The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 50

Hart kept up his conviction that Ian would be fine, but as the hours passed, his worry settled in and stayed. He found no sign of him, no Ian fishing on the banks of the canal, no tall man in a kilt wandering across fields.
When the sun went down, Hart met Cameron, Mac, and Daniel in Hungerford, the three reporting they’d still not seen Ian nor found anyone who’d seen him.
Hart’s worry turned to crawling fear. He could not banish the picture of Ian lying facedown in a field, shot, bleeding, dying, or already dead. Either that or tied and blindfolded in some filthy room, his enemies refusing to let him go until they had Hart.
Cameron’s and Mac’s eyes reflected Hart’s uneasiness. Daniel, who’d initially scoffed at the idea that Ian of all people could be lost and hurt, now worried too.
“Daniel, go south to Coomb,” Hart said. “He likes to climb the hill to the old gibbet and watch the world go by. Cameron, search the canal east to Newbury. If Ian has spent all day studying a lock, I’ll pummel him. Mac, I want you to go back to the house and make sure the ladies don’t get the idea to go searching as well. I told Eleanor not to, but you know the Mackenzie females.”
Mac scowled. “Hell, Hart, can’t you find something easier for me to do? Go up against an army of assassins in my underwear, maybe?”
“I am not letting any of them wander the countryside to be a target. Keep them home and protect them.”
Mac raised his hands in surrender, but Hart knew his brother agreed with him. Mac would keep the ladies safe. “Fine,” Mac said. “But I’m stuffing my ears with cotton wool.”
Hart and his brothers and nephew separated, each taking a few men with him, and Hart resumed his search.
He walked his horse along the dark towpath, heading west along the canal. Blast you, Ian. Why did you choose now to go roaming?
It was too dark to go very fast, and a misstep could send Hart or his horse or the men following him into the canal. He tried to take care, but everything in him was urging, hurry, hurry, hurry.
They clopped down through Little Bedwyn, then Great Bedwyn and on toward Wilton and Crofton. No Ian Mackenzie. No tall Scotsman staring at water moving through the locks, or idly fishing, or walking restlessly up and down the banks.
Ian could be anywhere. Holed up in a barn to sleep or climbing aboard a train to who-knew-where. Ian followed no rules but his own, and he might not bother to buy a ticket for the train until he was on it. He would eventually wire Beth to tell her where he was, but it might be some time before he did. Ian would know he was all right, but he did not always remember to reassure others or even understand why he should. Ian was better about all this now that he was with Beth, but he still liked to sometimes disappear on his own.
As a child, Ian had bolted from crowds that frightened him or even from the supper table at Kilmorgan, running, running to rid himself of terrors he didn’t understand. Hart would follow him, find him, and sit with him in silence until Ian calmed down. Only Hart had been able to stop Ian’s frightened tears and intense rages. Only Hart had been able to put a comforting arm around Ian’s shoulders—for the brief moment Ian allowed it—to reassure him that he was not alone.
When Ian had first come home from the asylum, he often would walk away from the house and stay away for days. Hart had gone insane with worry, but Ian always returned, in his own time. Hart would shout at Ian and command him not to do it again. Ian would listen in silence, gaze averted, but when Ian decided he needed to be on his own again, he simply went. All the shouting in the world could not change his mind.
Things were different now. Ian had Beth, and his need to withdraw had dwindled. Ian did not like to spend too much time away from Beth and his children, in any case, and he mostly stayed home, drawing comfort from them.
So, why had he gone this time?
I will never let anything happen to you, Ian Mackenzie, Hart vowed as he rode through yet another village. I promised you that, and I’ll keep the promise until I die.
Hart became separated from his men. He wasn’t certain when it happened, but in the dark, with Hart well in the lead, he must have ridden over a canal bridge they hadn’t seen him take, or perhaps they’d ridden over one, assuming Hart had crossed it.
Hart debated doubling back but decided against it. He’d not seen anything today to indicate assassins lurking behind every bush, and no one he’d spoken to had noticed strangers in the area. His men would catch up to him when they could.
The lack of obviously dangerous people did not alleviate Hart’s anxiousness for Ian. He kept searching.
He clattered into quiet villages, inquired in the local pubs, asked at farms if a gentleman had put up with them for the night. Most of the people around here knew Ian or had at least heard of him, but none could help.
A church clock was striking four when Hart rode over yet another canal bridge. He was exhausted, and his men were long gone, probably returned to Waterbury by now. Hart’s muscles ached from the long day in the saddle, and his eyes kept drooping in spite of his efforts to keep them open.
He should stop and rest, then resume looking again at sunup. His worry wanted him to keep going, but his reason told him he’d be sharper if he broke for a few hours and waited for daylight.
Hart unsaddled his horse, pulled off the bridle, and slid the halter he’d brought with him over the horse’s head. He tied the horse to a sturdy sapling, giving the beast enough rope so it could graze, then Hart lay down with his head on the saddle, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.