The Legend of the Werestag by Tessa Dare Page B

now?”
    “Look at these marks.” Portia pointed to a narrow stripe of depressions in the soil. “Why, they look like deer tracks.”
    Brooke rubbed his eyes. “Deer tracks, in a forest. Imagine.”
    “But we don’t know they belong to a deer! They could belong to him.” With a self-conscious hunch of her shoulders, she lowered her voice to a murmur. “You know, the werestag .”
    “Why are you whispering? Afraid the man-deer might overhear you?” Brooke gave a caustic laugh. “My dear Mrs. Yardley, your fancies grow more amusing by the moment. What on earth would lead you to believe these simple deer tracks are the marks of a vicious werestag?”
    “I am not your ‘dear Mrs. Yardley’. And how do you know these tracks do not belong to him?” In a clear expression of annoyance, Brooke held up his hands. “Very well. I give up.”
    “I don’t,” she replied, her eyes narrowing. “That is the difference between us.” Lifting her skirts, Portia made a quarter turn and stomped directly off into the woods.
    “Just where do you think you’re going?”
    “I’m following the tracks, of course. That’s the only way to learn the truth.” As Portia’s dark cloak disappeared into the trees, Luke started after her. A wave of dread swamped his progress. “Mrs. Yardley, wait,” he called. “It’s unsafe to go walking off the path. At least let me—” A metallic snap cut him off.
    Followed by a piercing scream.
    Luke and Brooke charged through the foliage. They found Portia lying sprawled in leaves and moss, her face gone utterly white.
    “My…” She gulped for air. “Help me. I don’t know what’s happened to my foot.” With shaking fingers, she drew her skirts up to the ankles. The steel jaws of a trap held her left boot clenched in their deadly bite.
    “Bloody hell.” Brooke sank to his knees at her side. “Don’t worry, Portia. We’ll have it off straightaway.” He reached for the trap.

    “Wait,” Luke said. “Don’t—”
    Another tortured scream from Portia.
    “Touch it,” he finished weakly.
    “What’s happened?” Cecily and Denny joined them, linked arm in arm as they pushed through the brush.
    “She’s stepped in a trap,” Luke replied, not risking a glance at Cecily’s face. “A small one, fortunately, but it has quite a grip on her foot. We’ll have to pry it off.” He scouted around him for a suitable branch, pausing only long enough to catch Denny’s eye. “Find me two sturdy poles, about six feet in length. I can release her from the trap, but we’ll need a pallet to carry her home.” Denny nodded, and with a murmured word to Cecily, began searching the environs for saplings.
    “It hurts,” Portia moaned. “It hurts so much. I must be dying.”
    “Of course you aren’t.” Folding her skirts, Cecily settled at her friend’s side. Luke could feel her blue eyes on him as he selected a thick branch and stripped it of twigs.
    Having removed his coat, Brooke folded it and propped it beneath Portia’s head, for a pillow. “You can’t die,” he told her, crouching at her other side. “Who would argue with me then?”
    “Anyone with sense,” she said tartly. But when Brooke took her hand, Portia allowed him to keep it.
    “Don’t you aggravating know-all’s have some sort of debating society?”
    “Yes, but none of the members have your amusing imagination. Nor such lovely hair.” He stroked an ebony lock from her pale, sweating brow.
    Luke pushed her skirts to the knee and took a firm grip on his branch. “Mrs. Yardley, this is going to hurt.”
    Portia whimpered.
    Brooke kept stroking her hair, murmuring, “Be brave, darling. Scream all you like. Break every bone in my hand, if you must. I won’t leave your side.”
    Cecily moved toward Luke. “How can I help?”
    “You can’t.”
    “I can,” she insisted. “Just tell me what to do. Shall I help you pry?”
    “No,” he replied tersely. Damn it, he didn’t want to expose Cecily to this, but