dying fire. She must have some light. She could not bear the thought of being shut up alone, in the dark, in this bare and hostile chamber. She knelt before the hearth to light a spill from the embers but, as she touched the flame to the tallow dip, she noticed a scrap of paper on the floor behind the chair leg. It was the last remaining evidence that anyone in the world truly cared for Cassandra Elliott.
She pulled the fragment from under the chair and smoothed it once, then again and again, as if willing it to be whole again. At least one person did care. Just one. But he could not help her.
Impatiently, she brushed away a tear. It was anger. Only anger. She was not so weak that her half brother could make her cry. She was not!
She caressed the paper yet again. There was so little left. It was barely an inch wide and held only a few disjointed words, part of three lines of Alasdair’s bad poetry. She had smiled when she first read it, recognising the evidence of the boy’s calf-love. He might be only fifteen, but he idolised her. He saw himself as a knight, winning her love by deeds of great daring. But if James Elliott once discovered the lad’s identity, the daring would be thrashed out of him. She would never betray his name, no matter how much James threatened.
She dropped on to the hard oak settle once more and stared at the scrap of paper. Like her Trojan namesake, she, too, could prophesy, all these centuries later. She could prophesy that the Elliott family was doomed. First her father, and now her half-brother. Drunkards and gamblers, both. Neither of them caring anything for their land, or their people. Both of them wasting their substance in the pursuit of pleasure. Both of them treating their womenfolk worse than their cattle.
If only she could get away. But where could she go? She had no money and no friends in Galloway who would dare to take her part against the laird. Everyone hereabouts knew exactly who she was. It would be impossible to hide from James on this side of the Solway. If she did run away, James would find her and bring her back. He might even carry out his threat to lock her away in the lunatic asylum. Cassandra’s own mother had died there, imprisoned on trumped-up accusations of adultery. Had she been mad? Not at first, perhaps, but certainly at the end. And her husband, Cassandra’s father, had shut the door on her as if she had ceased to exist. From the day she was put in the asylum, he had never visited her, never sent to ask after her, and never once mentioned her name.
James Elliott was capable of doing exactly the same to Cassandra if she did anything more to thwart his plans to marry her off. She had to protect Alasdair. But if James really believed she was unchaste—
Cassandra shuddered and dropped her head into her hands. She would not weep. She refused to be so craven. She would—
The key grated in the lock.
Cassandra quickly wiped her face and squared her jaw. If James had returned so quickly, it boded ill. She hastily tucked the precious scrap of paper into her pocket.
‘Miss Cassie?’ It was Morag, Cassie’s maid, who had served the family since Cassandra was a child. ‘I’ve brought you some warm milk, dearie, and some bannocks and cheese. The laird is in a fearful temper with ye, but he’s off to the whor— He’s gone out. He’ll not be back till the morn, ye ken.’ Morag put a pewter plate and a mug on the low table. ‘Eat up, Miss Cassie. I’ll be back in a wee minute to take they things away.’ She said nothing more. There was no need. They both knew that if James discovered what Morag had done, she would be dismissed on the spot.
Cassandra ate greedily. She had had nothing since early morning. The cheese was strong and delicious, the oatcakes newly baked. All too soon, the plate was empty. Cassandra licked her finger and ran it round the rim to pick up any stray crumbs. She was still hungry.
Ross looked up at the sky. He had become used to the longer days as he moved north, taking advantage of the extra hours of daylight to put the greatest possible distance between himself and the pain of London. Here in the Scottish border country, the light held till well-nigh midnight when the weather was fine, as it had been for most of his journey.
But now the weather was changing. And suddenly. On the western horizon, huge black clouds were rearing up like angry stallions, ready to attack with flailing iron-shod hooves. A mighty storm was coming. And there was precious little shelter available for a solitary traveller and his faithful mare.
Ross touched his heel to Hera’s chestnut flank. She needed little encouragement to quicken her pace. She had probably smelt the coming storm long before Ross had noticed anything amiss. He began to regret that he had decided to travel on to Annan instead of stopping on the English side of the border, where there were good beds to be had, and good food for man and beast. Here, so close to the Solway, there was no sign at all of any habitation as far as Ross could see. Probably the ground was too treacherous.
In the distance, he spied a small copse of trees. Dangerous, of course, if there was lightning. He looked up at the sky again. The black anvil clouds were swelling even before his eyes. And they were racing towards him. He had no choice.
He turned Hera towards the copse. He dared not go in. But, in the lee of the trees, they would find some shelter from the increasingly sharp wind, even if not from the wet. He pushed Hera on, urging her to a faster pace than was truly safe in the deepening gloom. ‘Not far now, my beauty,’ he murmured gently, laying a gloved hand on her neck. The mare’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice. She was unsettled by the coming storm. Even her master’s voice was not enough to calm her. ‘Not far now,’ Ross said again.
The mare slowed at the edge of the copse. Its old and misshapen trees had been bent almost double by the prevailing winds. ‘Better than nothing, I fancy,’ Ross said half to himself, preparing to dismount.
An enormous flash of lightning split the sky, followed by seconds of eerie silence. Hera laid her ears back and rolled her eyes in fear. Then came the thunder, growling like a pack of ferocious wolves. Hera tried to rear up, but Ross held her steady, automatically reaching out his hand to calm her.
But he was not thinking about his mare at all. He was concentrating on the sound that he had picked up in that tiny silence. Galloping hooves. Someone else was out on this wild night. By the sound of it, his horse was bolting.
Ross peered into the night, trying to identify the sound against the keening wind. Yes, there! The horse was racing towards him. And its pace had not slackened one jot.
He turned Hera towards the sound, readying her to intercept the stranger. But he had reckoned without the storm. Just as the unknown galloped past him, there was another flash of lightning. Hera reared up again. This time she almost unseated Ross. He wasted precious seconds regaining control, and even more in persuading her to follow the bolting horse.
He had no choice. For in that flash of lightning, he had clearly seen a terrified bay horse and, on its back, an equally terrified girl dressed in what looked like a long white shift and with her dark hair streaming behind her. Heaven knew what she was about, fleeing alone into the night. She might be a thief. She might even be mad. But whatever she was, Ross could not leave her to the mercy of the Solway and the terrible storm.
He kicked Hera into a gallop and cursed loudly when she baulked. ‘Come on,’ he breathed, leaning over her neck. ‘Come on, Hera. Don’t let me down now.’
Obedient to his voice, the mare started bravely forward once more. Ross knew that his chances of catching the girl were slim—she was already well ahead of him and he did not dare to force Hera to match the pace of the bolting horse—but he still had to try. Somewhere in front of them lay the Solway with its quicksands and unpredictable tides. Unless the horse stopped of its own accord, it would probably kill itself and its rider. The odds were against him. But Ross knew he had to try.
Another huge lightning flash, followed immediately by thunder. This time, Hera’s only reaction was a nervous twitch of the ears. Ross was almost sure that he had seen the girl, a long way ahead. There was something white up there, certainly. He urged Hera to move faster.
Now they were in the eye of the storm. The thunder was almost constant. Lightning forked to the ground. The storm seemed all around them, and very dangerous. The sudden drenching rain of high summer