Chapter 23 #2
“Best heed her,” Archibald said, shooting Patrick a look. “And ye’ll do it quick, if ye’re wise.”
Patrick looked at Dorcas. He almost asked her if she planned to stay, then realized that would be an extraordinarily bad thing to ask—given that he was quite certain he already knew the answer—so he nodded deferentially.
“Of course,” he said. “Remodeling, aye. As soon as I can manage it. I’ll start with this chamber.”
“The girl, Patrick,” Dorcas said crisply. “Fetch the girl.”
“Well—”
She stood. “I will expect it done immediately.” She looked at Archibald. “Don’t sit and smoke all day.”
She gave Patrick one last pointed look, then vanished.
Archibald sighed, then rose. He looked down at Patrick. “Best do as she says, lad.’Tis in yer best interest.”
Archibald!
came the imperious ghostly shout.
Archibald sighed, then vanished.
The valet picked up the silver tray, then disappeared with all the furniture and trappings of his master.
Patrick sat and looked at his now empty chamber. He shook his head and it felt suddenly clear, as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep. The dream he’d just had, vivid though it had been, seemed to recede further with every heartbeat.
Gold in the compost pile? A ghost with remodeling on her mind? Another worried about posterity?
Absurd.
As was sitting in a cold chamber with a fire that had long since given up the ghost, as it were. He looked at his watch. He needed to leave within the hour to make the plane. He’d have to find Madelyn and get going.
He called Ian. Still no Madelyn. He felt a brief flash of annoyance run through him, but he let it go just as quickly. He hadn’t done right by her. Perhaps he deserved a bit of it in return.
Or perhaps it was nothing more than a desire of hers to see the beauty of his land one last time, and see it without being rushed.
And then another thought occurred to him.
What if she’d gotten lost?
Truly lost?
He left his house, saddled the Black, and rode without hesitation to the forest. He realized as he rode that unless he found Madelyn soon, he’d just blown ￡4000 on a one-way, first-class ticket for no reason.
Unless he could convince himself that he really shouldn’t put her on that plane.
At the moment he was beginning to have serious doubts about his doubts.
He dismounted at the edge of the forest, then looked about him. He saw the tracks after a bit. Tire tracks. Then booted feet, leading farther into the forest.
Car, then driver on the hoof, if looks didn’t deceive.
He followed the footsteps. They stopped several times, then were joined—or they followed—a set of smaller boot prints.
Madelyn’s.
He knew. He’d bought the boots.
He continued to follow both sets, his unease growing with every footstep. The footsteps stopped. There was some trampling.
There was Jane’s mobile phone, lying there uselessly on the ground.
He closed his eyes briefly, then picked up the mobile and put it in his pocket. The smaller prints fled. They were pursued. He followed until the larger prints stopped and retreated.
The smaller prints continued.
Patrick continued to follow them.
And then they disappeared.
Patrick stopped. His heart sank and the feeling of doom descended fully. He stood there for several minutes trying to decide what to do.
There was nothing he could do. Not at present.
He turned and walked back the way he had come.
He paused at the place where Madelyn’s footsteps had encountered the others.
The other footsteps belonged to Bentley, he supposed.
But what had happened? Had Bentley come upon her unawares?
Was that why she’d fled? Or had she merely caught sight of him and tried to disappear without being seen?
And disappeared more fully than she’d intended?
He stood there for several minutes, thinking, before he realized that he was not alone.
He leaned over on the pretext of fixing his boot.
Whoever was watching him obviously had a low opinion of him because he sprang out immediately.
Patrick had the time to determine it was indeed Bentley Douglas Taylor III, ascertain what the fool thought to do—club him with a small log—roll aside, and let his foot connect with Bentley’s solar plexus before Bentley knew what had happened. Patrick stood over Madelyn’s ex-fiancé.
“Interesting choice of weapons,” he said.
“I left my gun at home,” Bentley panted from where he lay sprawled on the ground. He heaved himself to his feet and swung the wood again.
Patrick stepped back at a leisurely pace. “Where is she?”
“Damned if I know.”
“Hoping she’ll return?”
“Yes. Any more questions before I kill you?”
“Certainly,” Patrick said pleasantly. He didn’t specifically concentrate on making Bentley look as big a fool as possible, but the temptation was overpowering. He dodged with as little effort expended as possible. “Was it you who stirred the McGhee pot?”
“Of course. Too good an opportunity to miss.”
“How did you find him?”
“I’m a damned good attorney,” Bentley said. “I did some investigating. For the benefit of you rustics, that means I snooped around until I dug up good dirt.”
“I understood the concept, thank you. Now, call him off.”
Bentley snorted, then heaved the log at Patrick. “Fat chance.”
“Why not? What do you care?”
Bentley pulled out a knife. “I don’t like you.”
“Nor I you,” Patrick said, “but that’s no reason to aggravate me.”
“You slept with Madelyn, you idiot. Is that reason enough for you?”
Patrick was having a hard time understanding Bentley’s logic, but he supposed there were depths to the fool in front of him that he would be better off not plumbing.
“You gave her the sack,” Patrick said slowly.
“Doesn’t seem to me as if you cared whether or not you slept with her if that’s the case. ”
Bentley threw the knife at him. Patrick shifted and the knife went sailing harmlessly past.
“I like being the first,” Bentley growled. “Not something you’d understand, given all the men your sister probably had before you.”
Patrick took a step closer to him. “As I keep telling you, I don’t have a sister,” he said before he punched Bentley full in the face.
Bentley fell to the ground and began to scream. “Lawsuit, lawsuit, lawsuit!” he wailed.
Patrick was tempted to just walk away, but he’d had just one too many insults from this one. It was past time to encourage Bentley to perhaps get on a plane and go back home.
Of course, that didn’t solve the problem of what Madelyn would do with Bentley once she was back in the States, but he would work on that later, when he wasn’t concentrating on the task at hand.
Maybe he would just see that she never went back to the States.
Assuming he could find her to see to that.
He couldn’t begin to think about the possibility that he might not be able to.