“I can’t say I have.”
“What books do you read, then?”
“I have read Shakespeare, Fletcher, and Haywood, amongst others. My father has a library full of great playwrights.”
“Oh, I would love to see it,” Angelica exclaimed.
“I would love to show you.”
This comment elicited several disapproving glances from across the table. Patrick needed to keep his tone more neutral. God, he could get lost in her eyes forever.
Their conversation shifted from books to stage plays in the cities, to farming methods around Ashford during the courses of the meal, and all the while, Patrick had to fight to keep his composure. Not only was Angelica an excellent conversationalist, but she was also knowledgeable. It was no wonder, then, that the townsfolk thought her odd.
With her quick wit and the occasional slip of the tongue, Patrick was hard-pressed to mind his manners at the dinner table. He admired Angelica for portraying the shy, demure exterior to the dinner guests, while in their conversation driving him to distraction.
All too soon, they finished their desserts. Patrick would have loved to remain seated at the table with her forever.
The guests piled back into the hall for after-dinner drinks, and Lord Alaric called Angelica over to have a word with her. Patrick waited impatiently at the balcony, worrying.
Edward Blakesley then ambled over and started up a conversation with Lord Alaric. Patrick watched with interest as Angelica exchanged a word with her mother, before crossing the floor to come to him.
“Your father is a saint,” she breathed in his ear, sending shivers down his spine.
“Can I assume your father is worried about our being together?”
Angelica moved through the door and out to the balcony. Patrick followed and leaned on the railing beside her.
“He scolded me for speaking so freely at the table. It is unseemly for a woman,” she laughed. “Oh, and he wanted to know what your intentions are. I told him I don’t know yet, and that if he doesn’t let me go back, I would not be able to find out.”
Patrick’s heart hammered against his ribs as she turned towards him and looked up at him with her dark eyes.
“What are your intentions, Master Patrick?”
The beast within him wanted to tell her that he would like nothing more than to rip her clothes off and devour her. The gentleman within him found no words.
Angelica took a step closer; almost inappropriately close for the company they were in, and took his hand. “I do not have the words to describe it either,” she whispered. “Shall we take it one day at a time?”
“I would like that very much, Miss Angelica.”
Patrick could have sworn she had him under a spell, for it took all his willpower not to kiss her right then and there.
“Will you speak with your father tonight?” she asked.
“Aye, I shall speak with him tonight. I am sure he will be able to speak with your father tomorrow.”
A smile brightened Angelica’s face, cinching the grip she already had on his heart. When someone walked by the open door to the balcony, she let go of his hand, and he felt so much colder for it.
Chapter 4
His fur rippled along his back in violent shivers at the smell of human blood.
All Patrick had wanted was a good run in the woods after last night’s dinner. Angelica’s presence had him so worked up; he couldn’t sleep. Had he known he could encounter … this … he would have stayed home.
After years on the battlefield, Patrick knew the scent of violent death, and he thus approached with caution. The full moon stood high in the sky, shining its light brightly over the clearing in front of him.
Growling, he halted at the treeline, staring at the tangled mess of Edgar Abbott - a sheep farmer from a neighbouring property. His upper body was almost serene - untouched - but his groin area was ripped open, shredded, with no identifiable parts. His intestines hung out.
“Are you sure it was Edgar?” Edward asked when Patrick came to tell him.
“Certain, Father.”
“We have to tell the mayor.”
“How do we say I found him? I was the wolf when I came upon him, and I was careful to erase all traces of my presence.”
It was five in the morning. It would seem suspicious, indeed, if they alerted the townsfolk of the incident now.
Edward put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I know the wolf you are, and I know you did not do this. Let us go to work today as if you saw nothing. I am sure Edgar’s wife will report him missing soon enough.”
“Aye, Father,” Patrick said between clenched teeth.
Ashford Manor was strangely silent when they entered that morning, sending a shiver of dread down Patrick’s back. There was something about this manor, about Lord Alaric, that raised his hackles.
“The Master left early this morning,” the butler said as he led them through the hall, “but he left these papers for you to work on.”
“Thank you,” Lord Blakesley said, taking the sealed envelope.
“Do you feel that, Father?” Patrick asked once they were alone in the office.
“What’s that, my son?”
Patrick watched his father calmly sort through the papers for the day, after shrugging out of his coat and rolling up his sleeves. Edward Blakesley was entirely at ease.
“Nothing, Father. I’ll carry on with the ledger today.”
“Very well.”
Patrick kept his jacket on as he worked, unable to shake the chill that had gripped him the moment he’d set foot into the manor.
The day dragged, and only thoughts of Angelica eventually managed to banish the chills. When the afternoon sun streamed in through the window, and Patrick heard Angelica’s sweet voice drift in from the orchard, everything seemed right with the world again.
Jasper brought their horses when they were ready to leave, but he had news as well.
“They found a man dead in the woods today. There is a gathering in town if this interests you.”
“Aye, thank you, Jasper. Do you know who the man was?” Jasper shook his head, and Lord Blakesley took the reins to mount his horse. “Come on, Patrick.”
They exchanged a look, and then headed towards Ashford; the chill manor and Angelica’s sweet voice temporarily pushed to the back of his mind.
Within the town centre, they came across a mob, and they left their horses bound to the posts outside the inn and continued on foot.
Pierce Fletcher had strapped Edgar Abbott’s body to his wooden cart, which now stood in the town square. Patrick was relieved to see that someone had covered Edgar with a blanket.
“There are no bears in these woods. That’s preposterous,” someone said as Patrick and his father approached.
“If a wolf didn’t do this, then what?” another said.
“Who said it wasn’t a wolf? Look at his torn flesh.”
“He has some sort of cuts, too. I tell you it was a man whodunnit.”
“There were no footprints but his own when I found him,” Pierce Fletcher said.
“What were you doing so deep in the woods, then, eh?” George Sexton accused Fletcher.
“I was looking for a lost heifer when I came upon him,” Fletcher defended himself. “Those parts of the woods belong to my lands.”
“Enough,” the loud voice of Dorien Lowell, mayor of Ashford, finally silenced the bickering crowd. “It is clear Edgar was murdered. I will lead an investigation to discover the truth; until then, there is no point speculating, or accusing anyone. Understood?”
As Lowell stood glaring at the crowd, they started to disperse, with only Fletcher lingering by his cart.
“Dorien,” Edward said, “is there anything we can do to help?”
The mayor gave him a measured look. “Thanks, Edward; I could use every man I can get.” Turning to Patrick, he said, “I hear good things about you, Patrick. Your experience in the war might help us with this investigation.�
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“I will do what I can, Sir.”
“Fletcher, take Edgar home to his family. We will gather in the morning to bury him.”
“Aye, Sir.”
The cart rattled off, leaving the three men standing alone in the town square. Further along the street, a boy started to light the streetlamps as dusk settled over the town.
“We’ve not had a murder in this town since that Miller boy,” Dorien finally said.
Patrick’s brow furrowed. “When was that? I don’t recall.”
“It was long before you were born, son,” Edward replied. “Back then, it was a wolf that killed that boy.”
Patrick’s eyes widened in shock at such a horrific act; he knew his father wasn’t speaking about the wolves found in the forests.
“This was no wolf,” Dorien said. “The injuries are wrong. I have never seen anything like it. I will speak to Richard to help us with the investigation. Meet with us tomorrow after the service. Come to my office, where we can speak in private.”
Edgar Abbott was a well-respected man of the town, with a sizable piece of land, and good herds. His two sons would take over his business now that their father was gone.
The people of Ashford crowded into the church on Saturday morning to pay their final respects, before the procession trailed Father Smith to the cemetery.
Patrick stood beside his parents when he noticed Angelica. The Alaric family had not joined them in church but was now amongst those paying their respects in the cemetery. Wearing an exquisite black dress, something you could only buy in a city, with a long, black veil covering her face, Angelica held onto the crook of her father’s arm as they stood under a tree apart from the rest of the crowd.
Although he could not see her face through the black lace, Patrick felt her eyes on him, and the tingle it sent down his back made him shiver. There was no denying the attraction between them; even if it was inappropriate at a time such as this. He could not help looking back at her, hearing his heart beat wildly in his chest.
As a slow drizzle started to fall, the townsfolk dispersed, leaving only the grieving family and the priest at the gravesite.
Patrick had promised Angelica to speak with his father, but with Abbott’s death, there had been no opportunity. Unless Lord Alaric gave his consent to Edward Blakesley, Patrick would not be allowed to openly court Angelica. The thought of not being able to see her tomorrow made him act rashly, and he took his father’s elbow before he could mount his horse.
“Father, please, will you not speak to Lord Alaric for me?”
Edward paused, one foot in the stirrup, and looked thoughtfully at his son. “Now?”
Patrick nodded and glanced towards the Alaric’s carriage, which was about to depart.
“No,” Edward said firmly. “Now is not the time.”
Patrick’s shoulders slumped.
“But,” Edward continued, “I shall ride over this afternoon to have a word with Albert. Is this what Angelica wants as well?”
“Thank you, Father. And, yes, it is.”
“Very well, son. Now, gather your wits, for we are meeting with Dorien. There will be no place for women in these discussions.”
“Yes, Father.”
Their boots thumped dully across the wooden floor as they paced the hall towards Dorien’s office. Richard Wolfden awaited them by the door, and let them in.
“Thank you, for coming,” Dorien greeted them all.
Dorien had chosen Richard Wolfden, whose family had lived in Ashford for generations, to assist with the investigation into Abbott’s death, as well as Alexander Smythe, who owned the smithy; Roland Foster, who owned half the shops along the main road; George Sexton, who was the largest cattle farmer of the area; and Emerson Brewer, another of Ashford’s oldest families.
“The people of the town are concerned that this might not be an isolated incident,” Dorien began. “After what they have seen, or what they have been told, I cannot blame them for being frightened.”
Those present murmured in agreement.
“I don’t know what is out there and, by God, I hope it has moved on, but it is our job to make sure it does not kill again.”
“How do we fight it if we don’t know what it is?”
“Or who it is?”
“Aye.”
Voices raised - some in anger - and Dorien needed to calm them before he could continue.
“I know some of you think a person could be behind this murder. If that is the case, be extra vigilant about who you talk to. Report any suspicious behaviour at once.”
Patrick shuddered at the thought.
“If it is a beast,” Dorien continued, “we will find it, and kill it. George, make arrangements with the other farmers to keep the herds in the near fields. No one is to go into the forests alone.”
“Aye, Sir.”
“Richard, Edward, and Patrick, I want you to come with me to investigate the area of the murder.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Roland and Emerson, you are in charge of speaking to the townsfolk. See what information you can find out over the next week.”
“Aye.”
After the meeting, the men dispersed, except for those who were to ride with Dorien. Their horses pranced beneath them as they cantered out of town, sensing their riders’ tension. Dorien led them the long way to the place where Abbott was found, and Patrick did not want to draw suspicion to himself by suggesting the shorter route. The drizzle had stopped, and a weak ray of sunshine broke through into the clearing, pointing to the spot where Abbott had lain.
“The horses are calm,” Richard observed. “They smell no beast in the area.”
“The rain may have washed away the scent,” Edward said.
“And any spoor it may have left behind,” Patrick added, scanning the ground around the edges of the clearing.
“It still doesn’t rule out that it could have been a beast,” Dorien said. “Edward, you saw those wounds for yourself. Those weren’t teeth marks, but the slashes were made by claws, for sure.”
“A wolf would use its teeth, too, not just its claws,” Patrick stated.
“Indeed,” Dorien mused.
“What other beasts roam these woods, then?” Richard asked.
“That is what we must find out. Let us pray it is a beast, and we can kill it, and it isn’t a man we need to put to trial.”
Dorien’s ominous words lingered long with Patrick as he brushed down his horse once they were home. The men could speculate all they wanted, whether it was man or beast that killed Edgar Abbott - Patrick believed it could have been both. There were such entities as men changing into wolves, and there were also others that turned into something else.
The stallion stamped his foot impatiently at Patrick’s sudden shift in mood, but Patrick patted his neck, smiling.
Angelica effectively drove all other thought from his mind and, feeling like an untrained pup, he went to sit on the porch of the house, impatiently waiting for his father to return.
Patrick’s sensitive ears soon picked up the sound of hoofbeats along the road, and he stood. His father trotted at a steady pace towards their home, looking relaxed.
“Albert has agreed for you to court his daughter,” Edward said as Patrick held his horse for him to dismount. “But,” he continued, seeing Patrick’s joyous face, “Angelica is young, and you will be her first suitor. Lord Alaric will be keeping his eye on you.”
“Yes, Father. I will not dishonour our name.”
Patrick saw to his father’s horse, and then asked to be excused from supper - he had no stomach for food tonight.
The events of the last two days had awoken some turmoil within Patrick he had thought to have left on the battlefield. Seeing Abbott’s mutilated body had roiled his blood, and he needed to let off steam before seeing Angelica in the morning.
Under cover of darkness, he left the Blakesley lands and headed deep into the surrounding forest. He would risk no chance of discovery w
ith the current mood of the people. As was his way, he folded his clothes neatly and hid them, before becoming the wolf.
Shoulders heaving, and his black head hanging low, he stood growling for a moment; the white of his eyes and his teeth the only glows in the darkness of the forest.
Then, he ran.
He had no destination in mind, except to stay far away from Ashford. Following the narrow game trails, he pushed his body to its limits, celebrating the power and speed of the wolf.
After midnight he circled back, trotting now, sniffing the air, hoping for prey. He smelled voles and foxes, and other small creatures, but nothing worthy of his attention, when suddenly a cold shiver shuddered through the fur on his back.
Patrick stopped, his senses alert. Every part of his body told him he was in danger, but he could not tell where it was coming from. His stomach knotted in fear - a sensation he was not accustomed to.
Growling, fur bristling, he turned on the spot, searching for the threat. Was the beast out here? Was it real?
A sound in the treetops made him look up. With the canopy so dense, he could not be sure, but he thought he saw a shape, coming for him. The branches swayed in a peculiar wind.
Irrational fear made him spin and run. Whatever was up there was not going to get him tonight. His long strides carried him through the undergrowth at speed, whipping branches in his face.
By the sounds behind him, he knew the thing followed. The thought of the beast behind him, and his back being as exposed as it was triggered something within Patrick and, as the forest became less dense, he halted, and turned. Facing whatever was coming head-on was better than running. Patrick stood tall, projecting his entire alpha, growling deeply. He would make his last stand here.
Branches snapped high in the canopy - then it ceased. Patrick felt exposed, watched, but he did not back down. For almost five full minutes, Patrick maintained his dominant stance, never wavering. It took all his willpower not to falter under the thing’s gaze; even if he could not see it himself.
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