greatest dan ger lay. Surely she was safer alone in Dunstan Woods than in the possession of a madman. A m a n who now had every reason to want her dead.
Her father’s lands lay to the north of the vast, sprawling wilderness, and he and his men had always done their best to skirt the forest, leaving it to the creatures of the night and their spawn. It had belonged to her father, but the demons had claimed it long ago, those seen and unseen, and Sir Hugh had been helpless to fight the powers of darkness. Indeed, her father had probably been just as happy to pass it over to Alistair Darcourt and let him deal with it. A fitting dowry for the son of the devil.
Shivering, Elspeth huddled beneath the rich velvet cloak. She was hungry, bone-weary, and dangerously near despair. All that she had trusted and counted on in this life seemed to have abandoned her, and now her husband probably lay dead from her own hands. Yet the taste of his mo u th lingered disturbingly on her lip s.
She should move deeper into the ancient forest, clutch ing the silver cross that h u n g to her waist beneath her thin linen chemise for whatever protection it might offer. The sheriff’s men would come after her, hunt her down in the forest like a wild boar. She didn’t want to die at the end of a dozen lances.
She pulled h e r s e lf to her feet, gritting her teeth against her moan of pain. Deeper, deeper into the woods was where safety lay. It was her only hope.
The t r e e s were thick, ancient, with no discernible path in the inky darkness. She c o u l d rely only on her instincts. They pulled her to the left, into the very heart of t h e forest. To the left lay warmth and safety, she was s u r e of it. Forcing herself, she moved onward, deeper and deeper into Dunstan Woods.
She lost track of time. It might have been minutes or hours or days that she wandered through the darkness where no light penetrated. All she could do was keep moving slowly onward, stopping o n l y to catch her breath before continuing. Whe n she first saw the dim light coming toward her through the thick mist, she stopped, fight ing back the superstitious terror that filled her weary heart. She’d heard tales of goblins luring people to their doom in the swamps with faerie lights. What sane, God-fearing person would be here in the heart of the forest, welcoming her? If she had sense at all, she would turn and run ba c k the way she had come.
But she no longer had any sense. She no longer cared if she lived or di e d. She was too weary to continue. If that light signaled death, then she ready was for it. The fight had left her.
It was no faerie light. No will-o’-the-wisp luring her to her doom. It was simply a cottage; small, rough-hewn, overgrown with moss and branches, and the light spilled out into the darkness like a beacon.
“There you are, my pretty,” a cracked, ancient voice said from within. “I’d almost despaired of you finding your way here.” Silhouetted in the doorway was a broad, bent-over figure.
Once more her superstitious terror threatened to overcome reason. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice deceptively steady.
The woman stepped back slightly, and Elspeth could se e her face. It was beautiful, for all that it was aged and seamed. Her h ai r hung to her waist, thick and gray and flowing; her clothes were soft and shapeless; and her eyes were bright and intelligent and curiously light in her narrow face.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said in that hoarse, gentle voice. “I’ve been waiting a long time . For a while I was afraid you were too strong for me. I rather think y ou would be if you weren’t so weary. What have they been feeding you up at the castle?”
It was too confusing. She didn’t bother to think about how the woman knew she was from the castle, or how she’d happened to end up here. She simply answered the question. “Thin gruel.”
The old woman’s mouth curved in a mocking smile, one that was
Her father’s lands lay to the north of the vast, sprawling wilderness, and he and his men had always done their best to skirt the forest, leaving it to the creatures of the night and their spawn. It had belonged to her father, but the demons had claimed it long ago, those seen and unseen, and Sir Hugh had been helpless to fight the powers of darkness. Indeed, her father had probably been just as happy to pass it over to Alistair Darcourt and let him deal with it. A fitting dowry for the son of the devil.
Shivering, Elspeth huddled beneath the rich velvet cloak. She was hungry, bone-weary, and dangerously near despair. All that she had trusted and counted on in this life seemed to have abandoned her, and now her husband probably lay dead from her own hands. Yet the taste of his mo u th lingered disturbingly on her lip s.
She should move deeper into the ancient forest, clutch ing the silver cross that h u n g to her waist beneath her thin linen chemise for whatever protection it might offer. The sheriff’s men would come after her, hunt her down in the forest like a wild boar. She didn’t want to die at the end of a dozen lances.
She pulled h e r s e lf to her feet, gritting her teeth against her moan of pain. Deeper, deeper into the woods was where safety lay. It was her only hope.
The t r e e s were thick, ancient, with no discernible path in the inky darkness. She c o u l d rely only on her instincts. They pulled her to the left, into the very heart of t h e forest. To the left lay warmth and safety, she was s u r e of it. Forcing herself, she moved onward, deeper and deeper into Dunstan Woods.
She lost track of time. It might have been minutes or hours or days that she wandered through the darkness where no light penetrated. All she could do was keep moving slowly onward, stopping o n l y to catch her breath before continuing. Whe n she first saw the dim light coming toward her through the thick mist, she stopped, fight ing back the superstitious terror that filled her weary heart. She’d heard tales of goblins luring people to their doom in the swamps with faerie lights. What sane, God-fearing person would be here in the heart of the forest, welcoming her? If she had sense at all, she would turn and run ba c k the way she had come.
But she no longer had any sense. She no longer cared if she lived or di e d. She was too weary to continue. If that light signaled death, then she ready was for it. The fight had left her.
It was no faerie light. No will-o’-the-wisp luring her to her doom. It was simply a cottage; small, rough-hewn, overgrown with moss and branches, and the light spilled out into the darkness like a beacon.
“There you are, my pretty,” a cracked, ancient voice said from within. “I’d almost despaired of you finding your way here.” Silhouetted in the doorway was a broad, bent-over figure.
Once more her superstitious terror threatened to overcome reason. “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice deceptively steady.
The woman stepped back slightly, and Elspeth could se e her face. It was beautiful, for all that it was aged and seamed. Her h ai r hung to her waist, thick and gray and flowing; her clothes were soft and shapeless; and her eyes were bright and intelligent and curiously light in her narrow face.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said in that hoarse, gentle voice. “I’ve been waiting a long time . For a while I was afraid you were too strong for me. I rather think y ou would be if you weren’t so weary. What have they been feeding you up at the castle?”
It was too confusing. She didn’t bother to think about how the woman knew she was from the castle, or how she’d happened to end up here. She simply answered the question. “Thin gruel.”
The old woman’s mouth curved in a mocking smile, one that was
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