Scarlet murmured his reluctant acquiescence and clambered to his feet. At the same time, he steeled himself. No. This was not right. He already belonged to the spirits, and he simply had to do this to get Brien away from the house. What was the loss of a few pretty things when, if all went badly wrong for the Greenwood, the sacrifice could be so much greater?
Scarlet followed Brien out the front of the mansion, squinting into the light. Yet as his vision adjusted, he couldn’t help but admire a new perspective of the captain. Brien might be faederswica, but Scarlet couldn’t deny that he was of the true Greenwood stock. His height scraped the lower boughs of the great oaks, and he blended well amid the bark and branches with his long, dark coat and sturdy boots. Not to mention his cropped mass of chestnut curls, rustled by the same breeze that licked through Scarlet’s thin clothing and made him shiver.
Brien cast Scarlet a questioning glare. “What is it?”
“I’m cold, that’s all.”
“If you will wear silk and muslin in the forest in early spring, that’s what you should expect. I hope you’ve got something else to change into, because I’ll be wanting that finery back. Seeing as I paid for it.”
Scarlet shrugged resignedly as they rounded the back of the Great Hall, its arched windows checkered with broken panes. They approached the crumbling wreck of a stable, in which Scarlet had made his home over the previous few weeks.
Brien’s proximity to his nest triggered a renewed flush of anxiety. The thought of this man finding his little sanctuary made Scarlet feel acutely exposed to his ridicule, fears that were all too soon realized. By the time Brien tugged him though the broken doorway, the big man was already swearing and laughing.
“What are you? The Prince Regent’s mistress? This place looks like a fucking whore’s boudoir, with even more rats in it than usual.”
Brien kicked through the neatly arranged straw, tugging down the muslin that Scarlet had draped over the damp stone walls, and knocking down his meticulously polished looking glass. Carelessly swiping a clay flower pot from a low beam, he sent icy water splashing up Scarlet’s stockings.
“Where in hell’s name are my jewels?”
Scarlet nearly yelled, You’re scattering them, you mutton-headed cuss! But something forced him to swallow back such strident words. “I hid them among the straw. If you looked with your eyes rather than your toe caps, you might find them.”
Scarlet nodded in the direction of a tiny mother-of-pearl brooch lying between some scattered bluebells.
“Pick it up,” Brien commanded.
“How am I supposed to do that with my hands tied?” Scarlet shrugged his narrow shoulders before reading the answer etched in the hard contours of Brien’s face. Of course he could pick it up. If that was what his captain desired.
No! he silently scolded himself. I will willingly degrade myself in such a way, but not for him. I will do it because that’s what I have to do to get this man out of here.
Yet as Scarlet dropped to his knees at the captain’s feet, he could not suppress a sense of tremulous anticipation that rendered his every movement both a great effort and a reluctant joy. He found himself dipping his gaze, panting hard and fast while he watched those heavy brown boots back away. Then he stooped forward, and with delicate precision, he picked up the tiny brooch between his teeth.
It felt hard, cold, and sensuously smooth against his upper lip. The pin nicked his tongue, a sharp, stinging pain, but he refused to drop it. Resting back on his haunches, Scarlet offered it up to Brien, lashes fluttering as furiously as his heart.
With a guttural laugh, Brien opened his hand beneath Scarlet’s lips and silently urged him to drop it, which he did.
“You make a good little slave,” Brien said, briefly touching the top of Scarlet’s hair, a gesture of approval for which Scarlet felt insufferably grateful. “But we haven’t got all fucking day. Now, are you quite sure you didn’t take any papers?”
“I told you. If anybody took those, it must have been the fairy.”
“Oh, in the name of all that’s holy!”
The vicious yank on the lead sent Scarlet sprawling forward onto the floor. Half fearing the brute would kick him, he looked up to see Brien ransacking through the remnants of his belongings, including his old and, at that moment, much-craved woolen smock and breeches. Then he saw the end of his lead had been dropped, and his heart lurched again.
Scarlet scrambled onto his knees and then onto his feet. This was his chance to cut his losses and run, in the hope that Brien would give up and leave the forest before nightfall. He could find a way to free himself from his bindings, if only he could find the space to think without Brien’s sheer presence overwhelming him, let alone his physical might.
“No, you don’t!” Just as Scarlet sent the message telling his feet to flee, Brien reached out and grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve turned this place upside down.”
“You won’t find your papers here.”
“Then you are going to help me find the woman who took them, even if it takes us the rest of the month.”
A month? Hastings could be settled in the heart of the Greenwood in a month. But worst of all, what enchantment might this monster cast over him given the curse of time?
Scarlet knew what happened to traitors. He’d learned all about it from Old Brigit who had raised him in her cottage, and from the Aeboda, her dreaded book of Greenwood lore. When Scarlet had spilled the milk or wandered too far from the hearth, the lash of her birch broom had echoed the crack of her tongue and a glimpse at some of the horrifying images in that ancient tome. Traitors were left swinging from the branches of the oaks, the tree of Holgaerst, to bring the balance of justice back to the Greenwood. Yet when badly wronged, the fouler spirits thirsted for more than the punishment of faederswica. These spirits of the foul realm of Niogaerst were bound to the hazel tree and only sated by the blood of sacrifice. Brigit’s stark words reverberated all too clearly through Scarlet’s mind:
“Some forest dwellers were born to be sacrificed. Unwanted souls, changelings, gaast—just like you, Scarlet! Nobody will mourn your dripping lifeblood, not once I’m gone, little one. And as your body dies, you’ll sink into the realm beneath the forest. In the world of Niogaerst, the cold is worse than the fiercest winter; its every bite will cleave the flesh from your bones. The Lord of the Hazel Tree is master down there, and his Wild Men will drink your blood until all that is left is a wraith. A wraith who knows nothing beyond ice and pain! So you’d better learn to behave, my boy.”
Back then the pictures old Brigit had shown him in the Aeboda had given him nightmares so lifelike that he’d woken in a cold sweat, trembling and gasping for air. Of course, Scarlet was old enough now to know that Brigit had been trying to scare him. Yet there was truth enough in Holgaerst. And oh, Mother Goddess, he knew all too well that he carried the mark of Niogaerst, signifying how his blood was craved by the foul spirits of the hazel. But Scarlet had never believed he could be lured easily away from the light. At least, not until that very day.
The sudden twinge of pain in his pelvis, where he bore that accursed mark, seemed inevitable. Scarlet gritted his teeth against it, his fury burgeoning, even as Brien wound the end of his lead around a low beam and tied it fast. Scarlet tugged furiously, jerking his neck like a wild animal as he tried to struggle his way free.
“Fuck! Let me go!”
His screams went ignored. So Scarlet shut his eyes and drew a deep, leveling breath. He had to overcome these confusing feelings he harbored for this faederswica. He had to throw himself back upon the mercy of those he knew he could trust.
“Damn it!”
Brien sliced his boot through the straw, striking the stone wall beyond, but his anger was already subsiding. He could see more of the jewels, scattered and glinting. That was good. He’d get Scarlet to gather them up in a minute once the woodsman had calmed down. Indeed Brien decided that watching Scarlet pick up jewels betw
een those claret-coloured lips might be a tonic for both of them. Right then he was irritated with himself for a great number of things, not least for being outwitted by that confounded Jemima.
“After she’d taken the papers, you didn’t by any chance see where your fairy flew off to?” His anger mastered, Brien spiraled around. Scarlet’s venom-flecked gaze startled him.
“There was no bloody fairy,” spat Scarlet. “I bartered the papers in the market, just like the jewels. I didn’t know what they were, so why shouldn’t I?”
Brien’s jaw fell slack. No. That couldn’t be true. Why couldn’t Scarlet have done something sweet and innocent with them, like stowing them away in a tree? To lose a few of the jewels was one thing, but those deeds could have left him plump in the pocket for life.
“Tell me that’s a lie. It’s impossible! How could you have found them alone?”
“That house has been empty for years, so rumor got about the forest of its secrets. Your stupid sister was behind it, no doubt, but she didn’t show me. Took me a while to find ’em all, but bollocks, I’ve had plenty of time, haven’t I?”
For a moment, anger overcame Brien’s ragged scruples. He lunged forward to grab the woodsman and shake the truth from him if he had to.
He didn’t expect resistance—certainly not the knee crunching into his groin, or the follow-up kick to his chin as he hunched forward. And then, as he writhed on the floor in agony, there came the greatest shock of all. A blur in the corner of his vision, he saw Scarlet slip from his bonds, grab something from the floor, and sprint from the stables.
“What…how?” Brien hauled himself from the ground, his crotch throbbing. He snatched at the unraveled ivy stalks. “How the devil did he do that?”
He blinked in disbelief. There was no obvious break in the middle of the thick bonds, no slice with a hidden knife, nor any wrench made through brute force. The knots had simply unraveled, every single one of them.
“That’s not possible,” he mumbled, casting the remnants to the floor before following them down to gather what he could. The least he could do now was cut his losses by selling the jewelry. Although if Scarlet was telling the truth, could some Hampshire pedlar still possess the deeds, not knowing their worth, and be easily parted with them?
Yes, there was still hope for the greater part of his fortune, even if he couldn’t find Scarlet again to interrogate him for more details. He didn’t fancy his chances of finding a woodsman in his native forest, even if that place had once been Brien’s home.
“I never belonged here,” he muttered, urging heavy-feeling bones to rise. “And when I get out of here tonight, I will never return again.”
The mess he had made of Scarlet’s nest made him pause, though. The scattered bedding, the cracked looking glass, and the crushed flowers. Why should he care? It was no more than the little thief deserved.
“There’s only one reason I should feel bad about leaving this place forever,” he told himself. He stooped down to pick up a few grubby snowdrops that had somehow escaped the destruction wrought by his boots.
He ought to visit his mother’s grave for the last—and only—time. With this determination, Brien turned his back on the stable, only to find himself momentarily awed by a trail of silk and muslin.
He frowned, crushing the stalks in his fist. Why on earth had the boy scattered his clothes? How had he had time? The cruder, rustic clothing that had been piled beside the bedding had also been snatched. Was this some attempt to pay him back what he was owed?
He picked up the soft fabric and sniffed it. It smelled of lavender, yes, but also of sweet, fresh dew, of the depths of the forest, and of something beautifully, intrinsically Scarlet. The twinge of longing bewildered him further. In such a short time, how the hell had he gained such affection for the way the worthless wretch smelled?
He pushed aside the awkward question, tucking the fabric under his coat for safekeeping. Then, setting his mind as blank as possible, he made his way toward the chapel and his mother’s grave.
* * *
The chapel at Carseald Hall had been built in a brief period when the ill-fated Charles the First had required the Brien family to demonstrate their devotion. Siding with the defeated royalists hadn’t furthered their fortunes much, although even the most stolid parliamentarian hadn’t bothered to come seeking spoils so deep into the Greenwood. So the chapel had moldered, untouched, through the years. The ancient religions of the Goddess had held sway among Brien’s ancestors on his father’s side—unlike with his mother, a Southampton merchant’s daughter, who had been married off to the forest squire following one too many youthful indiscretions.
“Poor Mama,” murmured Brien, ducking under a low archway and into the chapel. A bat swooped past his ear, the soft whir of its wings sending a tremor down his spine, but he forged forward to locate two new stone flags set into the middle of the floor.
Judith Alice Brien, 1764 - 1813.
His mother’s name and dates were freshly carved beside his father’s. He’d been fighting in the Peninsular when his mother’s lengthy illness began, and he had not learned about her final sufferings until she was long dead and buried. Jemima had, at the very least, fulfilled her daughterly duties at the last. Whereas Brien hadn’t even made the effort to return until now.
But it was too late for regrets. Brien stooped to place what was left of the snowdrops and noted, almost passively, that he had not been the first to make an offering. A small bunch of yellow celandine lay to the left on his father’s stone, not yet withered. So Jemima had been here recently. That meant that Scarlet’s final claim was likely a lie, as he had suspected. Then something far more shocking caught his eye.
“How dare she?”
Brien spat the words out loud, dropping to his knees on the chill stone of his father’s grave. Yes! This had to be Jemima’s doings. Somebody had scrawled over the language of the Church, inscribing in charcoal in a stylized script. Brien knew what was written well enough. It was a vow made in the ancient tongue of the forest.
“Only my sister would desecrate her own father’s grave.”
On the other hand, Brien knew his father would hardly have condemned her for it. Father and daughter had been of one blood and one mind, but Brien had been his mother’s son. If there was any civilized decency left to him, it was her legacy, and his father’s grave was too near that of his mother’s to leave it this way.
He began furiously scrubbing away the charcoal with his sleeve. From what he could discern, the inscription was pretty senseless. A daughter’s tale of sorrow and loss, wailing for the great oak to which her tiny sapling had once clung, and then…
His focus latched on to the key words: wilspell, leaef, aedscrafte, heorte, holt. What was that all about? Tidings, papers, regeneration, heart, forest? Then she’d scrawled some tomfoolery about the “magic realm where the New World lay.”
Brien fell back onto his haunches, breathing hard. Why would she write that? Papers? New World? Could she be referring to the deeds?
Had Jemima left this message here for him?
He rose swiftly, telling himself it was a mad woman’s ramblings, nothing more. A few more scuffs with his heel smeared away the rest of the charcoal. He whispered a reluctant blessing and left.
Above the sagging roof of the mansion, the sky had darkened to a leaden gray. Brien puffed out his cheeks and pulled his coat tight around his shoulders. Should he risk waiting here to see if Jemima or Scarlet returned? Or should he go? If he chose the latter, all he had to pay the rest of his debts with was the value of the jewels.
He resolved to go. He was nothing more than a grave robber coming here, and this place was already worming too deeply under his skin. Casting his gaze to the skirts of the forest, he felt like there were a thousand eyes boring into him.
Or maybe just two?
Scarlet.
Brien reached the tree where he’d tethered his stallion, Smithy, who gave a loud, distressful whinny. Brien stroked
his horse’s nose soothingly.
“Me too, old boy,” he muttered. He had to get out of there. Otherwise he could read the future all too clearly. He would be crouching in the bushes, waiting for breadcrumbs from his mad sister but praying, deep in his soul, that it would be the young woodsman who fell into his snare.
It was a pitiful choice: poverty or madness…or raw, naked lust.
Chapter Four
Scarlet held his breath until the dull clop of hooves against mud had faded away, and then he slipped noiselessly from the undergrowth.
The captain was gone. Scarlet usually loved these moments, when he could hear only the rustle of the wind in the trees and when even the chattering of the birds had fallen quiet. Yet he muttered a heartfelt oath and ground his toe into the mud. He ought to be relieved Brien was gone, so why did he still crave the man’s touch?
Hurrying back toward the house, Scarlet realized one thing was for certain. That he was alive and free was the will of Holgaerst and hardly his own doing. When he’d been with Brien, there had been moments when he’d not even wanted to escape, let alone fight, and when he might have surrendered to almost anything. Scarlet shuddered.
He’d learned that the sister channeled the truest, most sacred bloodline of the forest. Some of the villagers even called her Elfaene, the fairy queen, although Scarlet knew her powers were quite different from those of the true fairy folk. But powerful she was, and Brien was her brother. The same blood pumped through his veins, and that was evidence to Scarlet, if nothing else was, that this family’s allegiances were mixed between Holgaerst and Niogaerst, between the oak and the hazel. No blood could flow fouler than that which manifested as faederswica. If Brien possessed any trace of magic, Scarlet suspected it would be of the kind that dragged an unwanted soul down into that world of ice and pain, and…oh, Mother Goddess!
Scarlet stopped dead, staring at the battered doorway. “He’s like the jewels and the fabrics,” he murmured. “All the forbidden things of the world beyond the forest, which I don’t need, that I shouldn’t want, but that I desire…because I’m a stupid, vain clot.”
Bound for the Forest Page 3
