Hamish, restless in his head, was a low rumble like thunder. Like the guns in France, which haunted both of them still.

Some twenty minutes later, moving quietly and keeping to the shadows, he reached The Reivers. Wet and cold, he stood silently in the doorway of the stables and waited to see if anyone had noticed him slipping across the yard. But the windows of houses that overlooked the inn yard were either dark or had had their shades pulled.

Rutledge had considered summoning Drummond as an ally, then decided it was far from certain just where Drummond’s loyalties lay. Feeling to be certain that his torch was still in his pocket, he crossed quickly to the back of the inn and found a window that he was able to force open with his knife.

A London burglar, he thought, pleased, couldn’t have done it better—or more quietly.

Climbing in, he let himself down gingerly, then reached up to refasten the sash as best he could. Satisfied that the window wouldn’t attract attention on a night like this, he bent to remove his shoes. They felt heavy, waterlogged.

Something stirred in the darkness, and he jerked away from it, prepared to defend himself.

But it was only Clarence, her light mew of greeting lost in the frantic beating of his heart.

Stooping, he rubbed her back, then let his eyes grow accustomed to the darkness before moving on.

He found himself in the small back room that had been used as storage for the kitchen. A stack of wooden boxes stood there, and he cut a strip from the top of one to reinforce his temporary patch on the window frame. He also found some towels in a drawer and used them to wipe his wet face and his hair. His stocking feet were reasonably dry, and he was grateful for that.

Moving slowly, cautiously, Rutledge made his way through the inn. In each room he paused, his eyes alert, his ears tuned to the merest sound. The silence was heavy, even shutting out the sound of the rain, and the white blur that was Clarence had already gone ahead of him, disappearing around a door. The kitchen. The bar. The inn parlor.

Rutledge came to the stairs, and after listening intently went up them softly, his stocking feet close to the outer edge of the treads, where there would be the least chance of a sound as his weight settled on the old wood.

There was no one in the room upstairs that belonged to Fiona.

He moved around it with care, checking behind the door and in every corner, even lifting the curtain around her clothes before looking under the bed. The floorboard, his questing hands told him, was still in place.

No one had been here. He was fairly certain of that. The question was, would someone come in the night? This night? Another night? Not at all . . .