Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
Caught dancing barefoot in the
moonlit woods, dressed only in her shift, Elizabeth Penshurst is considered by
decent folk to be notorious and disgraced. Sent by her father, a reverend, to
serve penance with a cousin in Hernewood, Lizzie sets her thoughts on becoming
the perfectly demure and reserved young woman any suitor would want.
But evil haunts the woods of
Hernewood Abbey. As the Druid festival of Beltane approaches,a sinister
cult seeks a virgin sacrifice. Their intended victim: Lizzie. Her only
defender—and the man likely to relieve her of her dangerous maidenhood—is the
mysterious Gabriel, the Dark Man, a fellow outcast and scholar of Druidism. The
forest calls to them both.
Their irresistible attraction,
both mystical and bawdy, may be the only force more powerful than the cult’s
dark purpose.
Coming soon!
Prologue
Wickham, Dorset, April 1765
IT WAS THE
first night of spring. April had come to Dorset, and there was no way that
Elizabeth Penshurst could spend one more moment cooped up inside the parsonage.
Everyone was
sound asleep. Her five half-brothers, ranging in age from a sturdy seventeen to
a precociously charming three and a half, were worn-out from their various
exertions. Her father, the Very Reverend William Penshurst, slept the sleep of
the righteous, his helpmate, Adelia, snoring softly by his side. No one would
hear as Lizzie crept down the back stairs and out through the kitchen garden.
The town of Wickham was a sober village of steady habits. No one would be up
late, peering out the window to see the rector’s outspoken daughter go flitting
down the midnight streets to the forest. Even her nemesis, Elliott Maynard, had
left for London more than a week ago, and he wouldn’t be anywhere near to spy
on her.
Odd that she
would think of her most determined suitor as her nemesis. It wasn’t as if she
had anything against marriage in particular. Her father and stepmother seemed
very happy with each other, and most of the people of her acquaintance seemed
content with their lot.
But then, most
of the people of her acquaintance didn’t have a wicked habit of running off to
the woods whenever they had a moment to spare. They didn’t dance in the
moonlight, converse with the animals, sing to the trees, or lie stretched out
on the soft earth, breathing in the spring air.
The only one
who did so was Old Peg, and half the village considered her some sort of
witch. Old Peg had little use for the villagers, but she must have recognized a
kindred spirit in the minister’s dreamy daughter. For the last few years she’d
welcomed Lizzie into her forest, taught her the lore of herbs and trees, taught
her to find her home in the woods.
Now Old Peg
was gone, decently if reluctantly buried in the churchyard with all the proper
Christian words said over her free spirit by the disapproving Mr. Penshurst.
Old Peg would have hated it. Lizzie was the one who had found her body, of
course. If she’d had enough strength, she would have buried Old Peg herself,
but the old woman weighed a good thirteen stone, and Lizzie couldn’t manage. Instead
she’d had to stand by Old Peg’s grave and weep, the only mourner.
It had been
two weeks since Old Peg had been buried, two weeks since Lizzie had sat and
listened to Elliott’s doleful pronouncements on mad old women and the dangers
of the woods. Two weeks since she’d flatly refused his offer of marriage.
Her father had
been deeply distressed. William Penshurst tended to see the best in people, and
what better mate could be found for his daughter than his own curate? And
surely his daughter was too fine a creature to be critical of Maynard’s
thinning hair, expanding paunch, or slightly fishlike profile.
It wasn’t
Elliott’s unprepossessing appearance that appalled Lizzie; it was his small,
critical nature and the way his moist eyes watched her when her father wasn’t
around. The way he always found some excuse to touch her with his soft, damp
hands. Never indecently, just possessively, leaving Lizzie with the desperate
need to scrub whatever portion of her anatomy he’d happened to grasp, be it her
hand, her wrist, her elbow, or the small of her back.
But Elliott
was gone, having taken his latest dismissal with a high dudgeon. Lizzie had
little doubt he’d return to renew his courtship, and the thought of those
upcoming battles was deeply unsettling. She loved her father and stepmother as
well as her five little brothers, and she would have done almost anything to
please them. Anything short of marrying Elliott Maynard.
As for the
Penshursts, they viewed Lizzie as some sort of exotic creature, much beloved but
never completely understood. She took after her own mother, a fey, impractical
creature who’d had the bad taste to die in childbirth, leaving her husband with
an infant daughter and no idea what to do with her.
Fortunately
Adelia had appeared on the scene. She had loved Lizzie dearly, as much as she
loved the five little pledges of affection she’d presented to her husband, but
she was a woman entirely without imagination while Lizzie had far too much of
it.
On a warm
spring night, Lizzie’s family’s expectations were a distant worry, and
Elliott’s determined courtship was miles away. For tonight she could go back to
the woods, where she hadn’t been since Old Peg had been buried. She could go
and say goodbye in her own way.
No one stirred
as she crept down the narrow back stairs. The kitchen was huge and deserted,
the two servant girls employed by the Penshursts lived in the village, and no
one would be likely to notice that Lizzie wasn’t in bed as a proper minister’s
daughter should be in the middle of the night.
It was the
first truly warm night of the year, she thought as she slipped out into the
kitchen garden. She hadn’t even bothered with a shawl—there was no need for it.
She wore her soft leather dancing slippers, but the ground was damp, and
someone would be sure to notice if she tracked mud into the house. She took
them off, setting them carefully by the garden gate, and took off toward the
woods, reveling in the feel of the new grass beneath her bare feet.
The woods
around Wickham weren’t that large—really not much more than a thick copse
bordering a nearby estate. Old Peg had paid little attention to whose land was
whose—she simply lived in the forest as was her right.
The moon was
almost half-full, a rich, creamy crescent in the blue-black sky. Even on a
moonless night Lizzie could have found her way to the tiny grove where stones
stood sentinel. It was a holy place, though she knew her father would pale at
such a thought, a magic place where Old Peg’s soul would linger, even as her
body turned to dust.
She reached
the center of the circle, tilting her head back to drink in the moonlight,
feeling her unbound hair ripple down her back. Without hesitation she stripped
off her plain wool dress and tossed it beyond the circle. She was clad only in
a light shift, no properly boned corset, no restricting drawers, nothing but a
filmy layer of cotton over her body. She raised her arms to the moonlight and
began to dance.
She danced for
her trammeled soul and the respectable future she wasn’t going to be able to
avoid for much longer. She danced for the moon and the stars and the soft
breeze that tumbled her wicked red hair about her face. She danced for
everything she could never have, and she danced for Old Peg.
This would be
her last trip to the woods. Tomorrow she would become what her family wanted, a
dutiful young lady of the parish, practical, pragmatic, a credit to her
parents. Her mother’s fickle blood would vanish, and Lizzie would become Miss
Elizabeth Penshurst, a good, solid creature like her stepmother.
She would
marry the first man who asked her, as long as he didn’t sneak and lurk and
disapprove like Elliott Maynard. As long as he didn’t look like Elliott
Maynard. She would marry and have children and leave the forest to the woodland
creatures who belonged there.
But for one
last night she would dance. She sang beneath her breath, old songs that Peg had
taught her, songs of love lost and love found, and she whirled and swayed,
turned and dipped, lost in the feel of the night air and the strength of her
young body.
Until she
turned and came to a dead stop, coming face-to-face with Elliott Maynard’s smug
expression. And her father’s look of absolute horror.
Hernewood,
Yorkshire
IT WAS APRIL,
warmer than usual for the demanding climate of North Yorkshire, and Gabriel
Durham could stay inside no longer. He closed the ancient tome he’d been poring
over and rose, stretching his long, lean body. He’d managed to weather his
first winter in more than a dozen years in the place where he’d spent his childhood.
It wasn’t the
place where he’d been born—he had no earthly idea where that was, though he
presumed it was somewhere near London. It didn’t matter. This was where he
belonged, and it had taken far too long for him to realize it.
But realize it
he had, coming back to his dubious heritage just as the first snows had begun
to fly, coming back to Hernewood Forest.
Now winter was
over, and even though a chill still lingered in the air, the daffodils were
blooming riotously, the sheep had begun to lamb, and the first of May was fast
approaching.
He should have
been looking forward to it. If it weren’t for the presence of a group of bored,
self-indulgent parasites whom he could only presume followed him in his retreat
from London, he could enjoy the feast of Beltane with all his heart and soul.
He had every intention of doing so anyway.
Beltane was
one of the oldest festivals in the pre-Christian world that had once been
Britain. Even though it was now dressed up as May Day, everything went back to
a time when the Druids ruled Britain with a scholarly hand.
Of course,
people like the Chiltons and their friends preferred tales of bloodshed and
human sacrifice. According to the Roman historians, the ancient priests of
Britain used to regularly herd large groups of people into wicker cages and set
them aflame for no discernible reason. Gabriel had always taken leave to doubt
such horrific tales. After all, the Romans had just conquered Britain—it was in
their best interest to paint the powerful locals in an unflattering light.
But in the
last few years, all things Druidic had become immensely popular, and most
people preferred the bloody tales. Gabriel had no particular interest in being
the voice of reason. He was fascinated by his studies for their own right, not because
he had anything particular to prove.
He’d been a
studious boy—it was no wonder his supposed father, Sir Richard Durham,
an avid sportsman who avoided the written word as if it were plague-ridden, had
had nothing but contempt for him. That contempt had only spurred Gabriel deeper
into his studies, until he’d broken free in an act of desperate rebellion.
He’d tasted
all the fruits of the flesh and found, after a while, that they were empty.
London was a noisy, clamorous bore, and he’d had his fill of society to last
him the rest of his life. The simple people of Hernewood were far more to his
liking. The simple life, alone in his ramshackle tower with his books and his
solitude, kept him perfectly content. If he needed companionship, there was
always his old friend Peter or Gabriel’s sister Jane.
If he needed
sex, he could find that as well, from any number of discreet, willing women in
the area. But what he needed right now was peace.
The night air
still held a taste of winter, but he didn’t bother to return to the tower for a
cloak. He’d learned to endure hardships, both self-imposed and those put upon
him by others, and he’d survived. He was seldom sick, and the deserted woods
that surrounded Hernewood Abbey wouldn’t harm him.
He moved
through the moonlight, silent as a ghost, circling past the skeletal remains of
the refectory. Hernewood Abbey had once been one of the richest abbeys in the
country, before King Henry decided to give free rein to his greed. It was still
unsurpassingly lovely, even in its ruined state. And it was, blessedly, his.
There were no
ghosts roaming in the moonlight, he thought with a wry smile. The ghostly monks
would profoundly disapprove of the rites of Beltane: the Maypole and the fires
and the merrymaking. They were probably conferring with sepulchral gloom over
the wickedness of modern civilization.
Still, he had
the sudden longing for even a ghostly encounter. He cherished his solitude, he
needed it as most people needed air and water, but for a brief moment in the
heart of the midnight woods, he felt achingly alone.
He closed his
eyes and saw her. A faery creature from another place and another time, a
long-legged sprite with flame red hair and only a wisp of garment, dancing in
the moonlight. When he opened his eyes she was gone, a figment of his
imagination, and he shook his head, managing a wry grin.
He had no need
of scantily clad dryads, no matter how enticing. That blend of erotic innocence
teased him, but he needed no more ghosts. He had no need of anyone at all.
Just the same,
perhaps a visit to the talented widow in York might be called for. Before the
fertility rites of Beltane made him dream of something far less practical.
And made him
actually long for something to disturb his quiet days.
Chapter One
Hernewood,
Yorkshire
ELIZABETH
PENSHURST, twenty-year-old spinster of the parish of Upper Wickham, Dorset,
climbed down from the traveling coach and looked around her. The day was crisp
and cool with a strong breeze coming down from the north, whipping her skirts around
her legs, rustling the leaves overhead in a whispered warning. Her box was set
down beside her, and then the coachman climbed back onto his perch with a haste
that seemed oddly suspect.
"You certain
they know you’re coming, Miss?” he asked in a gruff voice. "I could take you
further, leave you at the Boar’s Knees up ahead a ways. It’s not a fit place
for a lady, but neither are these woods, I’m thinking.”
Elizabeth,
sometimes known as Lizzie, looked at the towering trees surrounding the market
cross. At one point there must have been a thriving village here in the center
of nowhere, but now nothing remained but the old stone cross.
The forests
were darker in Yorkshire, the trees taller, and in the distance she could see
the towering ruins of an old building. She liked it, more than she would have
expected.
"I’ll be
perfectly fine,” she assured him, wishing she were quite so certain. "The
Durhams know I’m coming today, and I’m sure they’ll be here before long.”
"That’s all
right then,” the coachman said. "You watch yourself, then, lass. There’ve been
strange goings-on around here, or so they tell me. The Dark Man’s been on the
prowl, and young girls have turned up missing.”
"Missing?”
Elizabeth echoed in a slight squeak. "Dark man?”
"Nothing for
you to fret your pretty head about. It’s two hours till dark, and you’ll be
safe and sound by then. And they say the ghosts are harmless old souls.”
Elizabeth’s
panic began to fade. Dark men and missing girls could get her far too lively
imagination in an uproar—ghosts were carrying things a bit too far.
"I’ll watch
out for the ghosts,” she said solemnly, suppressing a smile.
"You don’t
believe me,” the driver said mournfully. "Just as well. I’ve never seen them.
Few do. With any luck you won’t even know they’re around.”
"And who’s the
Dark Man?’
The driver
shook his head. "Old fairy tales, Miss. Nothing for you to worry your head
about. You’ve never been to Yorkshire before, have you? They’re a superstitious
lot, and who can blame them? But don’t let it trouble you. Like as not you
won’t see a thing out of the ordinary.”
"Like as not,”
Lizzie echoed with dubious cheer.
"Well, all
right then,” the driver said, as if life had been settled to his satisfaction.
"Just stay here, don’t wander off into the woods, and you should be fine.” And
before she could think of one more way to delay him he snapped the reins with a
decisive gesture, and a moment later the coach had disappeared over the hill,
leaving Lizzie Penshurst alone at the edge of the forest.
She shivered,
suddenly nervous. Old Peg would be sorely disappointed in her. All her life
Lizzie had wanted nothing more than to escape into the forest, away from proper
behavior and stifling clothing and disapproving eyes. Now she was at the very
edge of the wildest forest she’d ever seen, and she was silly enough to be
nervous. This was an adventure, the kind she’d longed for, and she wasn’t going
to waste her time with regrets. Fate and her own scandalous behavior had
brought her here; it was up to her to make the best of it.
She squared
her shoulders, smoothed her skirts, and sat down on her abandoned trunk,
humming softly beneath her breath. Not a hymn, which would scandalize her
father, but an old tune that Peg had taught her, about faithless lovers and
found love. She could hear the wind riffling through the new growth of leaves
overhead. Her father’s living was a good one, but she’d spent most of her
twenty years in the county of Dorset, a much gentler, milder climate. It had
been warm with the blush of spring when her father and stepmother had packed
her onto the mail coach with stern warnings and strained affection. Their
dutiful daughter had disgraced them, and the Penshursts were both hurt and
mystified.
This afternoon
the wind across the dales carried the memory of winter on it, and the towering
trees were like nothing she had ever seen. It would get dark in another hour or
so, she suspected. Her father had warned her of outlaws and highwaymen and
heartless seducers, all of whom might prey on a young woman traveling alone.
Not that she was the sort of female to attract heartless seducers. She was only
passably pretty, obviously devoid of any generous fortune, with a deceptively
calm, nonsensical manner guaranteed to frighten away most importunate
gentlemen. And the unimportunate ones as well. She’d grown accustomed to it.
She had no interest in gentlemen. She had no interest in anything at all but
what she found in the woods surrounding her native village.
She’d spent
her entire life in the market town of Wickham, and it was rare that she’d
managed to escape her stepmother’s watchful eye and find her way into the
forest. It was on one of those occasions that she’d first met Old Peg and
changed her life forever.
But the gentle
woods of Dorset were nothing compared to the wilds of Yorkshire. And as
Elizabeth sat and waited for the carriage to come and carry her to Hernewood
Manor, she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that the driver’s warning, while
obviously well-meant, was just slightly unnerving.
She’d never
met a Dark Man, though she could assume the driver hadn’t been speaking of a
dark-skinned foreigner. She knew far more than any minister’s daughter should
know of legends, stories of woodland creatures and sprites and piskies and even
the Green Man himself, thanks to Old Peg. She’d never run across any magick
creatures in the boring confines of Wickham, unless you counted Old Peg, who
was reputed to be a witch.
But if one
were to meet magic anywhere, this green and brooding place would be the spot to
find it.
The light was
fading now, and the wind had picked up, stirring the folds of her sensible
merino cloak, tugging at her tightly coiled hair. She was very careful to keep
it pinned close to her scalp, subduing its wild waves even if she couldn’t
subdue its flame red color. She had brought only her plainest, dullest clothes.
She was pinned and starched and tucked and covered, and no one would ever
believe that one week earlier she had been caught dancing in a forest grove in
the moonlight, barefoot, her hair rippling down to her hips, clad only in her
shift.
She sighed.
The scandal had shaken the entire town, and she knew whom she could blame for
it. She’d always been very careful not to be seen when she ran off into the
woods, but Elliott Maynard, who should have been in London, had watched her
with a solicitude that made her ill. He had followed her, watched her as she
shed the stifling layers of clothes and danced in the moonlight. And he had
brought her father and a crowd of disapproving parishioners to bear further
witness.
The scandal
had been appalling. Mr. Penshurst had thundered, her stepmother had wept, her
five half-brothers had alternated between outrage and amusement. And wicked
Lizzie Penshurst had been sent away, banished to distant relatives of her poor,
dead mother, as far away from Upper Wickham as could be managed.
Lizzie sighed.
She had every intention of improving her wicked ways. She didn’t know what it
was that called her to the woods, but she fully intended to ignore that call.
She would be a quiet, helpful guest at the Durhams. She would be meek and
subdued, and when it came time for her to return to Dorset, people would marvel
at how docile she was.
However, she
had no intention of being docile enough to marry Elliott Maynard, despite her
father’s fondest hopes.
The wind was
picking up a bit. Perhaps she was foolish to sit here in the middle of nowhere
and wait. She couldn’t very well drag her luggage around the countryside, but
she was young enough and quite strong and used to walking, even in the tight
boots and layers of wool. She could follow the narrow road into the darkening
afternoon—sooner or later she’d have to come to a village, or at least a
farmhouse where they might send word to the Durhams.
But what had
the coachman said, in the midst of his dire warnings about Dark Men? The
nearest pub was no place for a young lady, and as the night grew darker she
might very well lose her way. At least the market cross was a well-known
landmark. Someone would have to pass by, sooner or later, and it was getting to
the point where Elizabeth would have gladly welcomed an outlaw or a heartless
seducer. And her father’s worst fears would be confirmed.
They had never
thought that she would take after her mother, the wild and impractical
Guinevere de Laurier. Elizabeth had always suspected it had been a relief when
her beautiful mother had died of a wasting fever right after Elizabeth was
born. William Penshurst had worshiped his well-bred, mysterious wife. He’d also
been totally bewildered by her.
Adelia was a
good, sturdy woman and loving stepmother, dutiful wife, wise counselor, and
solid trencherwoman. She was perfect for Elizabeth’s sober father. For nineteen
years Elizabeth had done her best to belong. It was neither of their faults
that deep inside she had always felt like a faery changeling in their neat and
practical house.
It would have
been better for everyone if she’d never run into Old Peg during one of her
solitary rambles. If she hadn’t stopped to talk, only to have Old Peg fix her
sharp eyes on her and announce in mysterious tones, "You’re one of the old
ones.”
Considering
that Old Peg was ancient and Lizzie was only just past her fifteenth birthday
at the time, it seemed like a strange thing to greet her with, but Old Peg
would never explain. Instead she told Elizabeth the tales of the woods, the old
legends of Herne the Hunter, stories going back to the time before Christ, and
Lizzie had listened, her determinedly dutiful, fettered soul enraptured by a
world long gone that somehow felt like a lost memory she had lived in ages
past.
Elizabeth had
learned by then not to mention such things to her father if she wanted to keep
the peace. She had helped take care of her five little brothers, assisted
Adelia in the household duties, attended church with pious regularity, and kept
her long, unsuitably red hair tightly coiled and her troublesome eyes chastely
downcast. Except when she escaped the house, the watching eyes, and her
confining life, and ran free.
All would have
been well, and she would have slipped into the satisfyingly peaceful life of a
spinster, had it not been for the Reverend Penshurst’s weasely curate. Elliott
Maynard was a pale, soft-handed, wet-lipped man eager to rise in the world.
While the Penshursts had little money, the daughter came from good stock, with
a respectable portion. Certain physical drawbacks could be overlooked.
Elliott’s courtship commenced immediately.
Unfortunately
Mr. Penshurst approved the match. His dreamy daughter had always been a worry
to him, and placing her in the care of another Man of God seemed the best way
to assure her moral well-being. Mr. Penshurst considered it his duty to see the
best in all of his fellow creatures, and he was serenely unaware that Elliott
Maynard was a lecher, a bully, and a narrow-minded creature concerned less with
his flock and almost entirely with his own betterment in society. He was also
inordinately stupid.
When
Elizabeth’s polite demurrals had given way to stern refusals, Elliott had
simply presented his suit to Elizabeth’s father. And been warmly welcomed into
the family.
Old Peg had
been her only support. "Don’t marry him, lass!” she’d said in a hushed voice.
"He’s not the man for you. He’s waiting for you.”
"Who is?”
Lizzie had demanded, but Old Peg had refused to answer, closing her eyes and
looking deep into the strange places where she always seemed to find the
answers.
"The Dark
Man,” Old Peg had muttered finally. "You have to face the Dark Man. It’s Him
you’ll be wanting.”
That had been
six months before, and her parents had kept on at her, determined that Elliott
Maynard was the answer to her future. She might have been worn down,
eventually, if she hadn’t gone to the woods one morning to find Old Peg still
and silent, lying amidst the leaves, her long life finished with her secrets taken
with her. And the next time, when Lizzie went to dance in the woods, Elliott
had followed her.
Elliott
Maynard hadn’t given up, despite Elizabeth’s shocking fall from grace. He
considered her visit to her second cousin Jane in North Yorkshire to be a minor
setback, and he was prepared to wait. After all, there were few men willing to
marry an ordinary young woman with such strange and pagan habits. It didn’t
matter that she had too clever a tongue and nothing more than a respectable
portion. He could be patient.
He could be
patient till hell froze over, Elizabeth thought with uncharacteristic violence,
shivering in her thin cloak. She’d prefer the mysterious Dark Man to Elliott’s
soft-handed bullying.
And here she
was, at a crossroads, and nearby a Dark Man lurked in these ancient woods. A
spawn of Satan or something else. Old Peg, for all her adherence to the Old
Ways and the Old Religion, wouldn’t have sent her to the devil, would she?
She hadn’t
heard a sound, only the ripple of the wind through the thick bower of leaves,
the faint scurry of a small woodland creature. But she looked up, torn from her
brooding thoughts, and saw him standing there, watching her.
He was no Dark
Man, of that one thing she was absolutely certain. It had to be a mere trick of
nature that sent one solitary shaft of late-afternoon sunlight down to gild his
tall, silent form.
For a moment
she thought he might be the coachman from Hernewood Manor, but there was no
comfortable conveyance, no horse nearby. He was dressed in rough clothes—a
coarse shirt, open at the neck, and dark breeches that might have been leather
or wool. His hair was far too long, as if he hadn’t bothered to have it cut in
years, but his face was clean-shaven. He tilted it to get a better look at her,
and her breath caught in her throat.
His hair was a
sun-streaked brown, his face tanned from the outdoors even this early in the
year. His eyes were curiously light in his face, though she was too far away to
see what color they were. His face was narrow, a watchful, clever face, and she
wondered who he was. And if he knew about the Dark Man.
Her father had
told her to beware strange men, and this still, silent creature who stood
watching her was very strange indeed. But the darkness was closing in around
them, and she couldn’t very well pretend not to see him.
"Hullo,” she
said, and to her annoyance her voice wavered a bit.
He didn’t say
a word. He simply moved closer. She stared at him in astonishment. He didn’t
move like a peasant. He was the most graceful creature she’d ever seen and the
most silent. He crossed the rough ground until he came very close to her, and
she saw his eyes were a clear, golden brown in his cool, still face.
His voice was
the biggest surprise of all. She’d been expecting the flat, broad Yorkshire
tones she’d already learned to interpret. His voice was low, warm, beguiling.
And she knew, instinctively, the voice of a gentleman.
"Who are you?” There was nothing rude in the question—he simply seemed
curious to find a young woman perched on her luggage in the middle of nowhere.
"I’m waiting
for someone from Hernewood Manor to fetch me. I don’t suppose you’ve seen
anyone nearby?”
"Hernewood
Manor,” he murmured. "That explains it. And would you be visiting Jane?”
He didn’t say
Miss Jane, and Elizabeth wasn’t fool enough to correct him. Whoever this
strange creature was, he didn’t fit in any of the normal, rigid social levels
she was used to.
"Miss Durham
is a cousin.”
"Indeed?” He
sounded doubtful.
"Yes, indeed.”
"And why have
we never seen you in these parts before?”
The
conversation was beginning to make her as uncomfortable as the mysterious man.
"And who’s to say I haven’t been here before?” she countered in a practical
voice. "You might have just missed my presence.”
He shook his
head. "I would have known,” he said simply. He glanced around. "It looks as if
they’ve forgotten all about you. That’s not like them—the Durhams pride
themselves on details and minding their manners.”
"I’m sure
they’ll show up any moment now.”
"I could see
what’s keeping them.”
She
was frozen to the bone, and all her father’s warnings vanished with a shiver.
"Would you?”
"There’s
only one problem,” he said. "I don’t know your name. Shall I just tell them a
mysterious young woman is waiting at the market cross?”
"Miss
Penshurst,” she said. "Miss Elizabeth Penshurst.”
He
tilted his head to one side, a strange expression in his golden eyes. "Miss
Elizabeth Penshurst,” he repeated it, as if he were tasting the words. "Welcome
to Hernewood, Miss Penshurst. Do you believe in magic?”
Stranger
and stranger. "Not for an instant,” she said flatly. She wasn’t going to
believe in magic any longer, she’d promised her father, promised herself.
His
faint smile was ever so faintly unnerving. "You will, Miss Penshurst. Hernewood
will make you believe.” There was nothing she could reply to such an
extraordinary statement. He moved back. "I’ll find someone and send them for
you.”
He
walked away—she knew he did—like any other normal human being. But it still
seemed to her overtired, overactive brain that he melted back into the dappled
sunshine, vanishing from view as the darkness grew deeper and thicker around
her. She wondered if she was a complete fool to trust him. She wondered if
she’d imagined the entire encounter.
Less
than ten minutes later the jingling of a horse bridle set her mind at ease. The
small pony cart came racing down the roadway, pulling to a stop in front of her
with a great flurry of dust and stamping horse.
The
young driver was almost as surprising as her previous encounter. Tall and
lanky, dressed in an enveloping coachman’s coat, he jumped down and pulled off
his cap, exposing a head of cropped black curls that was most definitely
feminine.
"Dreadfully
sorry!” she said in a breathless voice. "We thought you were coming next week!”
She stuck out a large, well-made hand. "It’s Elizabeth, isn't it? I’m your
cousin Jane, you know.”
Elizabeth
had risen, and she looked up into her cousin Jane’s plain, pleasant face. Her
eyes were a warm brown, her black hair hacked off midway to her shoulders with
a singular lack of style. But those eyes were the kindest eyes Elizabeth had
ever seen in her life, and her smile was equally welcoming.
"Call
me Lizzie," she said. "You can’t imagine how very glad I am to meet
you.”
"Yes, I can,”
Jane said cheerfully. "This place is a wee bit strange for those who aren’t
used to it, and here we were, forgetting all about you. My father will have my
head for this.”
"Was it your
fault?”
"No,” Jane
said. "But that won’t matter to my father—he’s a stickler for polite behavior,
not to mention punctuality, and he can’t very well blame the brats.”
"The brats?”
"My younger
brother and sister. Two absolute hellions who nonetheless fail to make my
father appreciate my subdued manner.” She laughed, a rich, hearty chuckle that
was wonderfully infectious. She reached for Elizabeth’s box, the box that had
strong coachmen staggering under its weight, and heaved it into the back of
the cart with deceptive ease.
"I gather
you’re in some sort of disgrace,” Jane continued, climbing up into the pony
trap and holding out her hand for Lizzie. "Was it with a man?”
"No!” said
Lizzie, affronted. "I was simply walking in the forest, entirely by myself.”
"What’s so
shocking about that?”
"I wasn’t
wearing much,” she admitted.
Jane laughed,
a full-throated chuckle. "Well, I’m always in disgrace as well. It sounds as if
your crimes aren’t much worse than mine, which usually include spending too
much time in the stable and ripping my clothes. I expect we’ll get along
famously.”
"Two
unrepentant hoydens,” Lizzie said. "I’m supposed to be mending my wicked ways.”
"So am I. I
think it’s a lost cause in my case. My parents gave up on me years ago. I’m
doomed to be an old maid, and just as happy.” There was a trace of defiance in
her rich voice.
Lizzie looked
at her in surprise. "You don’t want to get married?”
"Not if I can’t have true love. Of course Gabriel says that true love
doesn’t exist, but he’s being tiresomely cynical. I believe in it, I just don’t
believe I’m going to end up with that particular blessing.” She shrugged. "I’m
not going to worry about it though.” She’d turned the pony cart onto a narrow
track. "This isn’t the main way to the house—Father would never stand for
anything so shoddy—but it’s the fastest way to get you there and warm you up.
Just don’t tell him I brought you in the pony trap, will you?”
"Why not?”
"He expected
me to have the carriage set up, but that would have been another half hour,
we’d have had to take the main road, and I wouldn’t have gotten here until it
was pitch-black. Thank God Gabriel found me.”
"Gabriel? Was
that the strange man?”
Jane laughed.
"Strange, you think? I suppose I can’t argue—there’s no one on earth quite like
Gabriel. Don’t mention anything to my parents about him. They’ll have the
vapors.”
"They don’t
approve of him?”
"That’s
putting it mildly.”
"But who is
he? I thought he was a servant at first, but once he spoke I realized he
couldn’t be.”
For the first
time the outspoken Jane looked uncomfortable. "Gabriel is
simply... Gabriel. You won’t be likely to run into him
again—he keeps his distance from most people. Forget you ever saw him.”
For some
reason the memory of his haunting golden eyes danced back into her brain.
"Certainly,” she said briskly, in no means certain that she’d be capable of
doing any such thing. "If you’ll tell me one thing.”
"Of course,”
Jane said blithely.
"Who is the
Dark Man?”
