Page 103 of Miss Prim and the Duke of Wylde
Drago was growing accustomed to being torn between the instinct to give chase and the compulsion to remain and protect Meg. The latter always won.
When they could no longer hear the fleeing man, he looked at Meg.
She met his eyes, her own deadly serious. “The attacks haven’t stopped.”
He eased his clenched jaw enough to say, “No. They haven’t.” He looked at the horse. “But whoever set this up has fled. We should be safe enough. Here. Hold these.”
He handed her the reins, then stepped carefully from the gig. Making soothing sounds, he approached the nervy horse. After stroking her long nose and shoulder, he reached for her injured hoof. “Let me see.”
He looked and bit back a curse. He released the hoof, injured but not, he thought, irreparably, and cast around on the ground.
“What are you looking for?”
“Some sort of caltrop—nails set to pierce horses’ hooves.”
“Good Lord!”
He saw one, bent, and scooped it up. He examined it, then grunted. “It’s a primitive, homemade affair. Just three big nails twisted together.” He showed her, then looked around. “Can you see any others?”
Meg tied off the reins, pulled on the brake, climbed down, and helped him search.
They found two more of the diabolical devices.
Drago scanned the lane one last time. “I think that’s it.”
He rejoined Meg by the gig. She glanced at the caltrops, then looked into his face. “Whoever planned this thought I would be alone. I would most likely have been thrown when the gig tipped or when the horse reared and kicked. Then whoever was waiting, watching, would…”
He felt his face harden and forced himself to nod.
Blue eyes filled with confusion, she asked, “Butwhy?”
Holding her gaze, he shook his head. “I’ve no idea, but we need to make an end to this.”
* * *
After some debate,they decided to free the horse from the gig, leave the carriage in the lane, and leading the mare, walk back to the stable.
By the time they reached the stable yard, they’d been spotted by several stablemen and gardeners, and a small group of concerned staff had gathered. Once the men heard their tale, shock and disbelief abounded, but were soon replaced by anger and determination.
While Meg reunited with a frantic Ridley—how did dogs so unerringly know when their people were in danger?—Drago assured the men of their intention to bring the matter to a head and expose and appropriately deal with whoever was behind the accident. Meg waited while he handed over the caltrops, explained the mare’s injury, consigned the poor beast into the head stableman’s care, and directed two grooms to retrieve the abandoned gig. Then he, she, and Ridley set off for the house.
They’d reached the stable arch when Drago paused, looked back, caught the head stableman’s eye, and called, “Have three riders get ready to courier messages to London.”
The head stableman saluted. “Aye, Your Grace.”
Drago turned, and they continued toward the house.
Meg guessed, “You’re calling in reinforcements?”
Lips thin, he nodded. “If we’re to catch this bastard, we’ll need to set a trap.”
Her expression tight, she smiled intently. “What an excellent idea.”
CHAPTER17
On the following day in the late afternoon, while in the drawing room watching Meg sip her tea, in an effort to distract her and himself from the threat hovering over them, Drago suggested they take the boat out on the lake.
It was a glorious, lazy early-summer day. A week before, on the second day they’d been at the Court, at Meg’s eager suggestion, he’d rowed them out, and they’d spent a quiet hour lying back in the mild sunshine and talking. Golden moments that they’d both enjoyed and that he hoped to replicate today.
