It wasn’t heavy, but she took a sliver in her thumb and lamented having taken her gloves off. She sucked
at the sliver as she climbed up on the mounting block, steadying herself with her other hand on the sill, and peered into the dimness within.
The bright sunshine made the glass opaque, and only her own reflection looked back at her. Lark gave up on the sliver and cupped both her hands to the glass.
There was a horse there, wingless, gray, munching hay from a bin.
She pressed her nose to the glass, trying to get a better look.
The stall looked as if it were well provided, straw on the floor, water bucket in its place. Lark moved her hands to get a better perspective, and looked again.
She drew a quick, delighted breath. There was a winter foal in the stall, a tiny thing, its fluff of mane and tail silvery white in the gloom. Lark smiled to herself as the little one nosed beneath its dam and started to suckle.
Her smile faded a moment later as the foal moved into a slender shaft of light from her window. “Oh,”
she whispered. “Wings!”
Her heart began to pound with the import of her discovery. She leaped down from the mounting block, and spun about, to hasten to find Mistress Winter.
She cried out when she found her way blocked.
Duke William wore a long black coat, littered with bits of straw. His narrow trousers were dirty, too, and his boots were scuffed. His pale hair hung untidily around his shoulders. She barely had time to register all of this before his hand shot out, and he gripped her arm with iron fingers. “Aha, brat,” he hissed. “I have you now!” In his other hand he held the magicked quirt, and as she tried to pull away, he struck her with it, a painful blow directly at her face, raking her cheekbone so hard that her vision blurred.
The sudden violence shocked her. She struggled against him, and when she couldn’t get her arm free, she kicked at him, catching his shin with her riding boot. It was a feeble effort, but he swore, and struck at her again with the quirt. She threw up her left hand to protect her face, and briefly caught the cold, hard leather. She couldn’t hold it. The touch of the leather was worse than the pain of her arm, twisted in his grasp. She felt her skin break and a hot trickle of blood start down her arm.
William started to laugh, a low, exultant sound that sent icy tremors of fear through her belly. He pulled her half off her feet as he dragged her toward the tack-room door. He shoved the door open with his foot and threw her inside as easily as if she were a sack of grain.
She fell headlong on the hard wood floor, and twisted around to face him. Her cheek stung, and she knew she would be bruised by morning—if she lived till the morning.
“So, brat,” Duke William said lightly. He tapped the quirt into his right palm and smiled crookedly down at her. “What a nice surprise. We’re going to have some fun.”
PHILIPPAbade the housekeeper of Fleckham House farewell and promised that someone would come with Lord Francis to see to his nursing care.
“Aye, Mistress,” the housekeeper said. “His Grace left us shorthanded here, right enough.” She was a thin woman with a tight expression and a tendency to speak sharply. Philippa thought she had best send two nurses, one for the night and one for the day, lest Francis be dependent upon this cold woman. She was efficient, but she was hardly sympathetic. “I don’t suppose you know how long he’ll be here?”
“Of course not,” Philippa said with asperity. “I take it, Paulina, that you don’t look forward to the extra work.”
The woman had the grace to flush. “I only meant . . . I was thinking of getting in extra supplies—food and linens and the like.”
“Yes,” Philippa said. “You should do that. And you would do well to remember whose home this is.”
“Aye, Mistress,” Paulina said, her voice a little softer. “I do remember. And I’m very sorry his lordship was injured. A terrible business, that.”
Philippa stood up. “It was in a good cause, but we’re worried about him.”
“You rescued the babes, though, they say.”
Philippa took her cap and gloves from her belt. No one was saying much about the state of the Onmarin children. On the voyage home, young Peter had told his story over and over, with drama and much
colorful detail. By the time they docked in Onmarin, he had made a dozen friends among the Klee and earned Baron Rys’s admiration.
“The boy will be fine, I think,” she said. At Paulina’s look of interest, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to say about the girl.”
“Did they savage the lass, then?”
“I don’t know,” Philippa said. “But she’s a little thing, and she was frightened half to death. She was a sort of slave to this awful woman, and she took a great deal of abuse.”
“What happened to that woman, then?”
Philippa paused, looking around at the housekeeper’s spotless kitchen, every counter and pot and glass gleaming. She was reluctant to speak of how Lissie, in a fit of repressed fury, had stabbed the scarred Jonka to death. It sounded like a triumph, a sort of justified vengeance, but she feared it would be the final, perhaps even the lethal, blow to Lissie’s soul. She settled for saying merely, “The woman died in the attack.”
Paulina nodded, apparently satisfied with this rude justice. Philippa pulled on her riding coat. “I will see you tomorrow, then I’ll be visiting his lordship often.”
“Well. You’ll always be welcome, of course, but we’re not really set up for visitors.”
Philippa did not bother to answer this. She let herself out the kitchen door without farewell, more preoccupied with thoughts of Lissie than of this cranky servant.
Lissie had not spoken a word on the voyage home. She had neither eaten nor slept, but sat staring into the cold waves until the ship docked in Onmarin. Her mother had taken one look at her pale, stricken daughter, and swept her up in her arms, carried her through the streets of the village as if she were still a baby.
Philippa nourished a hope that a mother’s care could rekindle the flame of life in the girl, but she had her doubts.
She secured her cap on her head and began to pull on her gloves as she started across the courtyard.
Beneath the snow, the gravel crunched under her boots. Everything looked orderly and pristine under its layer of snow, and her heart lifted a bit. She had been able to address one problem, at least, and there was still reason to hope for Francis.
She was halfway to the stables when a shrill neigh shattered the peace of the morning. Hooves battered on wood with a sound that scraped her nerves. She quickened her step. “Larkyn?” she called.
There was another whinny, and more banging. This time Philippa was certain she heard wood splinter, and hinges shriek. “Kalla’s heels!” she swore. “Seraph!”
She heard Sunny’s answering neigh, loud and demanding, calling to her for help. She dashed into the stables and down the aisle, rounding the corner just in time to see Seraph blast the gate to his stall with his hind feet, again, and then again.
“Seraph! No!” Philippa shouted. He threw up his head to glare at her, the whites of his eyes showing, his muzzle flecked with foam.
Where was Larkyn? Philippa didn’t think she could calm Seraph without her.
He bashed at the wood one last time, and this time it broke into four jagged pieces. By Kalla’s good grace, Philippa saw, he was wearing his wingclips. Though he charged through the broken gate, head shaking from side to side, snorting and sweating, his wings were safely folded beneath a blanket. But the door to the courtyard stood open, and Seraph spied it. Before she could think what to do, or how to stop him, he was off.
He raced through the door, and plowed through the snow and gravel to the center of the courtyard, where he whirled on his hindquarters, sniffing the air. Philippa ran after him, calling his name, but when she came close, he reared, and slashed the air with his hooves, driving her back. He wheeled once more, his tail grazing the snow, then, with the
scream of a young stallion in hot fury, he pounded away from Fleckham House, his tail high and his ears laid back.
Philippa stood helplessly in the courtyard, watching him go. She would never catch him. Seraph was looking for Larkyn.
LARKlay where she had fallen, where she had been pushed, and William held his magicked quirt across her chest, stealing her breath and her voice. When he twisted her small breast with his hard fingers, she could only whimper her pain and her fear.
“Louder, little bitch,” he hissed at her. “I want to hear you howl.” He drew out the word on a long breath, giving her nipple a vicious pinch, pressing into her thighs with his knees so that she couldn’t move.
Somewhere behind her, the mare snorted uneasily, and her hooves clattered as she paced in her stall.
Lark struggled to breathe. Black stars danced before her eyes and coalesced into dark clouds. She had to get that quirt away from her, far enough from her lungs that they could function again. She gagged, but no air came into her throat. Her heart pounded in her ears. She thrust her hands against his shoulders, but he was too tall and too heavy.
“Make some noise, brat!” She heard his words, his mouth so close to her that she could smell his odd, incongruous scent, but she could make no sound. “I said,” he shouted, “noise!” And he pulled the quirt away so that he could cut at her legs with it.
It hurt, even through her riding skirt, a slashing pain across her shin and knee, but she hardly noticed. The quirt was gone from her chest, and she drew a desperately needed breath.
“Scream, you little bitch!” he panted. His arm lifted and fell again, and the quirt cut her like a knife.
The mare whinnied alarm. Lark sucked more air through her gritted teeth. William was not sane. His madness had a power of its own, a force that was hardly human. He wanted to savage her. He wanted to hurt her, to hear her cry out.
And then what? If the stories were true, he could beat her to death. Or, worse, he could rape her, ruin her if he made her pregnant . . .
All these thoughts raced through her mind in a flash, reminding her of Geraldine Prince, of her suspicions about Pamella . . . but there was no time to ponder them.
She caught another deep breath and used the strength it gave her to shove, with every bit of muscle in her small body, at William’s chest.
Something soft met her fingers, gave way under her palms.
He knew, and he straightened, seizing both her wrists in one long hand, and twisting until she thought the bones would break. “Don’t—you— ever!” he grated. He gave her wrists another wrench, then lifted the quirt above his head.
She rolled her face to one side, just in time. The little whip caught her skull just above her ear, and her stomach lurched. “Scream!” he shouted. He leaned over her, his knees rolling off her thighs as he shifted, his hand vicious on her wrists. “Scream, brat, or I swear I’ll break your country neck!”
And Lark, in pain and real terror, screamed, and screamed a second time as he struck her again. Though her hands were captured, with his weight off her legs, she kicked with all her might. She had practiced a thousand standing mounts, and she had labored in her family’s fields since she was a child. She was small, but she was strong, and she managed to throw her body to one side, ripping her arms free of his grip. He grabbed at her, getting a fistful of her cropped hair. It was too short, and he couldn’t hold it. Her scalp stung, and she knew he must have strands of her hair in his fingers, but she was free.
In a flash, she was up and running, down the aisle. The bar was thrown across the divided door at the back of the stables. He was coming behind her, and there was nowhere to go. She saw the gate to the box stall, unlatched it with one practiced motion, and threw herself in to land on her knees in the straw.
The mare whinnied, and backed to the wall, flattening her ears. The foal froze, head up, ears forward, eyes wide.
Just as William reached the gate, Lark jumped to her feet. The window was too high, and had no latch in any case. There was a pallet of blankets in one corner, which was no help to her. There was nowhere to go. She murmured a plea to the mare for calm, then scurried behind the winged foal, putting the little creature between her and the aisle. It tried to back closer to its mother, stopping when its hindquarters touched Lark. She put one hand on its croup, and whispered, “Hold still, little one. Oh, please hold still .
. .”
William stopped when he saw her behind the foal. His face was scarlet, and sweat darkened his pale hair. He panted, the lust for her pain still on him. “Come out,” he commanded.
She shook her head, and said, “Nay,” as stoutly as she was able. She wasn’t sure if he would strike the foal to get to her. She would have to step forward if he did. She couldn’t let him hurt a winged foal, but he didn’t know that.
William held his quirt in one fist, indecision plain on his face, and in the angle of his body. For the first time since she had met him, he wore no embroidered vest. Her eyes strayed to his chest. It was obvious now, that swelling, that strangeness.
After a long moment, he lowered the quirt, letting his arm hang by his side. His color began to fade, and his breathing to slow as he regained control. “You’re bleeding, brat,” he said.
Lark lifted her chin. “Aye.”
“I’ve told you before to stay out of my business.”
“’Tis you bashing about in mine, my lord.”
He raised one pale brow. “My, my. Spunky, aren’t we?”
“’Tis only the truth,” she said. “Threatening to take Deeping Farm, stealing my horse.” The trickle of blood ran across her eyebrow, down to her eyelid, and she dashed at it with a finger. William’s lip curled at this.
“That’s what you like, isn’t it?” Lark said. She held out her shaking finger to show him. “Blood, and hurting.”
“I love it,” he murmured. “I truly love it.” He turned the quirt in his fingers. “I could kill you now, and that would be even better.”
“Mistress Winter knows I’m here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then I’d better hurry,” he said, and he took a step toward her. Lark thought the foal under her hand would flee at that, dash behind its mother, but it didn’t move.
Surely the Duke was too close for a winged horse to tolerate. Surely her last hope was about to vanish, and this madman would have what he wanted. She shrank back against the mare’s warmth, and a crooked smile curved the Duke’s lips.
“She’s only a wingless horse,” he said lightly. “What does she care if a flyer dies?”
“But the foal—” she began, without much real hope.
“This is my foal, brat.” He took another step. “My filly. Bonded.”
“It can’t be!” she wailed. She looked frantically about for a way to escape. The Duke blocked the gate, her only way out. The mare behind her, though she could feel her nervousness, would be no help, and the foal . . .
The foal took a tottering step closer to William, extending her nose. Lark stared, mouth open in wonderment.
The foal took another step, and put her nose in the Duke’s hand, and stood perfectly still while—
He stroked her.
Lark put a hand to her throat. A winged horse—it wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. But it was happening, right before her.
William fondled the filly, smiling, caressing one delicate wing, before he moved her out of his way with the gentlest of touches and reached for Lark.
THIRTY
PHILIPPAraced back inside the stables, grabbing Sunny’s bridle from the hook where Lark had hung it.
Sunny whickered and stamped as she opened the gate, and a tense moment passed before Philippa could settle her enough to fit the bridle over her head. She didn’t waste a thought for her flying saddle, but leaped up on Sunny’s back, snugging her legs over the blanket, and pressing her thighs down over her folded wings. “Go, Sunny,” she cried. “We have to catch Seraph!” At the last second, as Sunny trotted down the aisle,
Philippa reached to snatch Seraph’s bridle off its hook. She laid it across Sunny’s withers, reined her toward the road Seraph had charged down, and gave her her head.
Sunny, sensing the urgency of their purpose, surged into a gallop. Seraph’s footprints were still visible in the thin layer of snow, but the bright sun had begun to make the road slushy and slippery. They reached the end of the estate lane in moments, but in the main road, the last of the snow had melted. The trail disappeared, but Sunny seemed to have no doubts. She changed leads neatly, as if the surface were good turf instead of slick gravel, and turned left.
They followed the road for only a few strides before a narrow drive led down toward a stand of bare trees. A fresh alarm gripped Philippa as the memory came flooding back to her, the little hidden stable, the crisis that had started here. There was still snow in the drive, shaded as it was, and she saw hoofprints. She turned Sunny, and they raced toward the beech copse. Philippa did not urge more speed on her mare, knowing Sunny was running as fast as she dared on the uncertain ground. Philippa gripped the mare’s barrel with her thighs. She didn’t dare fall now, but it had been a long time since she had ridden without a saddle.
The drive led around the grove, and Philippa could hear Seraph before she saw him. When they cleared the trees, she saw the little stallion dashing back and forth, whinnying frantically. There could be no doubt that Lark was there.
Sunny skidded to a rough stop, and Philippa swung her leg over her back, half-falling to the ground. She raced toward the tack-room door and threw it open. She heard the voices. Larkyn was there, and so was William.
She ran toward them. She didn’t realize at first that Seraph was at her heels.
FROMoutside, Lark heard her bondmate’s shrill whinnying, his frantic feet pounding back and forth, but she couldn’t call out to him. William had one hand clamped over her mouth, and with the other he lifted her off her feet, pressing her back to him as he maneuvered his way out of the stall, careful of the filly.
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