Maxwell’s gut tightened. “Explain.”
“Well, he—Byron, that is—weren’t there when I left.” The lad fidgeted and looked from one man to the other. “But when I got back, he were in his stall.”
“Got back from where?” McKinney asked.
“From the barn, Mr. McKinney. I went to fetch some straw, and when I got back, there he were, large as life.”
“Was he still tacked?” Maxwell demanded. “Saddled and bridled?”
“Aye, fully tacked, Mr. Harlow.” The lad frowned. “He were a bit lathered as well, like he’d had a good run, but I know the mistress—Mrs. Harlow, that is—likes to give him his head. I gave him a good rub down, though.”
McKinney frowned. “’Tisn’t like the mistress to leave him like that.”
“No, it isn’t.” Maxwell looked toward Byron’s stall, now drenched in shadow, as a sickening suspicion slithered into his brain. He shifted his gaze to the open door of the stable, seeing nothing but gloom beyond. “Was the stable door left open when you went to fetch the straw, George?”
The lad followed Maxwell’s gaze. “Aye, Mr. Harlow, it was.”
Understanding, icy cold, passed through Maxwell like a ghost. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
McKinney gasped. “Oh, nay, sir. Surely, you don’t think…”
Maxwell braced a steadying hand against the stable wall. “I’m afraid I do. McKinney,” he said, his throat tight. “Louisa—Mrs. Harlow was never here. Byron came home on his own.”
McKinney paled. “Bloody hell! Then where could she be?”
The question did not yet have an answer, but it triggered Maxwell into action. He strode over to Fraser’s stall, snapping out orders as he went. “Go back inside McKinney. I want a search party organized. As many men as you can muster, dressed appropriately and carrying lanterns. Then come back here. I want you in the saddle. Bring blankets with you as well. George, tack McKinney’s horse. I’ll see to Fraser myself. And make haste, damn it. Minutes are hours on the moor!”
*
Just twenty-four hoursearlier, Maxwell had been seated in the cozy dining room of the Crown Hotel in Sheffield, feasting on tender roasted beef and Yorkshire pudding. While his colleagues had been celebrating the potential success of their new business venture, Maxwell had been pondering his marriage. More specifically, his wife. He hadn’t quite figured out how she’d crept into his heart and stolen it without him even realizing.
Now, from atop Fraser’s back, he was about to issue orders to a group of fourteen men who had gathered in readiness to search the moors for her.
It was, by far, the most harrowing experience of his life.
The men stood in near darkness and silence at the foot of the path that led up to the moor, each carrying a lantern, some leaning on staffs. Only Maxwell and McKinney were on horseback. Questions remained unanswered and would tillLouisa had been found. Obviously, she’d fallen from the horse, but what had been the cause? Perhaps Byron had shied, catching her unawares, or he’d stumbled, throwing her from the saddle. The other possibility, less likely, was that she’d been attacked or set upon. The first scenario was bad enough for Maxwell to consider. The second, he couldn’t even bear to contemplate.
“We cannot know for certain what has become of Mrs. Harlow,” Maxwell said, turning a restless Fraser in a circle. “But it’s reasonable to assume whatever befell her happened on the moor somewhere between here and Highfield. I suspect, and I pray, that the event happened closer to Northcott, given that her horse found his way back. McKinney and I will lead. The rest of you spread out behind, keeping several feet apart if possible. If some of you get ahead of the others, that’s fine, but try to maintain a straight line as you move forward. That said, watch your step. It’s almost dark, and this is rough terrain. I don’t want to delay the search in order to deal with an injured man. Obviously, if you find my wife, or any clues at all, yell out.” He drew a shaky breath, feeling the unfamiliar sting of tears at the back of his eyes. “And in the meantime, please pray for her.”
“We’ll not give up till the mistress is found, Mr. Harlow, no matter how long it takes,” one of the men said, his announcement resulting in a mumble of agreement from the others.
“I appreciate that, thank you.” Maxwell pressed his knees to Fraser’s flanks. “Let’s go.”
Aye, without doubt, the most harrowing experience of his life.So far.He could only pray the sad achievement would not be surpassed by night’s end.
The first few spots of rain hit them as they reached the upper stretch of the moor. A minute later, it fell steadily. Maxwell uttered a worthy curse. Exposure to the elements, especially cold and damp, could be deadly for an injured person. In truth, hehad no idea how long Louisa had been effectively missing. Had she fallen from the horse on the way to Highfield, or on the way back? The former would mean she’d been out here for several hours already. Either way, she’d obviously not been able to pick herself up and make her way home.Badly injured, then, or… Maxwell bit down, hard, and lifted his face to the rain, allowing it to mingle with the tears that had at last escaped.
Could I live without her? Oh, God, please don’t make me find out. Please, let her be found alive. Let me bring her home.
“You were right, Captain,” he whispered. “A man must never leave his house angry, lest he may live to regret it.”
The gloom of night, combined with the rain, made for miserable progress. Maxwell and McKinney had dismounted and now led the horses along the main track. Even with the lanterns, it was difficult to see, especially in places where the ground sloped away. Wet earth sucked at horses’ hooves and men’s boots as the rain sneaked its way beneath the tightest collars. With each passing minute, Maxwell’s hope of finding Louisa alive ebbed. He sensed a feeling of despondency from the others as well. After a while, he glanced back toward Northcott, curious to know how far they’d come. He couldn’t see the place, of course, but he guessed they’d covered at least a mile.
And then, at last, from somewhere off to the left, “Here, Mr. Harlow,” a man shouted, waving his lantern. “She’s here!”
Fear knotted in Maxwell’s gut. He handed the reins to McKinney and stumbled over to where the man stood. There, between two thickets of gorse, lay the still form of his wife, on her back, strands of wet hair plastered across her forehead and cheeks. Maxwell crouched down and lifted the wet strands away, uncovering a face pale as death, a bloodied nose, and a faint bruise on the left side of her forehead. “Please, God,” he whispered, probing for a pulse in her throat, her flesh like cold clay beneath his touch. “Please.”
At first, he felt nothing, resulting in a rise of sick panic that drew the blood from his head. And then, at last… a faint tap against his fingertips, steady, but alarmingly slow.
