“Try to rest,” he said to Persephone, watching the other women with a wary eye, then he left as quickly as his dignity would allow.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The Falstone steward, Mr. Hayworth, was in Adam’s book room when he arrived there minutes after changing his bloody clothing. Barton had told him the steward wished to speak to him.
“I hope you have some information for me regarding the pack.” Adam didn’t bother with a greeting but crossed directly to his desk.
Hayworth nodded, hat clutched in his hands. He took a seat when Adam indicated he should. “My boy and I have been riding through Falstone Forest the past few days. There are signs of poaching, Your Grace. A lot of poaching.”
“Then the pack is having trouble finding game?”
“Expanding their hunting grounds,” Hayworth confirmed.
“Even in the worst of winters, they haven’t attacked riders nor approached the castle gates,” Adam said. “They did both today.”
Hayworth repeated his signature nod. It didn’t always mean “yes”; generally he meant simply to acknowledge a statement. “Bein’ more aggressive, ’specially toward people, ain’t a good sign in wild animals.”
“Believe me, Hayworth, I am acutely aware of that.”
“I have a suggestion, Your Grace, for pushing the pack back into the forest.”
“Make your suggestion.”
“First we have to cut back the poaching. Guards along the road would help and might keep the pack from the gates.”
“Unless the pack simply devours the guards,” Adam said.
“A few lures would pull ’em back into the forest. There’s more game on the north end. Once the pack realizes that, they’ll stay there.”
“How do we make the pack discover as much?”
“Smell,” Hayworth answered. “Wolves have keen noses.”
The idea had merit. Hound dogs were trained using scent.
“It is worth an attempt, at least,” Adam said. “There are, of course, two tenant cottages as well as your own in Falstone Forest. Find a path that bypasses those.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“John Handly, Your Grace,” Barton announced from the door.
Adam looked up. John looked deucedly uncomfortable. He’d outrun a pack of attacking wolves while leading a lame horse without so much as paling, but place him inside one of the family rooms of the castle, and he looked ready to faint.
“Come in, John.” Adam used a tone that required obedience.
He entered a step or two but stood, head lowered, as near the door as possible.
“What is it?” Adam asked.
John would not have come to the castle nor allowed himself to be shown inside—neither would Barton have led him to the book room—if his message were not urgent.
“Atlas, Yer Grace,” John muttered.
“What about Atlas?” Had the horse’s injuries proven fatal already? Persephone would be heartbroken. Adam felt something of an ache in his own chest. He’d seen Atlas defend Persephone in that forest. He no doubt had saved her life.
“I think I know . . . I have an idea why the pack attacked him.”
“Other than his being in the forest in the dead of winter?”
