On the way out of Lambeth, Marshall encountered another member of his party, Henry, returning from meeting the other searchers at Bensbury. Henry met Marshall’s questioning gaze and shook his head once. “Nothing, m’lord.”
It was a punch to his middle with a cold fist, but Marshall just nodded grimly and continued on his way. As he prodded his tired horse into a trot, Marshall considered his course of action. A glance at the sky showed the sun quickly descending to the horizon. By the time he reached Bensbury, met with the others, and made his way back to the party, it would be full dark. Should they to continue searching through the night?
He recalled his guileless sister as she’d been at breakfast that morning, pretty and young and fresh, sweetly conspiring to allow Marshall and Isabelle time alone, blushing as she admired Alexander Fairfax. That memory was followed by a vivid vision of that sweet innocence blighted by a cruel Thomas Gerald — the fear she must be feeling, the desperation —
His throat constricted around a growl. Marshall had to find her. He would not force his men and horses to expose themselves to the danger of riding through the night, but he would. There could be no rest for him until his sister was safely returned to her family.
Of a sudden, Marshall was afraid again for Isabelle. What if Gerald returned to Bensbury and took her, too? He could have associates working with him, a whole gang of miscreants absconding with those most dear to him. His heart skipped a beat at the thought. “I’m coming,” he said as he dug his heels into the horse’s sides. He wouldn’t leave Bensbury until he’d seen Isabelle and reassured himself of her safety. Protecting her and recovering Naomi were all that mattered.
The poor beast beneath Marshall strained forward at his urging, but he noted a quiver in the horse’s haunch. Lathered with sweat, the mount was as exhausted as the rider. He pulled back on the reins, slowing the animal to a brisk walk. Marshall cast around for a watering place. In the distance, down a side track, he spotted a turning water wheel; sunlight dappled on the liquid falling from the black wood. Approaching the mill, Marshall heard the rumble of the great stones turning inside the tall wooden building, grinding grain into flour.
As the horse drank, Marshall strolled along the bank, stretching his legs. Here, the stream was only about fifteen feet wide. On the opposite side, trees grew all the way to the bank. His eyes roamed over stream and trees; he was too distracted to focus long on any one thing, and soon he was impatient to be on his way.
Turning, his gaze caught on something at the tree line. He halted and narrowed his eyes, anxiety mounting in his chest. There, on the opposite bank, unmistakably, was a campsite. The remains of a fire — no, he realized, his breath catching in his throat. That fire has not yet burned. Twigs and other kindling stood in a neat pile, awaiting the kiss of a flame. Nearby, he spotted a burlap pack on the ground.
An out-of-the-way campsite within striking distance of Bensbury.
“Naomi,” he gasped. Marshall plunged into the stream, wading through the cold, waist deep water to reach the far side. He scrabbled up the bank, his fingers clawing into dank soil to wrap around exposed roots.
Hauling himself over the edge of the embankment, Marshall took in the little campsite with an appraising eye. The fire had been neatly built atop a circle of earth brushed clear of leaves and other debris. The pack lying beside the fire contained a rolled blanket and sparse, dried provisions. Marshall frowned. It didn’t look as though Gerald had prepared the camp to take care of a hostage. There was only enough food to keep one man fed for a few days, and on tight rations, at that. One blanket. One flask laying among the food in the pack.
He shuddered involuntarily as a wretched thought occurred to him. “What if he’s killed her?” he whispered harshly, his eyes darting around his shadowed surroundings. “Naomi!” he bellowed; fear clawed at him, driving him out of the camp. A deer track led into the dark woods, and Marshall followed it, calling his sister’s name. He rounded a bend and noticed a discarded pile of suitable firewood on the ground an instant before a man wielding a pistol stepped out from behind a tree.
His light brown hair hung to his shoulders, sweat-damp and snarled with bits of twig and leaf. Clothes that had once been respectable showed hard use. The familiar face had aged more than the passage of fifteen years would suggest, but Marshall supposed forced labor would do that to a man. His eyes, though, gleamed clear with vitality, cold and hard with barely concealed anger.
“The Duke of Monthwaite himself,” Thomas Gerald snarled. “If that ain’t Providence, I don’t know what is. You’re just the man I’ve been wanting to see.”