Stefan walked up to him, having just returned from the hunting expedition he'd taken out last night. "I hear the women escaped this morning," he said, worriedly following Royce's gaze to the highest hill to the north. "Do you think they actually made it to yon ridge?"

"They haven't had time to get there on foot," Royce answered, his voice harsh with anger. "But in case they took the longer route around it, I sent men out to check the road. They questioned every traveler they encountered, but no one has seen two young women. A cottager saw two boys riding into the hills on horseback and that was all.

"Wherever they are, they're bound to lose their way if they head into those hills-there isn't enough sun to use as a compass. Secondly, they don't know where they are so they can't know which direction to go."

Stefan was silent, his eyes searching the distant hills, then he looked sharply at Royce. "When I rode into camp just now, I wondered if you'd decided to go hunting on your own last night."

"Why?" Royce said shortly.

Stefan hesitated, knowing that Royce prized the mighty black warhorse for his enormous courage and loyalty more than he valued many people. In fact, Thor's feats in the lists and on the battlefield were nearly as legendary as his owner's. One famous lady at court had once complained to her friends that if Royce Westmoreland showed her half the affection he showed his damned horse, she'd count herself lucky. And Royce had replied, with typical acid sarcasm, that if the lady had half the loyalty and heart of his horse, he'd have married her.

There wasn't a man in Henry's army who would have dared to take Royce's horse out of the pen for a gallop. Which meant someone else had.