Page 11 of The Cutthroat Countess

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Elliot knew he was riding recklessly, and on a night when there was scarcely a quarter of a moon, but it was either risk his neck riding ventre á terre or lose his mind riding slowly.

By the time he reached Daniel Morrison’s secluded cottage, it was just past eleven o’clock. Rather than go racing in, he left his mount at The Three Brothers and jogged the half mile to Morrison’s.

There was a light burning inside the cottage but no horses tethered at the hitching post, indicating the man didn’t have any visitors.

Elliot had asked at the inn if a man wearing Jo’s disguise had left a mount earlier in the day, but the stable lad and ostlers hadn’t seen anyone matching her description.

Elliot had his miniature lantern with him, a device that had multiple shields of varying opacity. He allowed himself just enough light to confirm that Jo had been there—he recognized her boot tread as the same pair she’d worn in France. There were other prints, as well—both human and horse—and it looked as if at least two other people had been there at some point since the last rain. He didn’t see any sign of a scuffle in the prints, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been one.

He lowered the shields on the lamp and made his way around back. There was only one outbuilding, and it wasn’t large enough to hold a horse. A quick check inside the shack exposed nothing sinister, just a rake, shovel, and some other gardening tools. There were no windows on the back of the cottage, so he raised a single shield to allow for a bit more light. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to find, but something inside him cried out against simply marching directly up to the house.

A rustling off to his right drew his attention and he turned toward the garden. The last time he’d visited Morrison, the man had been outside tending his vegetables when he’d arrived. Elliot blinked as he recognized the Morrison’s garden stool sitting at the end of a row. There were also gloves and hand tools—scattered about in the dirt.

Daniel Morrison was a meticulously tidy man, and the last thing he would do was leave expensive work gloves and tools lying about in the mud and dirt.

Elliot had just turned toward the house again when he heard another rustling noise come from out in the garden. Casting caution aside, he lifted two more shades on the light. “Who’s there,” he hissed, his pistol in his other hand.

“Elliot!”

He gasped. “Jo!” he shouted, swinging the lamp from side to side and squinting into the darkness.

“Elliot!”

Something rustled among the foliage, and Elliot lowered the light, gaping when he saw a familiar glossy black shape.

“Bloody hell, Angus!” He hastily dimmed the light to its lowest and rushed toward the bird. Even in the near darkness, he saw that there was something wrong with the raven’s wing.

Quork, quork.

The bird hopped toward him, dragging the injured wing behind him.

“What happened?” Elliot asked stupidly.

“Elliot!” the bird said in a voice so like Jo’s, it made him shiver.

“Shh,” he whispered, dropping to his haunches. “Quiet time,” he said in a low voice, using the phrase he’d heard Jo use before. He clucked his tongue. “Come here and let me look at you, old chap.”

The raven hopped closer, and Elliot lowered the light. “I’m going to look at your wing,” he said, feeling like an idiot for speaking to an animal, but Jo always told the raven what she was doing, and the bird seemed to find the sound of his voice soothing. And, thankfully, he didn’t snap his beak at Elliot when he reached out and opened his wing.

Elliot sucked in a breath when he saw the ragged feathers. “Well, this must have smarted like the dickens,” he murmured. “But it’s not as bad as it looks, is it?”

The raven’s silence spoke volumes.

The injury was small, at least when it came to the bird’s actual flesh, but something had torn out several of the big feathers that were probably necessary for flight, which would explain why the raven was hiding on the ground.

Elliot quickly checked over the rest of the bird, relieved when he didn’t find any other injuries. “Alright, old fellow, I guess you can’t tell me what I’ll find inside that cottage, can you?”

The raven remained silent, and Elliot pushed down the nausea that rose inside him. Jo would never have left her bird injured and alone. A grounded bird was an easy target for predators like stray dogs, and even a house cat could be a menace to Angus in his current state.

“Don’t borrow trouble, Elliot,” he whispered, and then extended his arm. “Up on my shoulder, boy. Let’s find somewhere safe for you to wait.”

The raven obligingly climbed up his arm to his shoulder.

Elliot grunted; the bloody bird weighed at least two pounds. How in the world did Jo tolerate such a weight? “I guess she must love you, eh?” he murmured once he’d stood.

Angus gave him a gentle nip on the ear.