His frenzied mount burst free from the tree line atlast and plunged into the river without breaking stride. Possessed of the same madness as the horse, the same fear-crazed need to survive, Flynn made no attempt to slow the animal until they approached the opposite bank.
Only then did he regain himself, sparing but a single thought to how much he hated the mortality bestowed on him in taking blood. The pure, pitiful weakness that was Mortal.
Still, without Abby’s magic flowing in his veins, he would never have been able to find the crossing in time.
He dismounted, stooping to the ground to scan the tracks around him.
It was the odd huffing noise that caused him to turn in time to witness his horse’s legs buckling. Her great weight dropped to the ground with athud, signaling yet another impediment to his quest.
Her entire hindquarter had been charred black, her big brown eyes wild with fear and pain. The Glock tucked into his waistband crossed his thoughts. It shouldn’t take more than one bullet to put her out of her misery.
But that one bullet could well be one he’d need in order to get his hands on Abigail and make his way out of this time.
It appeared he’d be walking for a little while.
No matter. They weren’t so very far ahead of him. Their trail was easy enough to follow. He’d find another horse.
And then he’d track them. Following along, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
It was only a matter of time until he’d have Abigail and return to his own time, where he belonged.
Thirty
I’ll give you time to have a proper soak before I return, so dinna dawdle and expect me to linger about the hallway waiting for you to finish.”
With those words of warning, Colin stepped through the doorway and closed it firmly behind him, leaving Abby to wonder how long a “proper soak” lasted in Colin’s mind.
The friend he’d spoken of had turned out to be the laird of a clan friendly to his own. Instead of a small hut as she’d imagined, they were spending the night in a castle at least as large as Dun Ard, though it appeared to have seen better days. The laird himself, a man named Roderick, had seemed pleased to see Colin and even more pleased to see him accompanied by a wife.
Soon after their arrival they’d been shuffled into this large bedchamber, and a parade of boys and young girlshad traipsed back and forth, filling the large wooden tub that now sat steaming in front of the fireplace.
Abby could hardly wait to climb inside and sink down under the hot water.
She untied the knife from her waist and dropped it to the floor, followed by the smaller knife she’d hidden in her bodice. Then she pulled off her sleeve covers and her overdress, tossing them both in a pile on the floor. Cold bumps covered her body as the breeze slipped in around the two high, shuttered windows, and her tired muscles shivered. If she could muster the energy, she might try to wash her clothing out in the tub after she finished her bath. Her shift followed next, along with the long pants Ellie had given her.
The cold air made her anticipation of the hot water all that much sweeter. She stepped into the tub, planning a slow, decadent inch-by-inch descent into the steaming water.
Until the door opened.
She dropped to her knees like a rock, sending water splashing over both sides of the big wooden tub.
It was Colin who leaned in the door. He tossed something in her direction, and as a reflex she managed to block it, knocking it into the water with a splash.
“I almost forgot that. Lady Rosalyn sent it along for you once she heard you liked it. It’s balm she uses, by the way.”
“Balm?” What on earth was he going on about this time?
“Balm,” he confirmed confidently. “And mint.”
As quickly as he’d shown up, he was gone again.
Abby felt around in the tub, at last locating the objectthat had joined her in her bath. Rosalyn’s handmade soap.
A little thrill tingled through her heart, bringing with it a smile to Abby’s lips.
Lemon balm and mint, though in this day and age, it was called only balm. Those were the herbs Colin’s mother combined to get that lovely smell.
He’d remembered how much she’d liked it and that she’d wondered what herbs his mother used. He’d remembered that little detail about her, and then he’d bothered to ask his mother what she put in her soap to make it smell the way it did. That he’d cared enough to take the extra time to ask made her happy. That he’d taken the time the morning of their departure to do so—even in the midst of his ranting to every living soul at Dun Ard in an attempt to find someone to support his position that she should remain there when he left—made it even more special.
