“Coming?” she called brightly as she smoothed her dress to order. Now there was a challenge if he had ever heard one.
Perched at the edge of the millstone, Anselm looked down into the river. The jump was much wider than he had first suspected. Jagged rocks jutted up from the water like dark, shining teeth, waiting to impale him, beckoning to him to fall.
“You might want to take it at a run,” Isobel called from the other side of the river, perhaps mistaking his hesitation for nervousness.
“Sound advice, sweeting. Thank you.” He took two backward steps then ran, launching himself into the air, clearing the river by a goodly distance. Thankfully he did not slip. How Isobel would have gloated if he had.
Her eyes widened in admiration. “My! You are much more limber than I thought, m’lord.”
Pulling her roughly into the circle of his arm, he growled against her lips, “As you will soon discover, m’lady.”
Her eyes darkened with some emotion he could not place. “I shall look forward to it.” Then she slipped from his arms, dancing out of reach when he made a grab for her, mischief shining in her eyes. “Make haste, for I wish to show you my most secret place...”
He grinned broadly at that, but Isobel, it seemed, had the ability to accurately read his wicked thoughts.
“...No. Not that one!” she scolded. “Well, not yet, at least. Come on!”
With Isobel leading the way, they set off again, negotiating a path through another patch of brambles that snagged and clawed at their clothes until they reached a huddle of tumbledown buildings. Whether they had once been homes or storerooms, it was now impossible to tell, for the steady march of time’s decay had reduced two of the neglected structures to naught but a few ivy-covered walls that delineated the foundations. The third and largest building was in a slightly better state of repair, boasting three walls and half of a roof.
“What is this place?” Though he spoke quietly, his voice seemed much too loud here. Not even the sound of bird song penetrated this desolate spot.
But Isobel seemed unaffected, quite undisturbed by the thick blanket of silence that shrouded them from the outside world. “Oh, just some old outbuildings from back when the mill was first built. Why?” She tilted her head to one side. “Are you afraid?”
Needled by her words, Anselm stood a little taller. “Certainly not!” But that was not the truth, for he sensed the ghosts that inhabited this place.
Isobel took his hand and gave it a squeeze, her expression full of compassion. “I have heard tell that you share your grandmother’s gift—”
His whole being bristled with the accusation. “’Tis a lie!” He would have pulled away, but she gripped his hand too firmly.
“Is it?”
However much he wished to, he could not look away from her eyes. “Yes... no.” He massaged the back of his neck and exhaled. Still Isobel watched him, without fear, without judgment. “Either way, I really c-cannot say,” he managed at last.
“There is only us here,” she said quietly, standing up on tiptoe to place a gentle kiss upon his mouth. “Just you... and me.” She kissed him again, anointing his face with tiny kisses. Anselm shivered and closed his eyes, allowing her to seduce him. “Why deny what you are?” She brushed her lips over his eyelids. “You have... no reason to be... ashamed, my love. Trust me. Let me know all that you are. Tell me what... you see.”
He shook his head. “I cannot, for there is nothing to tell.” Nothing of sense at any rate, just indecipherable flashes of faces and places, lit up with the brief brilliance of a lightning strike before they were gone again.
“Oh?” She seemed almost disappointed. “I see.”
“Why does it matter to you so, sweeting? Will you love me less if I have not—” The Curse! “—The Sight?”
“Of course not.” She took his hand and slowly led him toward the most intact of the three dilapidated buildings. “It would have been nice to know that—” She gave a brittle little laugh and her cheeks flushed crimson. “Oh, but you will think me a silly goose.”
“Never.” He needed no special power to know what was in her heart. “You think of your family—your parents and brothers.”
She nodded, her lips pressed together in a tight line as if she feared to say too much, but the glistening of her eyes betrayed her.
His heart contracted with sympathy. My poor love. He kept forgetting how much she had lost, but he could not hate himself for doing so. ’Twas but the nature of man.
When someone died, those they left behind were, at first, bombarded with kindness until they were powerless to stand unaided. For a time, they were carried, supported by a great wave of communal sympathy. People always wanted to help. To offer their aid, night or day. But only at first.
In time, even the sharpest blade lost its edge and grew dull, and so the same could be said of sympathy. For those least affected by tragedy, life soon continued as it always had until, eventually, nothing of the deceased person remained, except for the occasional smile brought on by an old reminiscence—a life full lived condensed into a short story.
But even that meager comfort was denied to Isobel, for all the memories, all of the grief, were hers to bear alone, locked away like valuable gems within her heart. The balm of old stories told for the hundredth time was denied to her, for with the exception of John Miller, no one in Mullin had been acquainted with any member of her family.
The ache of such a loss was surely her most faithful companion.
Gently, he pulled her to a stop and looked deep into her eyes. “Ask me what you will,” he said, ignoring the anxious rolling of his stomach. “I can promise you nothing save this: if there is an answer to be had, you shall hear it.”
Thank you, she mouthed, dashing away the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks at any moment. “I c-cannot bear to th-think I will never see them again.”
He stroked away a tear. “Your family.”
“W-will I ever s-see them again?”
The Curse often assaulted Anselm when he least expected it, and until now he had never desired the power to control it. So, predictably, just when he needed its guidance, the wretched curse remained stubbornly silent. But Isobel gazed up at him with hope burning in her eyes. He had to answer her, but how?
Lie!
“For certain you will,” he said with a smile. “Never doubt it.” Surely, not all lies were bad?
“Really? Then they are seated in the Hall of the Ancestors now, at this very moment?” The relief in her voice tugged at his heart.
“Indeed they are.” Some lies were most beneficial.
“Thank you.” She sagged against him, her forehead resting against his tunic.
Holding her within his arms, Anselm felt the tension drain from her body. He pressed a kiss atop her golden hair, imperceptibly rocking her like a fractious babe as he berated himself for not seeing her distress sooner. Grief must have fueled the tears that Brom claimed to have heard. Sharp, bitter grief.
“Anselm?” Her voice was muffled by his tunic.
“Hmm?”
“D-Do you think the Great Spirit forgives wicked deeds?”
He chuckled, momentarily recalling some of his own most inglorious moments. “I sincerely hope so.”
“So sinners are allowed to enter the doors of the Ancestors’ mighty hall?”
“Their mighty hall would be a very empty place if that were not true.”
“Even the wicked? Are they admitted too?”
Erde! She was actually serious. Where was all this coming from? The truth was, with the exception of Isobel, Anselm was not sure that he believed in anything. “Can you define wicked for me, sweeting?”
“Oh, just the usual sins: greed... m-murder... rape... that sort of thing.”
“Why do you vex yourself so, my love? Your family were innocent of all o
f those things, I am sure. Indeed, by your own account, they seem goodly people.”
“But what if they were guilty of those terrible things, what then?” He felt her fingers tightening upon the leather fastening of his tunic. “What would happen to them then... after they d-died?”
An icy chill rippled along the length of his spine, and the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. She was asking the wrong person. “The Old Wisdom is rather vague on this subject,” he replied, desperately trying to recall some of Ma’s lengthy ramblings on the subject, but no matter how much he racked his brain, he had no answer to give.
“But what do you think?” Isobel raised her head, searching his face for answers. Her cheeks were flushed, almost as if she had developed a sudden fever. “What does your heart tell you?”
“My heart?” He had never taken the trouble to ask it before now. He wanted to please her, to give her comfort, but what did she want most to hear? Whatever it was, he was shooting in the dark. “As wonderful as life can be, I believe the very act of living is a purgatory of sorts.” Is that what he believed? It would certainly explain a few things if that were true. Warming to the subject, he twirled a lock of her golden hair about his finger. “If we offend the spirits, then this is where we pay for those crimes. Right here.” He stamped his boot in the dirt. “Death is but the tallyman’s final payment. The moment we draw our final breath, I believe our slate is wiped clean.”
Isobel nodded. “That makes sense... of sorts.” Her smile banished the gathering shadows within his heart. “Yes. It really does.” She reached up to kiss him. “Thank you, my love. I am grateful for your counsel.”
“I am heartily pleased to hear you say so.”
“Come.” With that, she turned toward the derelict building and stepped over the doorless threshold, vanishing quickly into the gloom. Anselm was only a moment behind her.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The structure was but one room—if three walls and only half a roof could be described as such—and through the gaping roof timbers, Anselm glimpsed the reddening sky.
Taking his hand, Isobel led him toward the farthest end of the room. There, at least, a remnant of thatch remained, although it was in a dreadful moth-eaten state, gradually crumbling as the seasons and elements devoured it.
Summoned by their shuffling footsteps, the scent of damp decay rose from the packed earth. Wrinkling his nose, Anselm followed Isobel on her cautious path as she wove through the piles of broken machinery and skeletal timbers that littered the ground. All the while, the sky looked down on him through the gaping hole in the roof. Outside was a far more inviting prospect than this dismal place.
“I come here sometimes.” Isobel’s voice sounded much too loud in the gloom. “You know, when I want to esc... to think.”
However slight, her momentary slip did not slip Anselm’s notice. He could not wonder that she needed a bolt-hole to escape to sometimes, not when so much of her life was spent in the company of the miller and his foul spawn. But he did not trust himself to speak. Not after what had happened the last time he had verbally attacked her cousin.
She giggled, mistakenly guessing at the reason for his silence. “’Tis not as bad as it looks.”
“Oh? Then perhaps I am looking in the wrong place.” Her situation at home must be truly dire if this musty—and most likely rat infested—hovel was a more attractive prospect than her uncle’s hearth.
“There you go again,” she said, “puffing out your chest like a peacock.”
“I most certainly am no—! Ow!” There was a loud thunk as his shin connected with the pointed teeth of rusted cog. “Blood and sand, that hurts like buggery.” And he bent to rub at his afflicted limb. “If I come down with sickness of the blood, I shall...” When he looked up, he saw that Isobel’s shoulders were shaking. Although the light was too dim to properly witness the set of her countenance, he suspected her tremors were due more to ill-concealed mirth than anything resembling sympathy.
“So, my injury is a thing of humor to you, is it, m’lady?” Uncaring of the hidden perils in his path Anselm stalked toward her and then captured her face between his hands, tilting her in order to see her better. The wideness of her grin betrayed her.
“I-I am s-sorry,” she spluttered, desperately attempting to keep a straight face. “Are you very b-badly injured, my love?”
“If I said yes, would my doing so add to your current amusement, hmm?”
At that, what remained of Isobel’s control collapsed, and she burst into a fit of giggles so fierce that she had to clutch at his tunic for support.
“It does not bode well for our future felicity if this is how you react when your betrothed suffers a near-mortal wound,” he continued, attempting to look stern. “What if I were to stumble and break my neck—”
“P-Please... s-stop!”
Erde! How he loved her. As he looked at her, his heart seemed to turn molten in his chest. He loved the sound of her laughter. Merriment suited her well—so well that he wanted to prolong it for as long as possible.
“Or what if I were to be attacked by a rampaging herd of angry geese, what then?”
“’Tis a g-gaggle,” she gasped, swiping her hand over her streaming eyes, “n-not a h-herd.”
“What care I for the correct collective term for such vicious creatures? The knowledge would benefit me little whilst I was fleeing for my life.”
“No... more. Stop, I b-beg yo—!”
He silenced her with a hungry kiss. Tasting her. Devouring her. Taking in her laughter and making it part of him. The damp, the darkness, even time itself, everything faded until there was nothing but her.
Them.
The sound of their gasping breaths.
A prelude to mating.
Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her until he was pressed intimately against the fire at the juncture of her thighs, her ripe breasts crushed against his chest. Only the thin barrier of their clothing separated them, but it was still not close enough.
They tore at one another’s clothing, eager fingers pulling clumsily at leather ties. But Isobel’s hands proved to be the defter, and suddenly his tunic hung loose. In two quick shrugs he was free of the infernal garment. Free to fix his attention on the interminable lacing at the front of Isobel’s dress, but it was nigh on impossible to concentrate while her little hands constantly moved beneath his shirt, caressing his fevered skin, her sharp fingernails grazing over his muscles.
Marking him. Branding him as hers.
With a frustrated groan, he wrenched his mouth from her lips and nuzzled against her neck, sighing endearments against her delicate ear.
The fastening of her dress had defeated him.
Isobel tutted with impatience. “Oh, let me do it.” She pushed his hand away from her lacing, guiding it until it lay beneath her skirt, resting on the heat of her naked thigh. “Just touch me,” she breathed.
If any rational thoughts still lingered within his head, the warmth of her smooth skin annihilated them. Guided by primal need, he did as she bade him, gliding his hand beneath the fabric of her shift and up over the slender length of her thigh.
While Isobel battled to disrobe, he slipped his other hand beneath her shift, cupping and exploring every precious inch of her flesh while his mouth licked and nipped at her neck. Isobel arched against him, panting a little.
Suddenly, with a triumphant “Yes!” the fastening of her gown gave way, and she was free and impatiently pulling her arms free from the confinement of its woolen sleeves.
Anselm’s sensual exploration reached the slick heat of her inner thighs. She was more than ready for him. His heart threatened to thunder from his chest, so violently did it drum. Whimpering his name, she parted her legs and urged him onward.
His shirt hung open, and she pressed her breasts to his flesh, her hard nipples combing his sparse chest hair
, pushing him to the brink of control.
He moaned within her mouth. If he did not take her soon, his balls would surely explode. And take her he would, but not before he had shown her the pleasure to be had from carnal love.
Cupping the solid weight of one breast in his hand, he stroked the roughened pad of his thumb over its pert nipple. At the same moment, he glanced his other thumb over the slick entrance of her body.
“I need you,” he growled against her gasping mouth. “Now!”
“Yes,” she breathed. Kissing him fiercely, her arms still twined about his neck, Isobel pushed him to walk backwards until they reached a pile of flour sacks that had been stacked in the far corner of the room. A bed of sorts, tucked beneath the shelter of the remaining roof and out of the weather.
With lust coursing through his blood, he dimly noticed a candle stub sitting atop a battered three-legged stool, further evidence this place was not an infrequent hideaway. Then the thought was gone. How could he think rationally while his blood sang her name, burning like liquid fire in his veins? Unstoppable. Unquenchable.
A need beyond anything he had ever known possessed him, and he wrenched her shift downward until her full, ripe breasts were fully exposed. Mine.
“Yes, my love,” she sighed. “Always.”
Surprised, he glanced up and saw her smile. Had he just spoken out loud?
“Taste me,” she whispered. “Make me truly yours.” Then, tangling her fingers in his hair, she pulled his head downward, guiding him closer until the temptation of those wondrous milky globes were but a hair’s breadth from his lips. Swallowing hard, he lowered his head...
CHAPTER TWENTY
The agony of the present reclaimed him, wrenching him from the rapture of Isobel’s arms and into a world he no longer wanted.
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