A little way farther on, the path led into the clearing before their goal-an old woodcutters’ cottage buried deep in the woods. Drawing rein some yards before the door, Dillon raked the cottage. Very few people knew it existed. The woodcutters came every few years to thin the woods, to gather the dead branches and reduce them to charcoal, which they sold, mostly to the Caxton house hold.

It was too early in the season for any woodcutters to have arrived, yet scanning the ground before the door, he saw clear evidence that horses had been standing there.

Pris had followed him into the clearing; she halted the mare alongside. “More than one horse, and recently.”

Worry tinged her voice. Dillon looked up, but no smoke rose from the chimney. “We’re on Caxton lands. We own this cottage, and as you’ve just seen, it’s well hidden.”

Dismounting, he led Solomon to a post with rings set into it. Securing the gelding’s reins, he glanced at Pris, but she hadn’t waited for him to lift her down; she led her mare to the post. While she tied off her reins, he walked to the side of the cottage and checked the small lean-to-stable.

Turning back, he saw Pris watching, and shook his head. “No horse, and no sign one has been there in a good long while.”

Going to the door, she waited; joining her, he lifted the latch and pushed the door wide. The hinges creaked.

He paused on the threshold, aware of Pris crowding by his shoulder. Light streamed past them, and also through the unshuttered windows, one on either side of the door. Dust motes danced in the slanting beams illuminating the rudimentary yet solid and, for its purpose, comfortable interior.

Pris sucked in a breath. Dillon glanced at her, then followed her gaze to the wood stacked beside the hearth-laid in that distinctive crosshatch. “Your brother’s hallmark.”

Moving into the room, he glanced around; Pris did the same. As in the ruined cottage, a certain neatness prevailed-a lack of dust, the old armchairs aligned, the two stools parallel under the table. There was no evidence of a fire in the hearth, no such obvious sign that anyone was living there, but the stones had recently been swept. Rus Dalling’s mark was everywhere.

“He’s been here recently.” Pris glanced at him.

“More recently than at the ruined cottage?”

She nodded. “He’s not near at the moment, but it’s as if I’ve walked into his room at some house we’re staying at.”

He glanced around. “Let’s search. If he has those saddlebags, it’s unlikely he’s carrying them with him.”

They looked everywhere-under the narrow bed, in all the corners, on every high shelf-and found nothing. Then Dillon remembered the storeroom, built onto the cottage at the opposite end to the stable. Its door wasn’t obvious, simply a section of the planks lining the wall; crooking his fingers in the gap that served as handle, he pulled it open.

Pris pushed past him. Rough shelving ran along the outer walls. There was little light, only what seeped between the rafters and the roof, and past him as he stood in the doorway. Feeling Pris’s irritated glance, he moved father into the narrow space, reaching past her to feel along the back of the high shelves while she crouched and, despite her fear of rodents, peered and poked below the lowest shelf.

“Here!” Triumphant, she shot to her feet-courtesy of the tight space, plastering herself to him.

Something she did without the slightest hesitation, as if she barely noticed the way her breasts crushed against his chest, the way her thighs slid against his.

He sucked in a breath and flattened himself against the wall as she wrestled a pair of saddlebags up between them-only just missing doing serious damage.

Her eyes sparkled as they met his. “These are Rus’s!”

“Good.” His voice sounded strained; he tried to keep his expression from turning grim as he squeezed her past him and gently pushed her to the door. “Take it out in the light.”

She paused in the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. “There’s a traveling bag there, too.”

He waved her on. “I’ll get it.” Once she’d gone, he took a moment to catch his breath before bending and hauling the bag from its hiding place.

Stepping into the main room, he saw Pris by the bed, busily rifling through the saddlebags. “These are definitely Rus’s, but just clothes, his favorite bridle, and the quirt I gave him last birthday.”

Last birthday-one she’d shared. As he put the bag on the bed, she glanced at it. “That’s the bag I sent him when he wrote that he’d joined Cromarty’s employ.”

Swiftly rebuckling the saddlebags, she opened the traveling bag and delved within. “More clothes, a book I sent with the bag-I bet he hasn’t even opened it-and…” Straightening, she looked at the saddlebags, then at the traveling bag. “I think this must be all his things. He has to be staying here.”

She looked up at him.

He nodded. “He must be out, either in town or around the Heath. If he hasn’t got a horse, then he’ll be walking, so getting anywhere will take time.”

“So what should we do? Wait until he comes back?”

He thought, then shook his head. “He could stay away until late.” He hesitated, then met her eyes. “Those horses that were here recently…if someone’s been looking for him, he won’t risk returning until he’s sure no one’s likely to come calling.”

Pris blew out a breath and studied his face. “All right-we’ll leave a note-”

“No-no note.” When she frowned and went to argue, he cut her off. “We don’t know who might come searching and find your name. Even ‘Pris’ is too traceable-as far as I know, you’re the only Priscilla in Newmarket. No-we’ll put the bags back exactly as we found them, then I’ll come back to night and see if your brother’s returned. Recognizing him, after all, won’t be a problem.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t know why you bother-you know I’m going to come here to night, too.”

He looked into her eyes, then sighed and picked up the traveling bag. “I had to try.”

They returned the bag and saddlebags to the storeroom; at his suggestion, she arranged them as closely as she could to the way they’d been. “He might or might not know that someone called yesterday.”

“He wouldn’t have missed the hoof marks outside.”

“Regardless”-he held the cottage door for her, then followed her out-“we don’t want to give him cause to run. We want him at home next time we call.”

He closed the door, then lifted her to the mare’s saddle. On Solomon, he led the way out of the clearing along a different path-one that led to the Heath; it was the same path he’d emerged from when he’d found her fleeing Harkness three days before.

They rode through the slanting sunshine, giving the town a wide berth, circling to the east. When they clattered into the stable yard behind the Carisbrook house, they’d completed a full circuit of Newmarket.

Patrick came out of the stable. She waved gaily; kicking free of the stirrups, she slid to the ground. Handing over the mare’s reins, she beamed. “We’ve found him! Or at least found where he’s staying.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Patrick grinned at her, then nodded to Dillon. “Mr. Caxton.”

She whirled; shading her eyes against the setting sun, she looked up at Dillon. “Where will I meet you? At the cottage?”

“No.”

The word was flat, absolute. When she raised her brows at him, his lips thinned. He dismounted. “I’ll meet you here.” He glanced at Patrick, then at her. “I don’t want you riding anywhere alone at night, much less across the Heath, no doubt dressed as a lad and astride.” His eyes bored into hers. “No telling whom you might meet. Or what he might think.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, opened her lips-

“Aye. Mr. Caxton’s right there,” Patrick cut in. “Riding alone at night’s not safe, and your aunt would be the first to say so.”

She glanced at Patrick, then back at Dillon-quickly enough to catch the slight, distinctly male nod he sent Patrick’s way. Dillon had fetched Patrick and the carriage that morning; they’d had time to meet and get each other’s mea sure…

Plastering a smile on her face, she reached out, plucked Dillon’s reins from his loose grasp, and gave them to Patrick. “In that case, you’d better come in and speak with Aunt Eugenia. Riding all the way home, then all the way back here this evening will be such a waste of time, I’m sure she’ll insist, as do I, that you join us for dinner. Especially as it’s all in Rus’s cause-he’s far and away her favorite nephew.”

She linked her arm with Dillon’s, but he didn’t budge.

“My house hold will be expecting me-”

“I’m sure Patrick can arrange for a groom to take a message.” She stared at Patrick, who looked down to hide his smile.

“Aye-I can do that.” He glanced at Dillon. “If you’ll let me know what, where, and who to speak to, sir, I’ll send a lad right away.”

Dillon knew a trap when it snapped shut around him. He inwardly sighed and glanced down at Pris, hanging on his arm. “I take it your aunt will be delighted to hear we’ve all but located your brother?”

She smiled, and turned him toward the house. “She’ll be in alt, and Adelaide will be, too.” As she towed him to his fate, she blithely informed him, “They’ll both want to thank you, I’m sure.”

They did, several times, but to Dillon’s relief, both Lady Fowles and Adelaide refrained from living up to either his or Pris’s expectations. Although immensely relieved to hear that he and Pris were one step away from meeting with Rus, they were also keenly interested in the swindle he believed Rus had got wind of; they were eager to hear the details explained.

Dillon relaxed, easier in the ladies’ company than he’d expected. Over the dinner table, Pris, seeing it, pulled a face at him and nearly made him choke.