“Don’t fight it, dear. You must be feeling tired. Just lay your head down.”
The room grew blurry, the dowager’s voice slow and distorted. Emma’s lashes felt as heavy as lead, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing. Gentle hands guided her down into an abyss of darkness.
***
On horseback, Alaric galloped through the fields back toward the castle. He’d completed the task at the cottages ahead of schedule. Dusk was falling, the sun sinking toward the horizon, casting blood-red streaks into the sky. He wondered if Emma was watching the sunset, thinking of him as he was of her.
His lips curved, and he urged his stallion to go faster.
As he neared the gates of the estate, he saw approaching plumes of dust. Riders... two of them. Strange, he wasn’t expecting visitors.
He halted his mount for their approach.
His surprise deepened when he recognized the faces.
“Kent? Will? What are you doing—?”
“Where’s Emma?” Kent said tersely.
For Emma’s sake, Alaric had hoped that her family had accepted their decision to elope. That they’d acceptedhim. Jaw taut, he said, “We’re wed. There’s no changing—”
“The dowager poisoned you,” Will cut in.
Alaric jerked. “What?”
“That’s why we’re here. Lugo tracked down the actress. Lily White confessed that it was Patrice who hired her to lace your whiskey.”
No. No, it can’t be.
Panic punched Alaric in the gut.
“We’ll explain the rest,” Will said. “First we need to know that everyone is safe. Where’s your lass?”
Alaric was already spurring his horse toward the house.
“With Patrice,” he shouted.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
According to Jarvis, Emma had left the castle before two in the afternoon and had not yet returned. Frantically, Alaric rode through the darkening dusk to the dowager house, Kent and Will flanking him. He barged through the front door, bellowing Emma’s name.
No response.
Noservants.
Fear worse than any he’d known gripped him.
“I dinna like this,” Will said grimly, echoing his own thoughts.
The three split up, searching the house. Alaric tore through the duchess’ bedchamber, and disbelieving fury roared over him when he found a leather satchel housing a collection of vials. The purpose of each vile potion was labeled in Patrice’s spidery hand.
Pain. Sedative. Endless Sleep.
He shouted for the others. Showed them the dowager’s diabolical arsenal.
“Where would Patrice take Emma?” Kent bit out. “If she intends to harm her?”
“She will probably try to make it look like an accident,” Will said.
