Chapter 24
Bryn Hir seemed to darken as they watched it.
The last of the daylight had begun to disappear behind the mountains, leaving the distant house in shadow. From the hill above, Rosalind could make out little beyond a long stone facade, a steep roof, and several chimneys rising against the fading sky.
Woods crowded close around it on three sides, while no neighboring house or village light broke the emptiness beyond.
Somewhere inside that house, her father might be waiting for her.
The thought should have filled her with relief. Instead, fear settled so heavily in Rosalind’s chest that for several moments she could do nothing but stare.
For weeks, she had wanted nothing more than to know where her father was. Every false lead and unanswered question had been another obstacle between her and the truth, but searching had been easier than doing nothing.
Now the truth might be waiting at the bottom of this hill, and she was suddenly terrified of finding it.
The letter had called her father a prisoner, but it had said nothing about his condition. Nothing about whether he was ill or injured, whether he had been treated kindly or cruelly, or even whether he was still alive.
Rosalind had spent the entire journey telling herself that someone did not go to such trouble to imprison a man only to kill him, but hope was not evidence.
Anything could have happened in the weeks since he disappeared.
Her hands tightened around the reins until the leather pressed painfully into her palms.
“We should slow from here,” William said quietly.
Rosalind dragged her attention from the house and looked at him.
“We do not know who is inside or whether they are expecting anyone.” His gaze remained fixed upon the estate below. “Four riders arriving at speed will announce us long before we reach the house.”
Gabriel nodded. “And if someone is keeping Eastmere there, I doubt they will be pleased to see us.”
Rosalind swallowed.
Beside her, Isabella shifted in the saddle. “Then perhaps we should not all enter together.”
Three heads turned toward her.
Isabella looked mildly offended. “What?”
“What do you suggest?” William asked.
“Gabriel can remain near the front entrance. If anyone approaches, he can stop them or warn you.”
Gabriel glanced at her. “How generous of you to place me directly in danger.”
“You are welcome.”
“And you?” Rosalind asked.
“I will watch the rear of the house.”
“Alone?”
Isabella gave her a pointed look.
Rosalind’s first instinct was to object, but it was the same instinct that had risen when Isabella announced she was coming to Wales.
She sighed. “Where?”
“Somewhere near the back entrance. I’ll find a hedge or a bush or whatever else this miserable place has provided for concealment.”
“And if you see someone?” William asked.
“I shall make the call of a bird.”
Gabriel stared at her. “What sort of bird?”
Isabella hesitated long enough that Rosalind almost laughed.
“A distinctive one,” she decided.
“That inspires tremendous confidence.”
“I could scream instead.”
“The bird is excellent.”
William’s mouth twitched, but when he looked at Rosalind, the fleeting amusement disappeared.
Rosalind looked once more toward Bryn Hir. “You and I go inside.”
William did not ask whether she was certain or suggest that she remain safely behind while he searched for her father. He simply accepted her answer.
For that alone, she was grateful.
They descended the hill at a walk.
With every yard, Bryn Hir grew larger, its details emerging from the gathering darkness. The stone was stained by years of damp, and ivy climbed unchecked along one side. No smoke rose from the chimneys, and no lamps burned behind the windows.
Rosalind searched each dark pane anyway, desperate for some sign of movement.
There was none.
By the time they reached the grounds, evening had nearly surrendered to night. They concealed the horses among the trees, and Gabriel moved toward the front of the house while Isabella prepared to circle around the opposite side.
Before leaving, Isabella caught Rosalind’s hand. Neither of them spoke as Rosalind squeezed her fingers once. Isabella returned the pressure before releasing her and disappearing around the house.
William remained beside Rosalind.
“Ready?”
No.
But she had not spent weeks searching for her father only to lose her courage when she was finally close enough to find him.
“Yes.”
William studied her face for a moment. Whatever he saw there must have told him the truth, but he did not challenge the lie.
They approached the house together.
The front door was locked. William tested it once, then motioned Rosalind back and led her along the side of the building in search of another entrance.
They found a smaller door near what appeared to be the servants’ quarters.
William tried the handle.
It yielded beneath his hand.
He raised one finger to his lips before stepping inside, and Rosalind followed.
The silence was immediate.
It was not the ordinary quiet of a sleeping household, with servants moving discreetly through distant rooms and life continuing somewhere beyond sight. This felt abandoned.
Their footsteps seemed impossibly loud despite every effort to soften them. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and dust. Furniture stood beneath sheets in one room they passed, while another contained nothing but a cold hearth and an overturned chair.
William went first, pausing at every doorway before signaling for her to follow.
Rosalind hated being behind him, yet she could not deny how grateful she was that he was there. Every darkened passage seemed capable of producing someone, and every faint creak overhead drew her gaze toward the ceiling.
Nothing came.
At the end of another corridor, William stopped so abruptly that Rosalind nearly walked into him.
He turned, lowering his voice until it was scarcely more than breath. “If someone is being held here, I would choose the cellar.”
Her stomach turned.
“There are fewer ways out,” he continued. “And doors that can be locked.”
She lifted her eyes to his.
They had crossed half the country for this. Somewhere beneath her feet might be the answer to every question that had tormented her since her father disappeared.
William’s voice softened. “Stay with me.”
Not stay here.
Stay with me.
Rosalind nodded.
William found the stairs beyond a narrow service passage. They descended carefully, the air cooling with every step. Rosalind held one hand against the wall, more for balance than guidance, while William carried the small lamp they had found near the kitchen.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a heavy metal door.
Rosalind stopped, her gaze fixed upon it as William stepped forward and carefully tried the handle.
Locked.
The trembling that had begun upstairs worsened. She wrapped her arms around herself, but it did little to steady her.
“Papa?”
The word escaped before she could stop it.
William turned sharply, lifting a hand to warn her against calling again, and Rosalind pressed her lips together. They stood listening in the silence until a faint scrape came from somewhere beyond the door.
Her heart lurched.
Another sound followed, unmistakably movement this time.
Someone was in there.
William leaned closer to the door. “Lord Eastmere?” he whispered.
For several terrible seconds, there was no answer.
Then a faint voice came through the door.
“Who is there?”
Rosalind’s knees nearly gave way.
She knew that voice.
It was weaker than she remembered, roughened by exhaustion, but there was no mistaking it.
She had heard it every day of her childhood, soothing her after nightmares, laughing across the dinner table, calling after her when she left a room without remembering whatever shawl or book she had brought with her.
Her father was alive.
“Papa.”
She rushed toward the door.
“Rosalind?” His voice broke over her name. “Rosalind?”
William caught her arm before she collided with the locked door, steadying her before immediately letting go.
“The key,” he whispered. “There must be one nearby.”
Rosalind nodded, unable to tear her gaze from the door while William lifted the lamp and searched the walls. A row of hooks hung beside the stairs, most of them empty, but one held a ring of keys.
William seized it.
The first did not fit. Neither did the second.
Rosalind could hear her father moving on the other side.
“Rosalind?”
“I am here.”
“What are you doing here?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “I came for you.”
The third key turned.
William pulled open the door, revealing a short passage beyond. At the end of it, iron bars caught the glow of the lamp.
And behind them stood her father.
A cry tore from Rosalind before she could stop it.
“Papa!”
For one terrible moment, she could only stare at him.
Her father had always been slender, but the man behind the bars was thinner than she had ever seen him. His clothes hung loosely from his frame, his hair had grown long enough to curl untidily around his ears, and there was more gray at his temples than she remembered.
Exhaustion had hollowed the familiar lines of his face until he looked older somehow, diminished by however many weeks he had spent in this place.
The sight of him hurt.
But he was standing. His eyes were fixed upon her with the same disbelief she felt, and when he reached for the bars, Rosalind saw his hands trembling.
He was alive.
Relief crashed through her so fiercely that it left no room for anything else.
Rosalind ran to him.
Edmund reached the bars at the same moment, and she thrust her hands through the narrow gap until his closed around them.
“My darling girl.”
That was all it took.
The tears came before Rosalind could answer. She clung to his hands, laughing and crying at once, overwhelmed by the warmth of his fingers and the impossible, wonderful certainty that he was truly there.
“You are alive.”
“Of course I am alive.”