by B. A. Morton
Chapter Four
Grace woke in stages, each of her senses coming slowly and reluctantly back to life. She heard a boy’s distorted voice, through muffled ears, as he discussed the food which she could smell cooking. The aroma, of stewed rabbit caused her stomach to recoil in response.
Struggling to open leaden lids, the room swam before her. When it slowed, she was able to make out the blurred figure of the boy as he squatted by the fire. A dog - her dog, sat by his side, tail wagging.
Damn that dog to hell, she thought.
She turned her head gingerly, and regretted the action when the room spun once more. Cold stone walls, rough earthen floor, a window small and unglazed - all spinning. She put out her hand, grasped desperately at the straw beneath her, applying the brake in the only way she knew how. She tried to slow the rotation further by keeping her head still and moving only her eyes. She realised there was someone else in the room, coolly observing her return to consciousness.
He sat relaxed against the wall, alongside the fire which hissed with its load of damp wood. His legs outstretched, booted feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded loosely across his chest. He studied her through the smoky interior from beneath half closed eyes.
Grace realised he was speaking to her, in the low raspy voice she recalled from her dreams. His rising intonation suggested a question, but she couldn’t understand him. He wasn’t speaking English and yet it sounded familiar. She stared at him blankly. Perhaps she was still dreaming. How else could this situation be explained? She had no memory of what had preceded this. No recollection of arriving, or indeed of leaving anywhere else. Merely a worrying blank void she desperately needed to fill.
She blinked slowly, dragged reluctant, sticky lids back open, trying to concentrate and focus. But her mind, incapable of normal cognition seemed reluctant to obey and determined to wander. She found herself drawn to his presence, fascinated by his appearance. Her pupils dilated, a witless rabbit caught in a hypnotic glare of light.
He appeared weary. A little unkempt, his collar length dark hair was pushed back roughly from his face, the moisture trapped in the damp strands glistening in the firelight. Here and there, small white lines betrayed the scars of old wounds. They dissected his eyebrow, highlighted the line of his jaw and marred the stubble that cloaked his chin. His eyes, which assessed her with lazy disinterest, were a striking blue, his lashes long and black.
He was not unattractive she decided as she studied him detachedly, though his appearance suggested he’d been living rough for some time, and an accumulation of sweat and grime had caught in the fine lines either side of his eyes. Laughter lines, her Grandmother would have called them, but there was no humour in his expression. Instead there was an aura of strangeness which initiated stirrings of unease within her.
He spoke again more insistently, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper but its tone demanding her attention. She shook herself, widened her eyes with difficulty and tried very hard to concentrate. It was French, she was almost sure of it, a kind of French anyway and she thought he was asking her name. How odd, she thought distractedly, a Frenchman in the middle of a Northumberland. Perhaps he was lost, it was easily done. She, herself had a terrible sense of direction. She tried to recall the French learned at school, but apart from the usual rude phrases that circumnavigated the school yard she was at a loss.
This wasn’t getting them anywhere, she thought. Confusion clouded her usual directness. She could imagine all manner of things about him and who he might be, but that didn’t explain where she was, how she’d got there and what on earth was going on. She swallowed with difficulty, took an unsteady breath and tried out her voice.
“Speak English, you’re not in France now,” she croaked. She dragged an insolent glare and a generous dollop of false bravado from the depths of her rapidly diminishing store of confidence.
Pulled out of his lazy reverie, he cocked his head and raised a scarred brow. “Pardon?” he responded. “I merely asked your name, Mademoiselle.”
“My name?” She cast her eyes around the smoky room, with no idea how she’d ended up there. She had the worst hangover possible, and couldn’t even remember the party. Maybe that was the answer. She’d obviously been to a party, done something stupid, which pretty much summed up her life so far and ended up here, with...him. She felt the flicker of self-doubt, spark into life and chose to ignore it. She’d left all that behind in London, the self-analysis of her own behaviour, the self-deprecation. She doused the flame before it could take hold and glanced back at him. She needed to get her life back on track.
“My name is Grace,” she offered eventually with a shrug and a shield of indifference “Who the hell are you?” She watched as confusion swiftly flashed across his face. Perhaps he found as much difficulty with her accent as she did with his.
“Miles, Miles of Wildewood, my lady. The boy is Edmund.”
“Miles who?” Bloody hell, whatever she’d had the night before; she was making a sworn promise never to touch it again. She felt an unwelcome fluttering in the pit of her stomach and made a supreme effort to retain the contents.
“Okay, Miles, whoever, from wherever, how did I get here?” One pale hand strayed to her fringe and she wound the longer strands between finger and thumb. She glanced around bewildered, simply could not remember a thing, and felt a tiny ripple of alarm at the absurdity and recklessness of that.
Miles observed her through narrowed eyes. “Why, on the back of my horse, my lady.”
In the boot of his car more like, thought Grace, with rapidly increasing unease, wrapped in a carpet and set for a shallow grave. Now that headline would definitely knock the forgery off the top spot. “My Lady...Oh for goodness sake...,” she snorted. Did he think she was an idiot?
He leaned toward her, the curl in his lip betraying some undeclared intent. “Where are you from?”
She leaned back a fraction in response. “Tell me where I am and I’ll tell you where I’m from.”
Miles smiled slowly, settled back, lifted his cup and took a sip. He watched her and waited until the pause became almost unbearable, before speaking again. “You are currently sheltering atop Ahlborett Crag. Where are you from?”
“Why, here of course.”
“Here?”
“Well, not exactly here. I mean I don’t actually live in this...” she cast about looking for the right description “...cottage.”
“What are you doing on my land?” he asked. He placed the cup on the beaten earth alongside him and wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand.
She followed the progress of his hand with her eyes, glancing away when she met the curl of his lip. “This is not your land,” she muttered.
“I beg to differ.” The curl turned into a smirk and ignited Grace’s indignation.
“You can beg all you like,” she snapped. “This land belongs to me.”
He stared at her then, with new interest. “To you?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you should tell me who you really are?”
“I’ve told you who I am.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You try my patience, Mademoiselle. Tell me who you are and why you believe you hold title to the lands of Wildewood?”
“Oh please.” She shook her head and stifled a smirk. “I try your patience. This is a joke right? The lands of Wildewood, I’ve never heard such twaddle, and I’ve never heard of Wildewood. I’ve lived here all my life. This land from the river to the crag and all the forest in between belongs to Kirk Knowe...and Kirk Knowe belongs to me.” She stuck out her chin defiantly and foolishly ignored the red flag in his expression.
With surprising speed he whipped out his arm, caught her slender throat in his calloused hand and squeezed ever so gently. Leaning in close, he cocked his head, his raspy breath hot against her cheek. “You have appalling manners, Mademoiselle.” Her eyes bulged with indignation, but she refused to let loose of the fear.
He drew o
ut his dagger and placed the tip against the pale skin beneath her chin. She watched his eyes narrow as her skin depressed beneath the blade.
“How did you come to be in my woods? Who sent you alone into the grip of winter? Who seeks you with the rope? Or perhaps you are the seeker, petit espion.”
And suddenly she was there, in the frozen forest. She remembered her walk in the woods, the chase after the dog, but what followed was hazy. She remembered fear, but could not recall the cause. She remained resolutely silent as he indented the blade a little more. She gasped as the pressure increased and as her softly exhaled breath whispered across his skin, she met his eye. Torture or entertainment, she had no idea what he intended and no intention of finding out.
“You will tell me,” he said through gritted teeth.
“In your dreams,” she whispered and she balled her fist, swung back her hand and connected as hard as she could with his groin.
His howl of pain ricocheted around the small room and was almost surpassed by the boy’s spontaneous whoop of delight. He cursed wildly at the boy who ducked and beat a hasty retreat.
Throwing off the cloak, Grace leapt to her feet and stood momentarily triumphant in her underwear, her tormentor beaten at her feet. A sudden searing pain in her thigh and an alarming shift in her equilibrium robbed her of victory before she’d fully grasped it.
“Oh bugger,” she cried and dropped to the floor like a stone.
Chapter Five
They glared at each other from opposite sides of the room. Miles counted back from ten and waited patiently until her expression eventually betrayed her discomfort and a sliver of fear. He picked himself up, resisted the urge to realign his equipment, and stood over her.
“Are you done, Mademoiselle?” he growled.
“My name is Grace,” she muttered and this time Miles caught the hesitancy in her voice. As if she realised she’d gone too far and was concerned at the consequences of her actions. He’d succeeded in scaring her, but the knowledge didn’t leave him with the air of victory he desired.
Stooping he picked up the cloak and offered it to her. “Cover yourself,” he said quietly. “The night is cold, you must keep warm.”
“What’s happened to me?” she asked, as she drew the cloak around her.
He paused and considered his reply. He knew only that Edmund had mistaken her for a deer. What occurred prior to that, only she could tell and he realised there was far more to this girl than was immediately apparent. He consoled himself with the thought that her strange behaviour was obviously down to the tincture he’d dosed her with. Either that or she was possessed by demons, and the way her eyes darted back and forth, it was a distinct possibility. One he wished he hadn’t thought of, but would also explain the noose. Witch hunting was becoming a popular sport, particularly among the devout and the ignorant. Regardless of the cause, he didn’t care for the idea he’d been bested by a girl half his size. Nevertheless, tincture aside, he needed to know exactly who she was.
She’d said she owned Kirk Knowe, but he knew Kirk Knowe belonged to the church, a wayside chapel of ease under the care of the nuns at Ladyswell Priory. She’d also stated as owner of Kirk Knowe she owned the lands where he had found her. He knew they did not belong to Kirk Knowe, because they belonged to him, given to him by the king, as reward for his service, not two years since. The only way she could claim any connection to Kirk Knowe was if she belonged to it, and he’d never seen a nun who looked or behaved, quite like her.
Even now after her outburst, with reality settling in, she was still less afraid than he would have expected. He’d deliberately tried to intimidate her, if only to get a reaction, but despite his aptitude for the sport, he’d failed. He pondered on how far he would have taken the game if she’d not brought it to a close.
He thought again of spies, and now he’d seen her half naked, and knew to his cost how handy she was with her fists, he revised his opinion of her suitability. If he were to be pummelled for information, he could think of no one better equipped. He had experience of spies and they were usually well trained in the arts of deceit, but they were not usually quite so young.
She pulled the cloak around her shoulders and he sat back down across from her and watched as she waited patiently for his reply. She had questions, and he supposed that was to be expected; but he had questions of his own and he too required answers, for they could travel no further until he was sure she was no threat to his plans. He yawned, stretched his stiff muscles and rubbed his face with his hands.
“You have had a little accident, Mademoiselle,” he replied eventually. “Do not concern yourself. You are safe now.” He ran his thumb carefully along the flat of his knife, prolonging her torment against his better judgement. “What is your family name, Grace?” he asked, perhaps they were a local family and he would know of them. Perhaps then he could put his suspicions aside.
Grace dragged her gaze away from the knife. “Gardner,” she replied hesitantly, “Grace Gardner.”
“Very well, Mademoiselle Gardner,” he said. Progress at last. He sheathed the knife and encouraged her with a crooked smile that put a sparkle in his tired eyes. “Perhaps you would like to explain why you were wandering alone in the forest. It’s a dangerous place, particularly for someone so...vulnerable?”
“And it’s not dangerous here?” she glanced about, avoiding the look in his eyes. He smiled as she noted the position of the door, marking it for escape perhaps. She’d have to get past him, but he supposed it was possible if she were determined.
He shrugged. “These are dangerous times, my lady. Scoundrels and lawbreakers prowl the land, who can say for certain where the true danger lies.” He followed her gaze, smiled at her naivety. Did she really think she could outwit him?
“I was walking in the forest,” Grace recalled. “I wasn’t alone.”
“There was no one with you when you were found. Your companions had abandoned you perhaps?” He cursed silently, had he missed someone else? He’d been so intent on leaving he hadn’t thought to check for accomplices, a major error on his part. He was losing his edge, been too long on the road and he couldn’t afford to be sloppy now, there was too much at stake.
Grace glanced at the dog. “Fly ran away. He’s such a bad dog.” her voice trailed away and Miles nodded.
Of course, the dog; he hadn’t made the connection. There were no missing accomplices and no major errors. The dog, on hearing his name, bounded over and began licking the girl’s face. She smiled, pushing him away half-heartedly. He settled himself beside her, wiry chin on her lap, his tail beating time on the dusty floor and she petted him distractedly.
She had an engaging smile, almost childlike, but the ache in his groin was proof his captive was far from innocent. And still, suspicion lurked in his gut. “So you were walking with your dog, picking flowers in the snow, with a noose around your neck?” There was a mocking tone to his voice now as he attempted to push aside unwelcome thoughts. It mattered naught to him if she had the smile of an angel or a hag. He raised a sardonic brow. “Where had you run from? Who wished to see you dangle from the end of a rope?”
“I hadn’t run from anywhere. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. I don’t understand you. What noose?” she asked, her words slightly slurred, her focus beginning to slip once more. She was either confused or a very good liar. Miles couldn’t decide which.
He held it up then, the thin rope which had been tangled around her as she lay in the pool and he swung it slowly, deliberately from side to side. “It is of no concern to me what you have done as long as your trouble does not follow us.”
Grace faltered, her fingers finding the raw spot on her neck. “It’s Fly’s leash, it must have become tangled.” Her gaze dropped to her leg and she pulled at the covering cloak. She shot a glance at the wound which was crudely bandaged with strips from his shirt. The skin either side of the makeshift dressing was marred with bruising, the material stained with blood. She raised
her bewildered gaze to him and blinked slowly.
“Look, I went for a walk in the woods and I woke up here with you. You’d better tell me what’s happened, what’s going on.” She demanded. “I know I haven’t been to some all-night party, so this,” she gestured with a shaky hand to her head, “is not a hangover. Someone back there in the woods shot me. I know it was an arrow. Was it you? Are you some madman who lives in the forest and preys on girls?” She glanced quickly around the small building, a caged animal looking for escape. “Because if you are, then you can just forget it.” She returned her gaze to his face. He retained an impassive expression, knowing his continued silence unnerved her further.
“What are you going to do with me? Are you going to kill me?” Her voice became shrill and her eyes finally grew wide with fear but she faced him bravely nonetheless. She clutched at the cloak as if it afforded some magical protection and at the little dog who sensed her fear and gave a low growl.
Miles ignored the dog and allowed the tension to grow. In all of his travels through the most exotic lands he had not met anyone quite like her and he wasn’t sure whether that was good or bad. He thought he knew women and he thought he knew spies, but he was beginning to realise that when combined, he actually knew very little indeed. Her behaviour was so erratic he wondered which was genuine the fear or the fearlessness.
Perhaps she was not a victim of the noose, her explanation was plausible but he wasn’t entirely convinced her sudden appearance was merely coincidental and still needed answers. He was more used to interrogating enemy soldiers however, not scared young girls, no matter how hard she might be trying to hide her fear. He could easily adopt the role of bully and tormenter, and indeed had done just that so far, but it did not sit well with him. He leaned forward again and the dog stood. The growl accompanied by the slight flick of its tail betraying the dog’s immaturity and lack of confidence. He clicked his fingers, whistled softly and the dog approached on its belly. He scratched its ears and the dog grinned, its puppy grin and curled up next to him.
