicion and distrust. It gnawed at him, left a bitter taste in his mouth. An eccentric noblewoman? A crazy one more like!
He kicked at a clump of mud, sending it flying into a gorse bush, annoyed with himself that he’d let Isabelle’s accusations affect him like this. Suspicion and fear was something he was used to. After all, it was something he had faced all his life.
Magnus was all too aware that he was bigger and stronger than most people and that his size and strength made people afraid of him. It was a lesson he’d learned hard and fast—after an incident at eight years old when he’d unintentionally broken another boy’s arm during a wrestling match. The boy’s screams had echoed through the village while Magnus stood frozen in shock and guilt.
After that, the other boys had constantly wanted to try their strength against his, eager to prove their mettle by besting him in a fight. But he’d beaten them all easily and this had only increased their hostility.
Over the years, Magnus had learned to be careful around others. A blow from him could do twice the harm it would from another man. And so he had to constantly keep himself in check, careful never to lose control of his temper.
His mind drifted back to the many times he’d seen fear linger in the eyes of those who crossed his path—strangers, acquaintances, even friends at times. They were afraid of him because they sensed instinctively how easily he could hurt them—even though that was the thing furthest from his mind.
But Isabelle had seemed different. From the moment they’d met, she hadn’t cowered or shied away from him. She’d met his gaze head on, her eyes, vibrant and alive, sparking with unabashed curiosity. Even her dog, Snaffles, instinctively trusted him, wagging his tail and whimpering for attention.
But now? Now she’d accused him of being a thief. He couldn’t shake off the image of her standing amidst the heather—her accusation hanging heavy in the air betweenthem, her gaze full of suspicion. From her, that suspicion did more than sting—it was like pouring salt on an open wound.
Eejit, he chided himself.You don’t even know her. Why do you care what she thinks?
He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the thickening clouds overhead, not until the first drops of rain began to splatter rhythmically against the fabric of his plaid. He glanced up and grimaced. A rainstorm. Just bloody perfect.
He would have to hurry if he didn’t want the rain to wash away the trail he’d only just found again. He upped his pace to almost a jog, and hurried through the rugged landscape of narrow trails, boggy moorland and broken gullies, until finally he reached the spot where Snaffles had found the trail of the outlaws.
Once there, he knelt in the peat and scanned the ground. The prints were still visible leading south. Good. Straightening, he began following them.
He’d been walking for perhaps an hour—amidst rain that had thankfully gotten no heavier—when the tracks began to lead out of the Dragon’s Back, towards lower, gentler lands. He moved swiftly, dodging scraggly bushes and jumping over small streams that cut through the landscape like veins of silver.
He began to piece together the clues as he went and revised his earlier estimate of the outlaw numbers. From the number of prints, there seemed to be only four of them, so either there had been less than he thought to start with, or they had split into two groups and he’d missed the trail of the other group. Three sets of footprints were heavy and large,suggesting booted men. But the fourth were smaller, lighter, indicating a woman or a child.
He frowned, unease settling into his gut. He’d assumed they’d not bothered to hide their trail but now he wasn’t so sure. Where had the second group gone? And how had he missed them?
Perhaps a mile further on, his unease increased still further as the trail veered suddenly around to the west. Magnus halted. The change of course suggested one of two things—either the band had seen something that required them to change course, or this was a pre-planned route, perhaps in order to rendezvous with the other half of their group that had split off.
Magnus ran through a mental map in his head, trying to work out where the group were heading. West? That meant the tracks weren’t leading towards the nearby settlements as he’d expected. Instead, they were veering back the way they’d come, back towards the Dragon’s Back.
To where he’d left Isabelle.
The realization struck him like a gut punch. The outlaws he was tracking were brutal and merciless. He had no illusions about what would happen if they found Isabelle out here alone.
Curse it! Magnus started off again—this time at a run.
