body inside by the heels. Once again, Heath's prisoner groaned deep in his throat, and Heath had to fight the urge to silence the swine permanently.
Heath withdrew to the forest in a murderous mood. Suddenly he heard the call of a nightjar, and shortly after he answered it, he watched Gavin Douglas and four mosstroopers pick their way through the trees where his mares were tethered.
“Don't get yer back up—Ram insisted we come.”
“Keep your distance, Gavin, I'm in a foul temper. I just missed catching the only man who can connect Dacre to the plot to dispose of Ramsay. The son of a bitch is safe inside Bewcastle.”
“What about him?” Gavin indicated his prisoner.
“A useless piece of offal who swears he knows nothing, but I'll keep him alive for the present. I haven't finished with him yet.” Heath added, “Christ, with Mangey safe inside Bewcastle, there's no chance of bringing Dacre to justice. I want to storm Bewcastle and make the son of a bitch pay!”
Gavin said, “I've no doubt at all that you'll find a way tae make Dacre pay. But I think it would be expedient tae take the mares you've recovered back tae Eskdale, rather than hang about here.”
Heath pulled his knife from its sheath and began to sharpen it. Hatred for the Dacres almost consumed him. Justice delayed was justice denied, yet he knew he would have to curb his impatience. “The rest of my breeding mares are likely inside Bewcastle, and Christopher Dacre still has my black stallion.”
Gavin Douglas knew better than to argue with him. Heath's pride, stubbornness, and tenacity prevented him from leaving without his property. With resignation, Gavin removed his saddle from his mount and directed the moss-troopers to bed down for the night.
Heath took meat from his saddlebag, sliced it with his knife, and offered it to the men. “It isn't hedgehog,” he assured them with dry humor.
“What the hell is it?” Gavin asked with a grimace.
“Fox,” Heath said solemnly.
The rising sun awakened Heath the next morning. Shortly he saw Christopher Dacre ride out alone under the portcullis of Bewcastle. The arrogant swine was astride Blackadder. Suddenly it came to Heath how he could make Dacre pay, and he smiled with savage anticipation. Sooner or later young Dacre would return, and when he did, Kennedy and Douglas would be waiting for him.
Raven Carleton was delighted when Christopher Dacre came calling. She had known he would come, though not quite this soon. She pretended to be completely surprised at his visit, although she was anything but. Raven had laid out a special riding habit to wear when he came. The slim black skirt was slit to the knee to show off her high calfskinboots, and the crimson velvet jacket was trimmed with black braid at throat and cuffs. The matching red velvet cap sported a black ostrich feather, and her black leather riding gloves were embroidered with crimson beads.
Raven introduced Lord Dacre's heir to her grandmother and could have hugged her when Dame Doris Heron poured them wine, then excused herself so that the couple could be alone.
“Your grandmother is a most discerning woman.”
Raven dimpled. “She discerns more than you ever dreamed, Christopher Dacre.”
“Ah, a magic woman, no doubt, who casts spells and brews potions in her stillroom.”
“You may laugh, sir, but have a care what you drink.”
Chris Dacre held up his wine cup, then deliberately drained it. “You have stolen my senses with your love potion.” He set the empty cup down and took Raven's hands in his. “Come to Bewcastle. I want you to be with me.”
“What a lovely invitation. I suppose I could come for an hour; 'tis only a three-mile ride,” she said lightly.
“I don't want you for an hour, Raven.”
“For how long
do
you want me?” she tempted.
“Forever.” Dacre's eyes were riveted upon her mouth.
Raven caught her breath. “You are a dreadful tease, Chris Dacre.”
“Nay, it is you who are teasing me,
Heath withdrew to the forest in a murderous mood. Suddenly he heard the call of a nightjar, and shortly after he answered it, he watched Gavin Douglas and four mosstroopers pick their way through the trees where his mares were tethered.
“Don't get yer back up—Ram insisted we come.”
“Keep your distance, Gavin, I'm in a foul temper. I just missed catching the only man who can connect Dacre to the plot to dispose of Ramsay. The son of a bitch is safe inside Bewcastle.”
“What about him?” Gavin indicated his prisoner.
“A useless piece of offal who swears he knows nothing, but I'll keep him alive for the present. I haven't finished with him yet.” Heath added, “Christ, with Mangey safe inside Bewcastle, there's no chance of bringing Dacre to justice. I want to storm Bewcastle and make the son of a bitch pay!”
Gavin said, “I've no doubt at all that you'll find a way tae make Dacre pay. But I think it would be expedient tae take the mares you've recovered back tae Eskdale, rather than hang about here.”
Heath pulled his knife from its sheath and began to sharpen it. Hatred for the Dacres almost consumed him. Justice delayed was justice denied, yet he knew he would have to curb his impatience. “The rest of my breeding mares are likely inside Bewcastle, and Christopher Dacre still has my black stallion.”
Gavin Douglas knew better than to argue with him. Heath's pride, stubbornness, and tenacity prevented him from leaving without his property. With resignation, Gavin removed his saddle from his mount and directed the moss-troopers to bed down for the night.
Heath took meat from his saddlebag, sliced it with his knife, and offered it to the men. “It isn't hedgehog,” he assured them with dry humor.
“What the hell is it?” Gavin asked with a grimace.
“Fox,” Heath said solemnly.
The rising sun awakened Heath the next morning. Shortly he saw Christopher Dacre ride out alone under the portcullis of Bewcastle. The arrogant swine was astride Blackadder. Suddenly it came to Heath how he could make Dacre pay, and he smiled with savage anticipation. Sooner or later young Dacre would return, and when he did, Kennedy and Douglas would be waiting for him.
Raven Carleton was delighted when Christopher Dacre came calling. She had known he would come, though not quite this soon. She pretended to be completely surprised at his visit, although she was anything but. Raven had laid out a special riding habit to wear when he came. The slim black skirt was slit to the knee to show off her high calfskinboots, and the crimson velvet jacket was trimmed with black braid at throat and cuffs. The matching red velvet cap sported a black ostrich feather, and her black leather riding gloves were embroidered with crimson beads.
Raven introduced Lord Dacre's heir to her grandmother and could have hugged her when Dame Doris Heron poured them wine, then excused herself so that the couple could be alone.
“Your grandmother is a most discerning woman.”
Raven dimpled. “She discerns more than you ever dreamed, Christopher Dacre.”
“Ah, a magic woman, no doubt, who casts spells and brews potions in her stillroom.”
“You may laugh, sir, but have a care what you drink.”
Chris Dacre held up his wine cup, then deliberately drained it. “You have stolen my senses with your love potion.” He set the empty cup down and took Raven's hands in his. “Come to Bewcastle. I want you to be with me.”
“What a lovely invitation. I suppose I could come for an hour; 'tis only a three-mile ride,” she said lightly.
“I don't want you for an hour, Raven.”
“For how long
do
you want me?” she tempted.
“Forever.” Dacre's eyes were riveted upon her mouth.
Raven caught her breath. “You are a dreadful tease, Chris Dacre.”
“Nay, it is you who are teasing me,
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