From the distance, growing nearer by the second, came the fierce belling of the pack.
“The hunt!” Rushborough cried. He steadied the horses and guided them out of the glade. “Look!” He pointed up the fell, where the first of the hounds was just cresting the rise. “They are much closer than I had suspected.” He watched with keen interest as the fox zigzagged an uneven course toward the level ground of the park. Spotted hounds, in full cry, barreled down the hill in pursuit. Eden felt a stab of fear that was not for herself or for anything human.
“The fell packs are unlike those of the south, in that men follow afoot rather than on horseback,” Rushborough said, an edge of excitement in his voice. “This country is too dangerous for galloping horses. And the local folk pride themselves on their sturdiness and stamina. There is sure to be an excellent kill today.”
He nodded up the fell, where the dogs had been. A handful of men appeared at the crest, bristling with guns and holding still more panting, straining dogs. One of the hunters pointed downfell and gave a cry.
Sick with dread, Eden held her seat. She had the absurd desire to run after the fox and place herself between it and the bawling hounds.
“I do not care for this, Francis,” she said. “It is cruel, and if I had my way, I would banish such hunts entirely.”
He stared at her in surprise. “Cruel? Why, we do the farmers and shepherds a great service by killing their vermin. They’d destroy the foxes themselves if we did not. For what purpose were such creatures born, if not to amuse us?”
Eden clutched the side of the carriage. The dogs, growing more distant, were closing in on the hapless fox. Soon it would go to earth and wait to be dug out and torn apart by the terriers.
She could do nothing to save it.
“You do look pale, my dear,” Francis said, smiling indulgently. “It is your womanly nature that is offended. I shall take you home at—”
He stopped short with a gasp. She followed his line of sight to the place where the fox had last been.
The fox and the hounds were no longer alone. A human figure was with them—but one far too small to be one of the pursuing hunters. He stood between the snarling, snapping dogs and the fox crouched at his heels.
Some primal instinct told Eden who that figure was. She tried to scream, but her breath came out in a long, high wheeze. “Donal,” she whispered. “It’s Donal.”
“Your son? Impossible. Was he not to come tomorrow? Hartsmere is miles away—”
“It is my son, I tell you!”
Rushborough frowned. “You are unwell, my dear. Let me take you back—”
She snatched the ribbons from his loose grip, slapped them down on the horses’s backs, and drove a reckless path down the fellside. The marquess sputtered a protest, which she ignored. She had no thought for him now. The carriage bounced and jounced over rough ground and stones, but her grip on the lines was iron.
Donal’s pale, set face looked up as she drove near. He bent over the fox, protecting it with his body, while the hounds circled him with deep, menacing growls.
Surely they would not hurt a child. Surely not a boy like Donal.
But whatever Donal’s natural skills with animals, they had deserted him now, or he had forgotten how to use them. He caught up the fox, made himself very small, and tried to face all the dogs at once.
Eden tried to jump out of the carriage, but Francis seized her by the arm. “Eden!”
“Let me go!” She turned on him savagely. “Find a gun! Get help!”
With a look of astonishment, Francis glanced from her to Donal and jumped from the carriage. He ran up the fell-side toward the descending hunters.
Eden dropped the ribbons and let the plunging, wild-eyed horses bolt away. She darted toward the nearest of the dogs, shouting and waving her arms. Several of the hounds spun to face her, bristling.
With another silent prayer, Eden walked directly into the seething pack. A tooth-filled maw snapped at her hand. Another dog caught the hem of her pelisse and began to tug.