High on the hill overshadowing Greystone House, the lone figure moved at last. In the dark, the eyes glinted with a kind of madness as they swept the valley below. When, at that moment, they alighted on the face of Vincent Pengally, his mean features illuminated by the halo of light which shone from the kitchen window, the eyes smiled, a satisfied and sinister smile. The shrouded figure nodded its head, gave a low laugh, and turned away into the darkness. But it would be back. To punish and murder. That was its purpose.
7
‘I’m telling you, wife, it ain’t healthy… the way he watches that young ’un, gloats over her and loathes to let her out of his sight. There’s bad thoughts in that twisted mind of his… and dangerous intent in his black heart.’ John Blackwood’s homely face reflected his deep concern, as he kept a vigil by the window of his darkened bedroom, his anxious gaze roving the distant and lighted upstairs window of Greystone House. There the unmistakable and stooped figure of its owner was silhouetted by the soft yellow glow from the lamp he carried; his eyes were cast downwards and on his unpleasant face was a look of rapture. Just once he reached out as though to touch something, but then, in a moment and with his expression changed to one of horror, he recoiled, straightening his back with resolve and at once stealing from the room.
Vincent Pengally’s departure did nothing to allay the persistent suspicions in John’s troubled mind, and still he kept his eyes on the house of his master. Carefully he followed the light as it moved from what he knew was Scarlet’s room, then across the landing and into the room directly above the sitting room. That was the main bedroom, where slept the blacksmith and his wife. On different occasions, when there had been need of furniture-shifting or maintenance tasks, and, on a day back in the summer when a raven had somehow got itself lodged in the chimney-breast of the Pengally’s bedroom, John was called on to give assistance. He recalled now how excited Scarlet had been at seeing the raven finally released from the window. When it spread out its huge black wings to lift its great body from his hands, John had been startled by the manner in which Scarlet had screamed out. It was a strange, unearthly sound, he’d thought; but then she was only a girl and was obviously terrified by the sight of that huge and magnificent bird, so close that she was able to stroke its wings. And he had to admit that when the raven began flapping those monstrous wings, gripping its sharp claws so firmly into his hands that they bled, the experience was enough to unnerve even him.
‘The man’s deranged, Ada,’ he murmured, his gaze still intent on the light, which was now stilled. ‘I’m afeared there’s murder on his mind… or something worse, God help us!’ He half-turned from the window, narrowing his anxious blue eyes as they searched out his wife in the darkness.
‘Aw, give over with your wild imagination, John Blackwood… and come away from that window before he sees you. He’s a strange ’un, I’ll grant you that, but… “murder”… or “worse”? By! You do let your fancies run away with you, don’t you, eh?’ Ada Blackwood gazed fondly into the cradle at baby Trent. Satisfied that their son was sleeping, she shook her head and chuckled, her round brown eyes instantly enveloped in the folds of flesh which deepened with her jolly smile. Tutting loudly at her husband’s antics, she took great pains to tie a large and extravagant bow at the neck of her white cotton nightgown, then, cramming a loose cap over her light brown curls, she meticulously arranged the frilled edge to form a pretty frame for her chubby face. ‘There!’ she exclaimed, somewhat short of breath from the effort of making herself presentable. ‘I do believe I’m quite handsome, if I say so myself.’ She made a great fuss of turning back the bedclothes and carefully arranging herself between the sheets. ‘Come and see what a pretty wife you’ve got yourself,’ she teased.
When her husband turned from the window again, he saw that she had lit the candle on the bedside cupboard and, in its gentle flickering light, he saw the merry twinkle in her eyes. It made him smile. ‘Ada Blackwood!’ he chided, coming forward towards the bed and beginning to undress. ‘What a shameless hussy you are.’ He climbed into bed and took her hand in his. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, the smile gone from his face, ‘I’m in no mind for anything but sleep tonight.’
For a moment, the room was enveloped in an awkward silence, before his wife spoke. ‘No matter,’ she said in a cheery voice, squeezing his fingers affectionately before turning away. ‘If you’re not of a mind, then that’s that.’ It was not a thing to bother her. In a few moments, the room was echoing to her gentle rhythmic snores, and before long her husband was also in a deep slumber.
Across the river, over Packhorse Bridge, the inhabitants of Greystone House were not so easily given up to slumber. Vincent Pengally had come from Scarlet’s bedroom into his own, and he was possessed of a great need. There was a fire burning in him, a compulsion to impregnate his wife, and to perpetuate his own species before it was too late. Hannah was roughly awakened. It had been so long since he had touched her in that way, so very long, and now there was no passion left in her. She loved him still, and always would, but when she felt him crushing against her, savage and hungry, could feel no response, and it saddened her. He seemed not to notice her reticence and, being a man used to pitting his strength against great beasts brought to his forge, he had lost the art of tenderness and forgotten how to persuade. His lovemaking was fierce and predatory, his moans and cries of ecstasy loud and uncontrolled.
To Scarlet, the primitive and agonised cries that emanated from her parents’ room were distasteful and unsettling. She was under no illusion as to their meaning and, when she could not bear them a moment longer, she crept from her bed, threw a cape over her nightshift, and stole from the house on bare feet.
Away from the confines of the house, Scarlet ventured onto the moors, moving with swift sure footsteps as she tracked the river on its route. Excited by a sense of freedom, she began to run and to sing softly, so softly that no creature was disturbed by it, and the gentle lilt of her melodic voice mingled with the light breeze which stroked smooth as velvet against her skin. The night was strangely warm, and the moors unusually quiet. Low in the sky, the moon sent out an eerie glow, and the tremulous shadows crept over the ground, making ghostly writhing shapes that danced and teased beneath Scarlet’s floating footsteps.
Coming to the wide meandering bend at the deepest part of the river, Scarlet paused, breathless and exhilarated, her dark eyes alight with wonder. Seating herself on a boulder at the water’s edge, she gazed upwards into the rising brilliance of the moon. There was magic in the air, she thought, and as always she was deeply moved by the dark mystery of her surroundings. The dry sweet smell of the wild heathland embraced her, drawing her into itself until she felt her heart beating with it and, mesmerised by the flowing chattering waters, she lay back into the carpet of heather, eyes closed, her tempestuous spirit at peace. Soon she was enveloped in the slumber which had evaded her back at the house.
When Scarlet awoke, it was with a fright. Something had disturbed her, some noise or other, though she could not instantly fathom out what the noise was, or where it had come from. Mentally shaking off the sleep which still clung to her senses, she got to her knees and quickly scanned the area. There was nothing to be seen, no noise to be heard other than the familiar murmur of the moors at night. But then, somewhere not too far from where Scarlet knelt, a creature was disturbed enough to scamper away to safety, its cry of alarm heralding a flurry of movement which rippled like a wave across the high ground. At once Scarlet was made more wary. Normally the creatures were not so quick to panic.
For what seemed like ages to her, Scarlet remained perfectly still, moving only her head as she continued to scour her eyes over the immediate area. After a while she felt assured that whatever had been prowling, if anything at all, had passed on its way. A glance at the sky told her that she had slept longer than was intended, and that soon the dawn would begin rising. Already the sky was streaked with daggers of gold, and far off in the treetops the morning birds w
ere waking with a song. Yet Scarlet was in no hurry, for the moors were still cloaked in darkness and there was time enough before she need return home. As she turned to leisurely retrace her steps, Scarlet’s attention was caught by a movement some short way off in the river, a fleeting slicing movement that disturbed the river’s general flow, and threw the moon’s watery reflection into shattered fragments. Someone was swimming there.
As Scarlet drew stealthily nearer, she was able to make out the dark head cutting through the water and, on seeing who it was, her heart leapt inside her. ‘Silas!’ she murmured, her voice lifted with joy. ‘It’s Silas!’ Her first instinct was to rush forward and make her presence known to him, but then some deeper instinct warned her against it, telling her that such a bold move would only alienate him from her and cause him to flee with the same panic as had gripped the wild moorland creatures. She dared not risk that, yet she was desperate for his company, silent though it was. With Silas there was little need for talk, because so much more passed between them and, in spite of the fact that he would have her believe otherwise, Scarlet knew that he craved for her just as fiercely as she craved for him. She could feel it whenever he laid his gaze on her; his need of her trembled in those sultry violet eyes and in his brooding, hostile glance. He was tied to her, just as she was tied to him. He excited her so much that, when he looked at her in that special way, she seemed to lose all control and the blossoming woman in her was awakened with a vengeance. He was forbidden to her, and that only made her want him all the more. He rejected her, but every nerve in her body told her he would die for her, and if she woke up one morning to be told that he was gone, she would search to the ends of the earth for him, even if it took her a lifetime! He was hers… hers alone. How could she ever let him go? The idea was purgatory to her. Not to have him near, not to plague or torment him, not to love him or to have him love her, vexed her spirit beyond endurance. Only Silas made life bearable. Only he could reach so deep inside her that, often, she was afraid. No one else could make her feel afraid in that way; no one else ever would.
From a safe distance, she watched as he swam lazily up and down the river, his lithe and muscular body twisting and turning against the current, sometimes floating, sometimes diving out of sight for so long that she was terrified he would drown. But, just when she was on the point of throwing herself in after him, his dark head would appear, and Scarlet was made to breathe a sigh of relief.
When, after a while, he climbed out, naked, shining wet and magnificent, Scarlet thought she would never again see anything as beautiful. Biding her time, and savouring the knowledge that, while she could see him, he had no way of suspecting her presence, Scarlet watched as he carelessly dabbed his shirt to his body, soaking up the surplus water from his skin, and afterwards pulling on his trousers and shaking his head until the black shining hair hung thick and limp to his shoulders. When he began pulling the damp shirt over his head, Scarlet made her move. Swiftly and silent as the night, she moved over the uneven ground to within arm’s reach of him, and still he did not detect her there. When, in a moment, she slithered her arms about his bare waist, Silas instinctively drew back, making a low cry and whipping the cumbersome shirt from his shoulders, he tossed it to the ground. His instincts told him that the arms which encircled him were not hostile, though dangerously possessive all the same. In the half-light, his strong violet eyes burned down into Scarlet’s triumphant gaze, and there came into his tremulous heart a feeling which was both rage and want, and amidst it all was the deep awareness of his own near-nakedness, so close to her that his heart would not be stilled. His hands had dropped gently to her shoulders and, even while the touch of her sensitive fingers sent wave after wave of sinuous delight through his entire being, he fought against it, fought with all his might, but still he was drowning in the nearness of her.
‘Kiss me.’ Her soft invitation sent his senses reeling. ‘Kiss me, Silas… love me.’ He could feel her warm moist mouth searching out his bare nipple and, suddenly, it was more than he could bear. His hands moved to her hair, stroking and caressing her dark head which was bent to his chest, her probing tongue teasing and torturing him and raising such passion in him that all reason fled. He shivered and murmured her name. ‘Scarlet… you devil!’
‘Take me now, Silas… now, this night, for the first time.’ She had heard him murmur her name, and it had thrilled her. She had him at last, caught for ever in the palm of her hand. ‘Say my name again. Tell me you love me, Silas,’ she whispered. But he said no more. Instead he bent his body towards her, his hungry gaze mingled with hers. He was lost, he knew it, but all care and caution was gone. When his mouth came to hers in a kiss that thrilled her to the core, Scarlet clung to him, entwining her eager arms around his neck and pulling him into her, until his pressing weight brought them tenderly to the ground. Her heart was filled with painful desire, as she lovingly opened herself to receive him. ‘Love me.’ The murmur became a demand, and there was a savagery in her voice that excited him. When she began tearing at her clothes, there rose in him a fever that swallowed him whole.
Lost in the exquisite pleasure of each other, neither Scarlet nor Silas heard the stranger approach. Suddenly there was danger in the air. Silas was the first to sense it, but it was too late. Frantically he struggled to beat off the dark that launched itself at him, ripping his flesh and gouging his eyes. He could hear Scarlet screaming and his fear was for her. Like a madman, Silas fought against the pain inflicted on him, his mind assailed by notions that he was not fending off a man, but a demon! A demon without a face, a substance with no recognisable shape, but possessed of monstrous strength and an insane desire to kill. When Silas felt himself being lifted from the ground, he was helpless. When his scarred and bleeding body smashed against the boulders, and the blackness swam into his senses, his last conscious thought was for Scarlet.
Terror-stricken, yet unsure of what had taken place in the darkness, or who had come on them with such vengeance, Scarlet froze in the ensuing silence, holding her breath and praying that Silas was safe. Suddenly, the silence was broken by the deliberate and heavy tread of footsteps, crushing the undergrowth and coming towards her at a relentless pace; yet, though all of her instincts urged her to run, she could not move. In terror she waited as the steps came ever closer. In the back of her mind rose the disturbing effigy of her father, and the murmuring suspicion that it was he who had tracked her down and now sought to level a harsh punishment against both her and Silas. Now, as the brute closed in on her, so near that she could hear the quiet rhythm of its breathing, Scarlet thought her heart would stop.
Suddenly a piercing high-pitched sound perforated the night: the unmistakable sound of a single whistle, in the manner that Scarlet had heard the hill shepherds use when they summoned their dogs. She listened. There it was again! This time, the footsteps ceased; there was a long excruciating silence, then Scarlet thought she heard a stranger noise, like a soft growl or the cry of a creature in pain. Again, the sound of that eerie whistle, and the crunch of bracken as the footsteps began to move. But this time they were not approaching Scarlet. They were moving away, quickly and more heavily, as though in anger or frustration. As they retreated, relief flooded into every corner of Scarlet’s being, leaving her trembling in its wake.
When, finally, the moors were once more steeped in silence, she felt the tension ease from her body, and in a moment she was on her feet, searching for Silas and softly calling his name. ‘Silas… where are you? Are you safe?’ When there was no answer, she became frantic. He must be hurt, she reasoned, for she knew that he would not have forsaken her in the face of danger. ‘Silas… where are you?’ She must find him, before the light of day might expose them. Again she thought of her father. Yet there was something else, something about the events of this night that shook her belief in him being the intruder. For now though, she loathed to dwell on it. She must find Silas!
When, a few moments later, Scarlet stumbled on him, Silas was
already struggling to his feet, his hands clasped to the split in his temple, but unable to stem the stark crimson rivulets of blood which trickled between each finger, falling onto his chest and staining his nakedness. Taking him quickly by the waist and leading him steadily to the running waters where she could bathe his wounds and let him fully recover, Scarlet asked the question which was branded on her shocked mind. ‘Who was it, Silas… was it my father, do you think?’
Silas gave no answer, other than to glance a warning with his angry violet eyes. He was relieved that she was safe. And he also had suspected Vincent Pengally, but he was troubled by certain things he did not understand. If it was Scarlet’s father who had attacked him, why had he not made himself known? And why had he allowed Scarlet to remain here with him? He couldn’t reason it out at all, but one thing he did know, and that was his determination to keep a healthy distance between himself and Scarlet in future. To encourage her was too dangerous for them both. Not only because of her father, or because of any punishment they might be subjected to, but because he had tasted the raging fire in her, felt her need which was equal to his own, and because the desperate passion which consumed them both was a ferocious tidal wave which would sweep them to sure disaster. He would fight it. He must! He thought again on the fiend that had attacked him. Like Scarlet, he was still partly convinced that it was Vincent Pengally. Yet it was more probably that some wild beast had seen fit to protect its territory. Somehow, to Silas’s mind, the latter was more comforting!
‘It’s savage, I tell you! The kindest thing would be for me to use this on it.’ The man raised his shotgun, shaking it threatening before the herb-gatherer’s anxious face. ‘I’ll do it, woman… I swear before God that if you keep protecting it, and if you refuse to see that it’s no better than a wild beast… I’ll do for it when you’re not around to stop me!’
Scarlet Page 7
