The little terrier barked again for attention, and Alice opened her eyes and smiled on her heart’s companion. Eilidh’s fur was the colour of moonlight, a soft silver that carried an iridescent sheen. Perhaps the colour of her coat was what allowed her to guard Alice from the demons hiding in the shadows. The dog blended into the night and protected Alice’s slumber.
Alice bent down and ruffled silken ears. “Come on, Eilidh, let’s head back to the farmhouse. It will darken soon.”
Awareness of time was still difficult for Alice to grasp. Light to dark was easy as she learned to read the position of the sun to know how much daylight was left. But longer periods caused her to frown; days and months ran together and became indistinguishable.
She knew she had a life before, and this one after, but her mind skittered around what happened during the period in-between. At times, she imagined before was simply a dream, for it seemed like a fairy tale of champagne and parties that dissolved into a nightmare. Then the dark claimed her and she tore herself apart to survive. The next thing she remembered was Eilidh pressed in her arms and then a carriage took them to Scotland.
For the last six months, Alice had lived on her friend Ianthe’s secluded Northamptonshire farm. The dense forest surrounding the farm was her domain. Here, no one could gaze at her with pity filled eyes. No one would whisper, “Has there been any improvement?” No one would mutter that her broken mind would never heal after her stay in Bedlam.
But Bedlam didn’t break her.
That happened long before, at the hands of a viscount whose idea of pleasure was tearing slivers from the soul of a powerless courtesan. The soul eater nibbled on the pieces as though they were caviar on toast, while the young woman writhed and screamed in pain at the excruciating agony of her essence being consumed.
But Alice defeated him. She scattered her soul far and wide where he couldn’t reach it. Frustrated, he discarded the broken woman in the mental asylum. Now, Eilidh was her light, her warmth, the one creature who could reach her in the cold cave where her mind hid. She had torn herself into so many pieces that they didn’t seem to fit back together right, no matter how many times she tried to complete the puzzle.
Alice and the dog skirted the edge of the forest, close enough to dart under the protective branches if necessary, but near the open expanse of the countryside. The ground undulated with gentle slopes and hills. The fields were full of waving, tall grasses with nodding, fat seed heads. There were also plenty of rabbits.
Once Eilidh was satisfied her mistress was a safe distance from the wood and following, the terrier shot off after a pair of ears just visible amid a patch of tuft-headed cocksfoot. Beast and prey bounded through the grass as they hurtled down the incline towards the flat pasture.
Small things made Alice happy. The babble of the water in the river, the feel of Eilidh pressed up next to her at night, the brush of a warm summer breeze against her face, or the crunch of frost under her boots. Perhaps the true madness was that she had once valued jewellery, dresses, and pretty things. None of that mattered at the end.
No dress saved her. No necklace had reached out and pulled her from the abyss.
Only a small dog with a warm, wet nose had touched her in the unrelenting dark and led her towards the light.
Once free of Bedlam, Alice ran wild in Scotland. That rugged countryside had embraced and shielded her. The ancient magic in the mist-shrouded Highlands tugged at the shackles around Alice’s mind and awoke her mage-blood power. Hidden in the fragrant heather, she began to find her missing parts and piece her soul back together.
This farm was nice, too, but in a more subdued way. Ianthe wanted to civilise Alice. To return her to what she had once been. To coax the skittish animal back into the embrace of society. But her friend didn’t understand that girl was gone. She shattered into a million pieces and the wind blew her all away.
Dog and owner crested the last hill, and Alice paused for a moment. A warm sense of home washed over her as she stared down into the valley. Nestled at the foot of the hill sat the squat farmhouse. Two storeys high and made of solid grey stone, it withstood any storm the rough weather threw at it. A drift of smoke curled from the kitchen fire at one end of the house.
A large potager garden occupied the south side of the house, edged by rows of fruit trees. Now the trees stood naked, winter had stripped them of their leaves and they slept until spring. Only the hardy winter vegetables like leeks and cabbage survived the harsh cold in the well-maintained vegetable beds.
Next to the farmhouse stood a barn, as well constructed as the house. Ianthe wanted her prized horses as protected as those in the solid house. Behind both farmhouse and barn hid a smaller cottage, home to Ianthe’s staff, Sarah and Perkins.
Spread out before the farmhouse were paddocks with dry stone walls keeping the stock safe. Despite the season, the paddocks had lush green grass as the playground for young horses, although they turned a favourite spot to mud that they could roll in and splash through. Yearlings chased each other while mothers dozed in the late afternoon light, their backsides turned to the cold northerly wind. There were only three youngsters in the paddock, but Ianthe had plans to slowly expand her horse breeding enterprise. But quality broodmares were expensive.
Eilidh barked and Alice turned to see if the terrier had spotted the rabbit again. The little dog quivered as she faced the road, her ears pricked and body tense. No rabbit, but riders. Men.
Alice’s heart skipped a beat as a bubble of panic welled up in her chest and escaped as a sob. Why were men coming here, to this secluded corner of Northamptonshire? Men, whether natural or Unnatural, were not to be trusted. Alice had vowed no man would ever touch her, or have power over her, again.
She shielded her eyes against the descending sun as she watched the riders. Their horses had coats that gleamed with good health. One rider wore a distinctive grey and tartan jacket. Memories and snippets of conversation pushed through her mind.
Highland Wolves. Ianthe was also mage-blooded, with the gift of second sight. For weeks she had seen a wolf with mistletoe stuck in its fur and was convinced the vision meant Quinn would be home for Christmas, even though the war with France continued abroad.
That identified one rider, but who was the other dressed in dark blue? As she stared at him, he turned and met her gaze across the fields. Despite the thickness of her wool coat, a chill ran over her skin.
Nothing good came from men. Or Wolves.
“Come on, Eilidh, Ianthe will want to know that Quinn is home.” Alice tapped her leg and the pair of them ran down the hill towards the house.
“Ianthe!” Alice called as she flung open the kitchen door.
Her friend sat at the enormous kitchen table, an open ledger before her as she laboured over their expenses. Her head shot up on being summoned. A frown marred her delicate face. Ianthe always had something to shield her face when outside, and her skin remained an alabaster so pale one could see fine blue veins in her temple.
“Two riders approach. One in uniform.” Alice pointed back through the open door.
“Quinn! I told you he would be home for Christmas.” Ianthe squealed and leapt to her feet. Her outflung hand caught the ink pot and knocked it over.
Alice lunged and grabbed the pot before the dark liquid ruined Ianthe’s work. She placed the pot down well away from the book and turned back to the door.
Alice walked but Ianthe ran, for once without a bonnet or parasol. Ianthe picked up her skirts and hurtled down the beaten earth track towards the riders. The rider in uniform kicked his horse into a canter, and the two met at the edge of the paddock. Quinn hauled Ianthe up in front of his saddle and she threw her arms around his neck. They kissed while the horse kept walking.
Alice steeled herself for the masculine invasion. Eilidh crept closer, the terrier’s body acting as an anchor for Alice and stopping her from turning tail and running away. She would control the fear. Ianthe loved Quinn and for her friend, Alice wou
ld try so hard to hold her position.
The horses stopped near the house. Ianthe slipped from the mount and dragged Quinn with her, the lovers still locked in each other’s embrace. The other rider dropped awkwardly from the saddle. For a moment, his right leg seemed to buckle and he grabbed the saddle with his left hand to stay upright.
Alice watched him from under her eyelashes. He was slightly taller than Quinn but of a leaner build. Black hair glinted with blue in the sunlight, and a square jaw showed just the hint of afternoon shadow. His eyes, when he turned to regard Alice, were a piercing blue like a cloudless summer sky.
He arched a black eyebrow and shook his head at the lovers, who were still kissing one another. “It would appear if one has love, one does not need air. Shall we leave them to their reunion and see to the horses, Alice?”
Her heart stuttered. How did he know her name when she had no recollection of him? Her feet stayed rooted to the spot and Eilidh pressed a little closer.
His gaze locked with hers and glided over her body as the river flows over rocks. “I’ll not harm you, Alice. You have my word. These two could do with a little privacy after such a long time apart. It is rather cold out here, and the horses have had a long ride.”
She wasn’t so sure that Ianthe and Quinn needed privacy; they seemed oblivious to anyone else. When the other man stared at her, Alice was the rabbit pinned by a predator. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and commanded the pounding in her chest to still. In that instant, she made a decision. She would no longer live in fear of men or allow them to force her to run and hide. She would turn her suffering upon them.
She would become the instrument of destruction for men who preyed on the vulnerable.
With that decision a measure of resolve crept through her body and she stood a little straighter. She pointed to the barn. “This way.”
Reaching out, she took the reins to Quinn’s mare from his slack fingers and led her to the stables. The other man followed, somewhat slower. From the corner of her eye, she saw the awkwardness to his gait and adjusted hers. She bent down and petted Eilidh until he caught up.
Two stalls were empty at one end of the barn, and Alice led the horse into one while the man took the other next to it. She unsaddled the mare and hung the saddle and bridle on racks at the end of the barn. Then she picked up handfuls of hay and brushed the mare’s coat, dislodging sweat and loose hair. Once satisfied that the horse was well-tended, she checked that the water bucket and hay rack were full.
All the while, she gave the man time to complete the same tasks in his awkward manner. She didn’t offer to help but busied herself with other jobs, making it look entirely coincidental that they both finished, at length, at the same time.
Despite the cold temperature, sweat dampened his brow as though the mere act of grooming caused him difficulty and great physical exertion.
“Shall we see if the other two are ready for company?” he asked, a gleam in his eyes.
2
Ewan
* * *
Ewan swallowed the pain and plastered a bored smile on his face. God, it was exhausting to pretend that nothing bothered him. To disguise that his body turned traitor upon him, stole his feline grace and left him stumbling like a fat, three-legged house cat. He hated being injured, but more than that, he loathed the feeling of inadequacy. At least he managed to get off the horse without making a fool of himself. Although his busted leg nearly gave out on him, and only grabbing the saddle kept him upright.
The French mages had discovered that silver could incapacitate a lycanthrope, as evidenced by what happened to Ewan on the battlefield. The bullet that shot him had lodged deep in his femur and leached poison into his body. With the silver in his bone, he couldn’t sustain his wolf form and was forced to return to his human skin. Nor could he shift back to heal faster as a wolf. For a man who only shifted when absolutely necessary, he now found he couldn’t do it at all.
The surgeons hadn’t been able to remove the bullet and wanted to take the leg off. The shot was so close to the head of his femur, they had planned to amputate at the hip. Only Ewan’s brothers-in-arms had stopped them from dismembering him. Major Logan sent him home to seek the help of an English mage to remove the ensorcelled bullet.
Did anyone notice the extent of his disability?
Ianthe and Quinn were so wrapped up in each other they wouldn’t have noticed if elephants had charged past them. What of Alice? He tried to remember the frail and broken creature they had rescued from Bedlam the previous year. This woman looked equally wild, but in a different way. When they rescued her, her hair had been closely cropped. Her blonde locks had regrown, but in an unrestrained manner. Her white gold strands rivalled the sun, and the ends curled around her face and tickled her jawline. Her skin was flushed with warmth and a healthy glow, and her body was lean but muscled, rather than starved.
She seemed so much more alive.
When he met her gaze, fear rampaged behind those forest green eyes. He cursed Viscount Hoth for what he had done to the woman and to others who did not survive his patronage. The soul eater had met a gratifyingly lingering and agonising death thanks to Quinn and the highly inventive mage, Lady Seraphina Miles.
“I’ll not harm you, Alice. You have my word.” It was all he could offer, if only she would believe him. He could well understand if she decided never to trust another man again, especially an Unnatural one. Not all monsters were the same, but how could one tell a damaged woman that?
Then as he watched, the fear drained from her eyes, a glint of steel crept in, and she stood a little taller. What thought had wrought such a change? He wanted to ask, to know what made her extend a fraction of trust towards him, but then she took charge of Quinn’s horse and headed to the stone and wood barn.
Unsaddling his horse made him swear under his breath. His right hand refused to co-operate and his fingers curled uselessly around the girth. After he had been shot, a dead horse had toppled on him and smashed his right hand and forearm. The silver taint in his blood slowed his healing. A break that would have once knitted back together easily refused to mesh. He drew in his frustration and took each step slowly, teaching his left hand to take the lead where once it had always followed.
Grooming was somewhat easier, but took longer since he couldn’t swap hands as he worked. He expected Alice to offer to help the cripple or to ask how much longer he would be. Instead, she seemed busy with the other horses. By some coincidence, she finished just as he did.
He needed to sit down, but even more, he needed a drink to stave off the pain and let him continue to mask his true state. He hoped Ianthe and Quinn had taken the edge off their need for each other by the time he and Alice made it to the house.
He stared up at the solid stone walls as they crossed from the barn. The house looked as though it had stood for at least two hundred years. The stone was battered by wind, rain, and snow. Thick glass in the mullioned windows reflected the late afternoon light. Not quite the elegant town house he was used to, but then, he hadn’t returned with Quinn to take up his former life in London.
He came to Northamptonshire to hide and lick his wounds before he presented himself to the mages tower at the Royal Arsenal in Woolwich. There he would be poked and prodded as the mages worked to counteract the silver’s effects. He would no longer be the darling of society, but a pathetic laboratory subject.
Alice pushed open the oak door to a warm and charming kitchen. An enormous coal range set into a deep fireplace occupied one entire end of the kitchen. A fire behind the grate emitted a soft glow and a kettle sat on top of the cast iron box. Polished copper pots and pans hung on either side, neatly arranged by size.
Slate tiles underfoot showed wear from two hundred years of feet walking the same routes as meals were prepared and served. A pine table dominated the central space, with mismatched chairs arrayed along each side. A dark dresser against another wall held a colourful collection of plates, bowls, and delic
ate teacups. The north-facing wall had a long, narrow window that caught the descending sun and lit the kitchen. Underneath ran a worn bench, with open shelves below housing more pots, plates, and mugs.
They shrugged off their thick wool overcoats and hung them on hooks by the back door. Then Ewan let out a deep breath as he sank into a chair closest to the range. The heat felt good on his misaligned bones. The chill wind outside made him ache as though he were a hundred years old. He longed to pull off his boots, but he clung to some remnants of civilised behaviour and would save that until he retired to his room.
Quinn took the chair adjacent to him and winked.
“Feeling better?” Ewan murmured.
“I’m home with the woman I love in time for Christmas. Life doesn’t get any better,” the younger man replied.
Ianthe opened a cupboard and reached in. The soft chime of crystal heralded her return with a bottle and four glasses. “I knew you would be home. The sight has been showing me a wolf with mistletoe in its fur for weeks. A celebration is in order. This is the most marvellous present that I could have imagined.”
Ianthe sat on Quinn’s lap as she poured the drinks and handed around the glasses. “A toast to the Highland Wolves. May the war end soon, so that the others may all find their way home safely.”
“To the Wolves,” Ewan murmured. Three glasses clinked and then a timid fourth joined them before disappearing.
“What news of the others? Is Isabel still camped with the army?” Ianthe asked. She kissed Quinn’s cheek and then slipped from his lap to help Alice lay out the evening meal.
Quinn laughed. “Oh yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is running everything by now. Alick’s mate is rather formidable, and she has proven herself to be a resourceful and competent aide-de-camp. I don’t think anyone has dared point out women aren’t supposed to hold military positions.”
Souls to Heal Page 2
