But the ground was deceiving. It looked flat, but it was pitted with hidden dips and covered in tough, wiry heather that could trip a horse moving at speed. Alister let Ares have his head, the powerful stallion devouring the ground. He flew past rider after rider, his eyes fixed on the distant fox. But he was also now intensely aware of the gray horse and its silent rider.
She was not trying to match their pace. Instead, she was taking a different line, a long, curving arc to the west. He knew that route. It followed the high ground, the firmer ground. It was longer, but safer, and ultimately faster.
She understood the land. This was no longer about a woman on a plow horse. This was about a horsewoman of extraordinary skill and intelligence, using the tools she had to their absolute best advantage. The other riders were competing against each other. She was competing against the terrain itself.
And she was winning. The afternoon began to wane, the sun slanting low in the sky, turning the frostbitten grass to gold. The hunt had become a grueling affair. The initial pack of 50 riders had dwindled to fewer than a dozen. A fine mist began to rise from the damp ground, blurring the edges of the world.
The fox, clever and tenacious, had led them on a punishing chase across the whole of the Blackwood estate and onto the wild, untamed fells that bordered Oakhaven. Alister's own mount was beginning to tire. Ares was still strong, but the relentless pace had taken its toll. He saw Lord Ashworth pull up, his horse lathered in sweat and blowing hard. Two others followed his example, turning back towards the distant comfort of Blackwood Park.
Julian Thorne was still in the hunt, his face a mask of grim determination. He was a decent rider, Alister had to give him that, but he was pushing his horse too hard, driven by some private fury. Every time he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes went to the steady, implacable figure of his cousin. Miss Vance and her gray horse were still there, always there. Not in the lead, but never far behind.
An anchor, a constant presence. Perseus' heavy, rhythmic gallop was not fast, but it was tireless. He was built for a full day's work, not a short, sharp burst of speed. The long hunt had become his domain. They came to a swollen stream, the peaty water brown and churning after recent rains.
It was wide and the banks were steep. The hounds plunged in without a thought, but the horses balked. We'll have to find the old bridge, someone called out. It's a mile east of here. Alister was about to agree when he saw Miss Vance ride Perseus right to the edge.
The horse didn't hesitate. He lowered his great head, tested the water with a hoof, and then walked in, the water swirling around his powerful shoulders. He moved like a force of nature, unstoppable. Miss Vance sat calmly, her hands steady on the reins as they forged a path to the other side. She did not look back.
She did not need to. Alister swore under his breath, a sound of pure admiration. He urged Ares into the water, following her path. A few of the remaining riders, emboldened, did the same. Julian Thorne was among them.