by Anne Stuart
She was obsessed with him, and she knew it, a completely unhealthy state of mind. After a lifetime of having no interest in the opposite sex, she found she could think of nothing else.
It wasn’t as if she’d lacked for inspiration in the past. Her father’s parish had abounded with males of every age and shape and temperament, and any number of brave souls had attempted to court her before Elliott Maynard’s suit found favor with the Reverend Penshurst. She’d often lamented her lack of interest. Daniel Pettingrew had been kind, intelligent, handsome, and in love with her. Robert deLacey had been wealthy and showing signs of fixing his attentions upon her.
And she’d run from them, into the forest, avoiding their friendly gestures, their warm smiles, avoiding them until her father grew exasperated and welcomed Elliott Maynard as a man of God who’d provide for his recalcitrant daughter.
She had longed more than anything to please her father. To be the good, dutiful child he wanted her to be. It wasn’t that he and Adelia didn’t love her dearly. But neither of them could understand the fey streak in her willful soul, neither of them could accept that she didn’t belong in the neat little house in the neat little village.
And her wild, secret nature and her dislike of courtship had banished her to this place of stark beauty, and to the Dark Man, who caught her soul as no man ever had. In a way it served her right. She had thought she was immune to the lure of any man, that all she needed or wanted was in the forest. And here she was, at the edge of a darker, deeper woods than she had ever known, and he lived deep in the heart of them.
She could still feel the touch of his beautiful hands on her, taste the forbidden wonder of his mouth, shocking, against hers.
And no distraction was proving effective. She lay in his bed and dreamed of him; she walked through his childhood home and couldn’t banish the dream presence of an unhappy little boy. All she could do was refuse to give in to the dreams, to the constant longing for something that was impossible. She needed to concentrate on what she could have. She needed to remember that her life lay along a different path, away from the woods. Back in Dorset, even if that wild, shameful part of her longed for the forest and the Dark Man.
They’d managed a decent enough supper with bread and cheese and more of the soup Gabriel had made. Jane had disappeared into the stables, and Elizabeth wandered through the dark, cold hallways of Hernewood Manor, looking for something to occupy her mind.
Clearly the Durhams were not great readers. There was a library, but the leather-bound tomes were of scant interest. None of the ladies of the household seemed to read novels, and even the latest fashion books held limited appeal.
She didn’t want to go back into Gabriel’s chamber—she had moved her things back to the small, cold bedroom under the eaves, ignoring Jane’s protests—but there had been books there, arranged according to size in a small bookcase in one corner. She didn’t want to know what Gabriel had read as a child. She didn’t want to learn his mind and soul. His body was disturbing enough.
But so was the long stretch of empty hours in the cold, barren house. Taking the heavy branch of candles from the kitchen table, she steeled herself, heading back up to Gabriel’s deserted bedroom.
It was a strange, motley collection of books. Far too many instructive guides for proper deportment in young gentlemen, and Elizabeth would have wagered young Gabriel had paid very little attention to them. A well-used Latin primer, a collection of ancient folktales, and oddly enough, a guide to the genealogy of the royal family. She picked up the latter, but the pages were uncut, and clearly Gabriel had had no interest in it whatsoever. It seemed an odd book for a child’s bedroom, but then, Gabriel had been no ordinary child.
She took Folktales of Ancient Britain and escaped the room for her own small chamber, settling by the fire with a blanket on her lap, and began reading the tale of Beowulf and the bloodthirsty monster.
Falling asleep in her chair was definitely not a wise idea, especially in the midst of such a blood-curdling tale. She awoke hours later with a jerk, her neck cramped, her body chilled, her heart pounding from an unremembered dream. The fire had died down to mere coals. The blanket had fallen on the floor. The candles had guttered out, and she was alone in the icy shadows, with the half-remembered monsters baying at her heels.
She rose and headed for the window, peering out at the moon-shadowed night. The woods were still and silent—no creature moved in the darkness, real or unreal, no storm threatened. And yet Elizabeth couldn’t shake the feeling that something was desperately wrong.
She stubbed her foot against the bed as she made her way back across the room, banged her knee on a table, opened the door against her nose, jarring her enough to let out a small curse that would have horrified her saintly father to the tips of his toes. But no one was around to hear and admonish her, and as she faced the impenetrable darkness of the hallway she cursed again, with more emphasis, enjoying herself.
She knew what she should do. Close the door, find her way back to bed in the smothering darkness, strip off her clothes, and crawl beneath the covers. It was foolish to go traipsing around in the dead of night, when all she would find would be trouble. Look at what had happened to her when she’d given in to temptation and gone out into the forest.
She moved out into the darkened hall, heading toward Jane’s room. She needed company, another human’s voice reminding her that there were no such things as bloodthirsty demons. And the only other human in this huge, dark house was Jane.
Except that Jane’s door was open. There was no light inside, but her fire still burned brightly enough that Elizabeth could see her high, narrow bed was empty. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed, and proper Jane Durham was nowhere to be found.
Calm, sensible Elizabeth Penshurst immediately panicked. Fortunately there was a branch of extinguished candles near the fire—she caught it up and lit it from the flames, providing herself with at least a fitful illumination, and began her search.
Jane was nowhere in the house. Not in the small front parlor that they’d just barely managed to heat, not in the cavernous kitchen with the fires banked and glowing. Not in any of the bedrooms or drawing rooms or dining rooms or servants’ rooms. The huge house was deserted.
Elizabeth set the candles down on a table with deceptive calm. For all that she might not want to think about it, three young women had disappeared from the area in the last few months, including one only a few days ago. If Jane was nowhere to be found, time was of the essence. Elizabeth could scarcely go back to bed and wait—Jane was too sensible a young woman to go wandering off in the middle of the night unless she had a very good reason. She must have been taken against her will.
Elizabeth didn’t even hesitate. She had to go for help, to the one place she knew in the area. She had to find her way through the haunted forest to the Monk’s Tower and warn Gabriel that his sister had vanished.
It wasn’t the first time she’d ventured forth in the darkness, she reminded herself as she wrapped a heavy shawl around her shoulders. Of course, the last time she’d gone out she hadn’t known about the missing women or just how dangerous Gabriel Durham truly was. And she hadn’t just awoken from a blood-curdling nightmare whose details were mercifully vague.
She had no choice. She had no notion of where the lanterns were kept, and she didn’t care. She pushed open the huge front door, and the wind immediately blew out her candles. She set the silver holder down on the doorsill and stepped out into the night air, glancing up at the three-quarter moon. Clouds were scudding across it. The wind had picked up, and the landscape was alive with eerie shadows.
And Elizabeth started forward, resolutely, ignoring the hammering in her chest, fully prepared to fight demons, bloodthirsty monsters, kidnappers, and that most terrifying of all creatures, Gabriel Durham, in order to bring Jane safely home.
Chapter Fif
teen
ARUNDEL WAS A huge, Gothic structure that put Hernewood Manor to shame. Once a part of Hernewood Abbey’s vast holdings, it had been taken from the monks at the time of dissolution and given by Henry VIII to a loyal subject. The loyal subject in question just happened to be the former chief prior of Hernewood Abbey, and a cousin of the king besides. The monk had no difficulty in promptly renouncing his calling, and the Moncrieff family had been in residence until recently, when bad debts and worse reputation had forced the latest of that line to relocate abroad, leaving his factor to rent the rambling estate to try to keep it in good heart.
Gabriel hadn’t heard good things of the Chiltons’ tenure, but then, he hadn’t expected to. Most of the local people had been sent off, the Londoners had brought their own servants with them, and a shifty, suspicious lot they were, according to local gossip.
Indeed, public opinion was divided as to who was the less welcome newcomer to North Yorkshire, the Chiltons or Gabriel himself.
Not that Gabriel was a newcomer, as the local people knew quite well. Most of them had been tolerant enough when he first came back to claim his tumbledown estate, ignoring his lapse and accepting his custom and the work provided with dignity. The Chiltons were more their idea of the upper classes: haughty, extravagant, high-living, and their advent was welcomed as well.
Until the rumors started of night riders and dead animals and ancient white-robed Druids wandering the woods at night, and Gabriel was their logical culprit.
Peter said no one distrusted him, but Peter would think the best of almost anyone. It was only logical they suspected him, and foolishly, he wasn’t about to make any explanations. The people of Hernewood ought to remember that white-robed phantoms had been wandering the ruins of the abbey for the last two hundred or so years, and they came from a time much later than the Druids. Brother Septimus and Brother Paul were Cistercians, or had been during their time on earth. For some reason they lingered in the ruins, looking out for their abbey and guiding any stray lambs to safety.
As far as Gabriel knew, he was the first person with the dubious distinction of communicating with them. He lived in their abbey, and he had once been a monk himself, albeit for a brief, contentious time. Stout, cheerful Brother Paul had welcomed him jovially, as had Brother Septimus with slightly more reserve. They watched over him. They wandered the abbey grounds at night, and every now and then they showed up in the tower to shake their heads in dismay at his wickedness.
His wickedness consisted of reading ancient texts that the brothers considered blasphemous, drinking too much wine, and dreaming about Elizabeth Penshurst. Of course the good brothers shouldn’t have had any notion of his unspoken, lascivious thoughts, but from the woeful expression on Brother Septimus’s face, Gabriel expected they knew far too well.
They were tied to the abbey grounds, though no one seemed to know why. He’d left them wandering the grounds as he made his way across country toward the Chiltons’ estate.
It was a two-mile walk, but he had no intention of bothering with a horse. It was late, the shadows had lengthened, and if they expected him at all, they would hardly do so on foot. He could come up the back way, observing the lay of the land to see if his suspicions were correct. He’d once known Arundel fairly well—the latest Moncrieff had never been in residence, and young Gabriel would often wander through the place, dreaming of other times, other lives.
The stone wall that marked the southern boundary was higher than he remembered, with rusty-looking metal atop the wall. The gate was closed and locked, the padlock fresh and shiny, but Gabriel had no qualms about dismantling it, one of his many odd talents. He stepped through, into the overgrown tangle of one of the gardens, and paused, listening.
The house was still more than half a mile away, a huge, imposing edifice brightly lit against the encroaching darkness. It should have looked welcoming, but it didn’t. He could hear the boisterous sound of male laughter, a faint scream that might have been a woman shrieking with amusement and, then again, might not.
The path to his right would take him directly to the house in less than ten minutes’ time. He imagined it was close to nine, but they wouldn’t come looking for him. If they did, they’d hardly expect him to be roaming their overgrown, weed-choked garden.
Instead he struck out to the left, moving deeper into the tangle, heading toward the abandoned farm buildings with an instinct both sure and blind. There was no noise to lead him, no sound to call him. Just the certain knowledge that he’d find out all he needed to know there.
Once, decades ago, Arundel had been a prosperous estate, with a home farm, hardworking tenants, a dairy, and a mill. The cows had all died from a brain sickness. The mill was closed down, and the farm had been abandoned. Now all that remained were empty buildings, their thatched roofs long fallen into disrepair, their windows boarded up, silent and dead.
There was no sign of life when Gabriel reached the front of the old barn, and yet there were no weeds growing as there would have been if the place was truly abandoned. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to board up the windows, though as yet no one had bothered to rethatch the roof.
He moved through the shadows, silent and unseen, coming up to the front door of the barn, only to find the same fresh, sturdy lock barring entrance. What could be so valuable in a roofless, deserted barn that it required that kind of lock?
This one was a little more difficult to manage, and the shadows were growing darker around him, forcing him to take even longer. He scraped his hand, drawing blood, and he cursed, trying once more. This time the lock fell open, and he removed it, pushing open the door into the dusty, dark interior of the abandoned barn.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the almost impenetrable darkness. Boards and broken carriages and old furniture were piled haphazardly, blocking a far doorway that led into the center of the barn. He made his way around the obstacles to the door, half-expecting to find still another lock, but the door wasn’t even properly shut.
In the distance he thought he could hear the sound of dogs, not the friendly baying of family pets, but the deep, warning growl of guard dogs, hungry for blood. He froze, telling himself it was his imagination that they were coming closer, their paws thudding on the rough plank flooring of the old barn.
He pushed the door open into the huge room. Overhead the last of the fitful light shone down through the hole where the roof had once been, and dust swam in the air. In front of him was a huge structure, as tall as a cottage, made of entwined wood. Wicker, he thought with chilled certainty. It was a wicker cage, just as he had dreaded.
He backed away, closing the door behind him, wondering why he felt so shaken. He’d suspected they were up to something of the sort—the dead animals and the Chiltons’ unsavory reputation had suggested nothing less.
But suspicion and seeing the reality of it were two different things. And the cage was huge, much larger than Gabriel had imagined. He wondered where they expected to set it. He wondered what they planned to put inside.
Common sense told him they’d be amassing cattle and hunting dogs and birds. But there was no common sense to what he’d just seen. The wicker cage wasn’t made to hold animals, it was made for humans. He knew it with a kind of horrified certainty. But he had no idea how he could stop them.
He knew an instant before anyone spoke that he was no longer alone.
“Were you impressed?” Francis Chilton’s soft, affected voice was directly behind him.
Gabriel turned slowly, a distant, bored expression set firmly on his face. “Should I be?” he murmured.
“I think it’s quite astonishing myself,” Francis said. He was wearing some kind of wizard’s robe, all embroidery and jewels and bizarre colors, his golden hair tumbling to his shoulders. “It’s one thing to read about it, another to actually see it. You’ve never seen one before, hav
e you?”
Gabriel considered lying, then dismissed the notion. “No,” he said. “And you’re right—it’s quite . . . impressive. Startling.”
Francis smiled smugly, clearly taking it as a compliment to his own ingenuity. “Do you think it will work?” he asked anxiously.
“It depends what you plan to do with it.”
“Don’t be silly, Gabriel, we intend to set it on fire come Beltane, and we’re hoping you’ll honor us with setting the torch.” Francis smiled his winning smile, exposing sharply pointed little teeth in the darkening air.
“And what do you propose to have inside the cage?” He asked it idly, not for one moment thinking that Francis would be fooled.
“Gifts to propitiate our gods. Gifts for Herne the Hunter, Belarus, god of war, even Jesus Christ himself if he’s in the mood to receive an offering. Wine and wheat and rashers of bacon, gold, and satins.”
“And virgins, Francis?”
Francis threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t be absurd, Gabriel. I doubt there’s a virgin left in the entire county. I’m certain you’ve done your best to decrease their number.”
“I’ve told your wife, I’m celibate.”
“Yes, so Delilah informed me. I’m certain your little problem is only temporary. I gather it afflicts most men at one time or another.”
Gabriel laughed, unable to help himself, but he didn’t bother to correct Francis. The last thing he cared to discuss with a dedicated degenerate such as Francis Chilton was the healthy state of his cock. “I should never underestimate you, Francis.”
