Leaving Morgain to his book, she stopped in her room only long enough to pick up a red shawl. She draped it over her head and tossed one end over her shoulder. Downstairs, not a soul was to be seen. Dominic was allegedly studying maps of the surrounding area in the library, while Pringle took a nap. The servants were all busy with tasks in various corners of the house.
Clarice slipped along to the small, cold gallery at the back of the house where a door let out into the garden. The fog looked thick and opaque, like dirty ice. She was surprised by the ease with which the door opened; the fog seemed solid enough to push on the glass, yet when the door swung wide, there was none of the half-expected resistance.
She could see little ahead of her, but if she looked down, she could just make out the herringbone pattern of the bricks that made up the walkway. She followed it slowly, one hand questing out in front of her. If she looked up, she instantly lost the gift of sight. The world was hidden behind white swathings, like bandages over her eyes.
She kept her eyes on the last visible brick on the path, watching as another appeared beyond it. Though she knew perfectly well the path extended from the house to the garden’s border, she couldn’t help thinking that it looked as though the path were building itself, one brick at a time, just beyond the edge of her sight. No sooner did she think this than the thought took possession of her mind. She could almost see the brick form just before her foot came down upon it.
At first, the idea amused her. She walked faster, watching the bricks appear, but such a pastime was dangerous in the fog. When she slowed, the illusion was perfect. There was nothing but the mist over the black earth, then a brick appeared fulfilling the pattern in the walkway. “Nonsense.”
Her shawl had become beaded over with mist the instant she’d set foot outside. The mist had quickly coalesced into drops of water that were soon absorbed. The wool grew heavier, proving no protection, and soaking her clothes. She began to pull it off, only to have it become entangled with a hairpin. Sighing, Clarice began trying to disengage the strand of wool. It would not free itself.
This petty annoyance combined with the concealing, confusing fog and became a hell-brew of frustration. Clarice began ripping out the hairpins one at a time, trying to pull free the one that had caught. “Oh, blast!” she said, this hindrance setting the match to an already exasperated temper.
Her hair was coming down, and growing wet, clinging to her face. Then she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and another sorting through the damp golden mass.
The shawl fell away and her hair tumbled down her back in an undisciplined cascade. What dismayed her even more than being caught at such a disadvantage was that she knew that touch. She would have instinctively known it under any circumstances, though she’d only experienced it once.
Clarice turned around to face Dominic. His coat too was damp and droplets clung to his hair and the ends of his lashes. He did not smirk at her, or condescend to her. He said gently, “I came out for some exercise. It’s so stuffy inside.”
“I wanted to see if it was clearing at all.”
“It isn’t.” He raised his hand and traced the curve of her cheek with the joint of his bent forefinger. “You’re cold.”
“No . ..” Clarice heard no little voice urging her to throw herself into his arms. She reminded herself that she did not even like Dominic. He could be pompous, patronizing, unwontedly amorous, and he had hardly spoken a dozen words to her in three days. Yet she could not take her eyes from his, nor stop her heart from catching when he touched her.
Dominic retrieved her shawl and swung it about her shoulders. She reached up and grasped it close to her throat. He said, “This fog can be dangerous. We should go in.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I can’t bear it inside. I love Ham-dry but not when I can’t get out! The house is becoming like ... like a cage.”
“A cage?”
“Yes. I feel like a prisoner in a cage and I can’t escape. Not even to walk in my own garden.”
“At least all the moisture is good for the flowers,” he said and she smiled at him for trying to cheer her.
“Plants need sunshine too, Mr. Knight, and there’s been little enough of that lately.”
“I know it won’t be too much longer, or so I hope. One breath of air and it will all be swept away. Then the sun will shine again.”
“Sunshine—I hardly remember it. It came from up there, somewhere, did it not?” She cast her head back to look up in the general direction of the sky, though all directions were the same in this fog-boltered world. She couldn’t even be sure of the earth under her feet.
“I believe so,” he answered in the same joking way. “But for all I know, it’s presently the middle of the night.”
“I do not mind the nights so much as the days. When I’m asleep, I can at the least dream that the sun is out. It is a great shame, Mr. Knight, that this should happen during your visit. Usually our summer weather is far more clement.”
“I too must regret it.”
“Because of your work. All this time wasted!”
“No,” he said. He reached out to drop his hand lightly over hers for an instant, where she clutched her shawl to her breast. “You have not let me come close enough to you over the last few days to permit to apologize. My actions were not those of a gentleman and I deeply regret.. .” He stopped, frowning as if listening to the echo of his own words.
This apology both gratified and pained her. “You are very good to take the responsibility but the fault was partly mine. I led you to believe that I would not be repelled by an advance. I want to correct that false impression.”
“You would be repelled by an advance?” Dominic said. She would have thought he was making a game of her were it not for the earnestness of his expression.
“Not ‘repelled,’ “ Clarice hastened to say, realizing she was now insulting him. “It is merely that I am not a woman to be treated in such a fashion.”
“No, you are not. For that idea, I apologize unreservedly. But not for kissing you, Clarice. I cannot regret that. I have never known such a moment before.”
She backed away from him, straightening to her full height. “Kindly recall that you have boasted to me of your conquests, Mr. Knight. ...”
“Conquests? Yes, a few. What of them? They have nothing to do with you.”
“Men say that as though it were enough. But what woman wants the love of a man who has known nothing beyond easy pleasure? Not I, Mr. Knight.”
She spun about on her heel and walked away. In less than two strides, she could not see him when she glanced back. But then he emerged from the fog, hurrying to catch her. “Be so good as to leave me, sir,” she said.
“Not in this weather. Come back to the house.”
“I have come out to find the sun. I shall not go back until I find it. These fogs arc unpredictable.”
“They are,” he said grimly, seizing her arm. Only his strength kept her upright as she caught her toe on a raised brick. “What next? Will you break your neck?”
“I might have tripped in broad daylight just as easily.” She couldn’t free her arm without a vulgar struggle so she simply looked at him with disdainful eyes.
“What did you mean by ‘easy pleasure’?” he asked.
“I’m sure you know the meaning far better than I. Look. We have come to the end of the path. This is the gravel walk that leads to the statues. Shall we go?”
“You can’t see any of them in this. Come back to the house. Be sensible.”
“I’m very tired of it. I am used to a fair amount of exercise, Mr. Knight, and refuse to spend another moment pacing in the hall. As it is, I shall have to order a new carpet as I’ve quite worn a track in it. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Hush!”
“Well, of all the ... !”
He pulled her back against his body and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Hush! Do you hear it?”
His tone was so intent that she lost her
anger. She listened, her ears straining against the all-enveloping silence of the fog. Clarice heard Dominic’s short breaths, the crunch of their feet on the gravel as they made involuntary movements, the beating of her heart—or was it his?
She shook her head and he took his hand away. Moving slowly around her in a circle, his body taut and hunched, he said, “Something’s out there.”
“You can’t see anything. You can’t see your hand at the reach of your arm.” To prove it, she held her arm out straight to the side. Her hand was lost to view, concealed by the white mists.
Something grabbed it!
“Dominic!”
She threw out her other hand to free the first. Her fingers hunted over the strange, tight band that held her fast. A pebbled texture, cold to the touch. . . then the thing about her wrist began to pull her invincibly forward.
She struggled, digging in her heels, but her feet found no purchase on the gravel. Dragged forward, she could not draw her arm in. She still could not see her hand before her. She felt the strain on her overextended elbow and wrist pass into pain.
Except for the single shriek of Dominic’s name, Clarice could not scream again. Her breath strangled in her throat, permitting nothing to escape but a hoarse gurgle. She fought for breath, knowing that the horrible Rider of the Vedresh had found her.
Dominic ran past her. She could only turn a pleading look on him, but she was sure he did not see it. He wore a teeth-baring grimace as he flung himself into the fog.
For an agonizing moment, the pull on her arm continued. She felt as though her joints would give way, tearing her arm from her body. Then, abruptly, the pressure eased. Though no longer dragged forward, she still was unable to draw her arm close to her body to soothe it.
At the same instant the pressure eased, she found she could again draw in painless breaths. Once again, she sought with her left hand to determine the nature of the band that had captured her right. She explored the pebbly, yielding surface, finding neither beginning nor end, her eyes searching the fog for Dominic. All was still.
Then he came flying out, hurled by some great force. His coat was slashed across the breast in three parallel lines as though by sharp claws. Blood trickled from his right brow and the corner of his mouth. His hands were clenched in fists, the knuckles already battered.
Landing with a slide across the gravel, he rolled to his feet in a graceful movement almost too fast to see. “Hold on, Clarice!”
“To what?” she demanded, as once again the fearful dragging began again. This time, the choking was worse from the first instant. She could almost feel a band tightening around her throat as well as her wrist. Her fingers were numb.
She threw Dominic a pleading glance and saw him gather himself for another spring into the fog. Fighting the instinct that told her to continue struggling to free her hand, she used her left to fumble in her bosom. There, like a busk to thrust apart her breasts, was the small dagger she’d taken from her father’s room. Pulling it out, sheath and all, she flung it across at him, only to misjudge the distance through the black mist rising before her eyes. Tumbling over and over, it flew past him.
By some legerdemain Dominic reached out and snapped the knife out of midair. He drew it, tossing aside the sheath, and leapt once more into the concealing fog.
Exhausted, Clarice dropped to her knees when the pulling stopped again. She began to pray, snatches of Psalms and Ecclesiastes, hoping for deliverance. The fog made her dizzy, as it swirled in seemingly meaningful patterns. Were it not for the force keeping her arm up and out, she would have fallen facedown on the gravel walk and been content to stay there until the grass grew over her.
But where was Dominic?
She heard a shout, or was it a grunt? The sound-baffling qualities of the fog made it impossible to know how loud the cry had been. Or whether it had come from nearby or faraway.
“Dominic?” she said, then shouted it. There was no reply. She began to hunt over the band around her wrist once more. If only there were some way to free herself! Then she sucked in her breath sharply as some little edge caught her finger. She brought it close to her eyes and saw the bright blood welling from her fingertip.
The slice awakened her wits and her determination. Searching the fog was profitless. She rose up, wearily, rising first on one knee, then standing, like an old woman. Carefully, anticipating another painful dragging, she began moving forward. Though she twitched at every random billow, she moved into the thickest part of the fog, calling for Dominic.
She found after a moment or two that she could bend her elbow. The relief was enormous. Bringing her hand in toward her face, she saw at last the black band that held her captive. It was attached to a long coil that disappeared into the fog.
The surface looked as though it had been oiled, yet it was not smooth. Bringing it nearer into focus, she realized it looked very much like snakeskin. Turning her wrist over, she saw the bulging triangle that overlapped the rest like the clasp on a bracelet. It was sharply pointed and thicker than the rest of the skin. Trying to pick at this clasp cost her another cut on her finger.
“Dominic?” she called, believing she heard a noise near at hand.
A darker shadow fell across the billows of fog. An instant later, the shadow resolved itself into two men, fighting in vicious silence. They rolled on the ground, contending for the knife clutched in Dominic’s hand.
Clarice jumped aside, or they would have rolled over her. She’d never seen such violence and she winced every time a fist landed. Dominic struggled to shake off die Rider’s grip on his right wrist. The blood from the cut over his eye had smeared his face, making him appear fiercely savage, or was it the glare in his eyes?
She could see nothing of the Rider—his cloak concealed all, entangling Dominic in its toils. It made him look bigger than Dominic. Clarice did not see how the man could contend against whatever the Rider was—not alone.
She began tearing at the band, not caring if she sliced every finger to the bone! “Hold him!” she called. ‘Tm coming!”
But the band would not release her. She sobbed in frustration, watching as the Rider pinned Dominic to the gravel, using his greater weight. With an effort that made the cords strain in his throat, Dominic hurled him aside.
“Well done!” Clarice called.
The Rider landed, sprawling like a spider on its back. He seemed stunned. Dominic rose to his feet, still holding the knife. His footsteps wavered as he approached the Rider.
Clarice caught her breath. Would he stab the cloaked man?
“Yield,” Dominic said. “Yield to me or die in all worlds and for all time.”
“Yes...” The voice was as thin and bodiless as a spirit’s.
The band around Clarice’s wrist opened. The long black coil snaked away into the concealing mists. At once, she cradled her hand against her breast, rubbing the impression left behind on her flesh. Though she marked herself with blood, it felt heavenly to be released.
She walked over to where Dominic stood, still panting, over the motionless form of his enemy. “What will you do with him? Turn him over to the constable?”
Dominic looked at her in disbelief, putting up a hand to wipe his cut brow. “What would your law officers do with him? There is nothing that can be done.”
“Nothing? But... I don’t understand.”
He bent down and picked up the cloak as he’d picked up her shawl before. It came up as easily for there was nothing in it. The Rider was gone as thoroughly as breath-mist breathed for a moment upon a mirror.
“I don’t understand,” Clarice said again. “I saw him fight you. There was something wearing that cloak.”
“He has returned to the time and the place from whence he came.”
“Where is that?”
“I do not know, Clarice. He was one of your mother’s soldiers, not one of ours.”
Chapter Eleven
“My mother is dead,” Clarice said.
“You know that
is not true.” Dominic saw that she was still dazed from the nightmare scene she’d just lived through. He dared to hope that he might now hear the truth from her. Perhaps he was still a little confused himself. It had suddenly become very important to him that Clarice trust him.
“No, it isn’t true. That is a tale we told to satisfy the curious. She was lost to me ten years ago when she went up to the moor and ... vanished. We put it about that she fell into a sinkhole. For all I know, that is what happened.”
“You let people believe she committed suicide.”
“Yes. We—Felicia, Blaic, Doctor Danby, and I—let the world believe she was despondent over the death of my father, but it wasn’t that. Her lover had been killed after stealing our money. He deserved it; she agreed to that. I never knew what prompted her to go.”
“I can tell you. It was....”
“How do you know so much?” Clarice demanded. “For once and for all, Mr. Knight, who are you?”
He longed for her to trust him; he did not dare tell her all in return. “I came to protect you.”
“From that?” she asked, nodding toward the cape he held.
“Partly from this. Also from other dangers that surround you, things you are not even aware of.”
“I can believe that there are many things that I am unaware of, but I find it difficult to believe that you have come here to protect me. Your behavior has not been that of a protector, for all that you saved me today.” She looked down at her wrist.
Dominic took her hand gently in his own. Though his fingers were stiff and torn from hitting the Rider, he did not mind his pain as much as he minded hers. All around her wrist the skin was red and sore. There’d be a bruise encircling there before long. “It looks worse than it is.”
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