“Yes sir,” the butler said as they exited the front door.
Several servants had been instructed to carry the heavy work of art into the carriage. Logan had instructed four servants to help bring it to Lismore.
“Will you be coming, sir?” a footman asked. “I brought your horse around.”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said.
Logan noted that Evans was staring off into the distance, apparently distracted. He called out to him.
“Oi, Evans,” he said as the butler turned. “Do you mind?”
“I’m sorry, sir, it’s just… There’s a man on a small horse over there,” he lifted his index finger to the tree line. “Watching us.”
Logan approached the butler, staring in the direction he was pointing at. There, sat on the Connemara pony Sweetness, was a man wrapped in a black overcoat and battered hat. He was too far away to make out his face, but Logan felt the sick tickling of instinct in his stomach. He knew this man, somehow.
The grave warning of Jaco’s growl reverberated throughout the small group. The man on the horse turned abruptly, hurrying away up the path that led around the northern route of Loch Fyne. Jaco started barking, jumping back and forth between the runaway and Logan as if waiting for his response. Instinctively, Logan turned and jumped on his own horse.
“Deliver the painting to Lismore Hall at once,” he said before taking off, with Jaco close behind.
“But, sir!” Evans called after him, yet Logan was already halfway across the field.
Whoever this man in black was, Logan knew that this was the man who had shot him. As the sting in his calf throbbed, Logan increased his speed. The forest-carved path weaved in and around pine trees as the ground turned steep. The Connemara was too small a horse to outrun him, and he was hot on the trail, coming up toward an open field beneath the mountain.
The assailant turned back momentarily before steering his steed to the right, heading for the old, abandoned stone crofter’s house—the perfect place for a crook to hide.
All too quickly, the man jumped off his horse and ran around back. Sweetness took off briefly before circling back, unsure where to go. Logan was quick to jump off his own horse. Stalking toward the back side of the cottage, he’d just stepped through the doorless walkway when the cocking of a gun echoed around him.
Logan froze as his eyes adjusted to the dark room. It was empty, save a few knocked-over chairs and a broken table with a stack of stones used for one leg. In the corner near the hearth were some rags, possibly being used as a bed? But who would choose to live in such a place?
“By the grace of God and Her Majesty,” a dark, eerily familiar voice sounded behind him. “Sir Logan Harris.”
Cold dread slithered down Logan’s spine at the sound of that voice. It was impossible. Outrageous, even. Only in his dreams had he heard that voice.
It was the voice of the dead.
Taking a deep breath, he lifted his hands, aware that a gun was most definitely pointed at him. Turning as slowly as possible, Logan tried to ignore the erratic thumping of his own heart. His eyes landed on a disheveled mess of a man. His red hair had been cut unevenly as if done with a dull blade. His clothes were filthy and torn, and upon closer inspection, weren’t black at all, only covered in dirt and grim. A white scar cut up across his left eye, down his cheek, but as the man sneered at Logan, he saw the man he once knew.
“Duncan?”
“Didn’t expect to see me again, did you?” the raspy voice spoke, chilling Logan.
Jaco’s growling drifted in from one of the broken windows. With a single, smooth motion of his arm and a dead stare, Duncan turned the pistol out of the house and pulled the trigger.
A piercing boom echoed throughout the tiny space, and Logan instinctively covered his ears, but not before the faint whimpering of a dog caught his attention. Turning on the shooter, he nearly attacked, but then he saw that he’d missed his opening, for the gun was once more pointed directly at him.
“Now,” Duncan began, leaning back against the stone wall, “I have several things I want cleared up before I shoot you dead.”
Chapter Eighteen
Faith dressed slowlythat morning, still as despondent as she had been when Logan left without a word two days prior. She knew it was her own fault, that Logan was probably appalled with her and her plot. It was just as well, though, she concluded as she headed to breakfast. It had become too easy to believe that Logan was the type of man who might actually care about how she felt. He had come dangerously close to her heart, but he had proven that he could not love her beyond her faults, so it was best now to put the entire thing behind them.
If only she could.
Downhearted, she went to the dining room, where her entire family was gathered for breakfast. Aunt Belle and Hope discussed fabrics, and Grace was reading a book, as per usual. Graham was in the corner, frowning heavily as he examined something with their head groom, Daughtry.
“Concerning indeed,” Graham murmured as Faith walked by to make herself a plate from the breakfast buffet.
Though there were at least a dozen dishes to choose from, from strawberry tarts to poached eggs, bacon, sausages, puddings, and the like, Faith felt she could only manage toast. Taking two slices, she brought her plate to the table, where both her sisters and aunt looked up. Noting the spartan food choices, they peered at her with concern.
