Page 7 of Spellbound
“It is the only way I have ever ridden,” she said. “Side saddles are idiotically stupid and dangerous.”
At any other time, her pragmatic and entirely accurate answer would have amused him. But at that moment, his only concern was to get her somewhere safe. Somewhere well away from whatever danger lurked in those woods.
Leading her to the small stand of trees where his horse was tethered, he simply lifted her into the saddle, tugging her skirts free as she swung her leg over.
“We can both ride. You should not stay here,” she admonished him softly. “I just—I have a terrible feeling that something awful is about to happen!”
So did he. But he wouldn’t slow her down by riding with her. Instead of giving her an answer, he smacked the horse’s rump just firmly enough to send it bolting forward. She had no choice but to hang on, all her focus directed on maintaining her seat. Then he turned back to the small clearing where she’d been gathering herbs. Her basket lay on the ground, overturned, the contents spilling out.
Something about them seemed quite curious to him, so he stepped closer to investigate. On the ground was a small pouch.Opening it, he saw a mixture of herbs, some crystals and a stone carved with a strange symbol he did not know. Some sort of charm, he recognized. “Perhaps she is a witch,” he mused. Not that it mattered to him. She washiswitch.
Lifting the pouch, he tucked it into his pocket and headed for the road. Exposure was dangerous for him, but also for whomever watched them. Any action taken in the open would risk witnesses. And if the skulking showed him anything, it was that the villain wished to hide in the shadows behind a cloak of secrecy.
It would have been a pleasant walk, for the first mile at least, had it not been for the need to look over his shoulder constantly. Still, he relished the feeling of his blood pumping in his veins and his heart rate picking up a bit as he climbed the hills. It allowed him to burn off some of the coiled energy inside him—half of it prompted by his sense of danger and the other part accounted for solely by the woman who incited him to levels of desire he had not even known himself capable of.
But the sky darkened, the brightness of day giving way to twilight and the gathering storm clouds. The temperature dropped as well. A soft drizzle came… at first. Then the misting particles grew into fat rain drops. And with each passing second, the frequency and intensity with which those rain drops fell increased exponentially until it was simply a deluge.
It was impossible to say what obscured his vision. The shadows were lengthening as evening began to fall, the heavy mist that was settling as the rain poured or the fact that said rain was hitting him directly in the face, forcing him to blink so rapidly his eyes could barely adjust. Whatever the root cause, he didn’t see the man crouched along the roadside. Not until that man burst forth from the dense hedgerow with lightning speed and raw fury.
There was no time to react, no time to defend himself. The heavy stone concealed in the hand of the other man felled him like an oak. He sank, barely conscious, to the muddy lane as blood seeped from the wound on his forehead. The falling rain washed it away almost instantly, but more welled to replace it. Had he been able to see the extent of his injury, that amount of blood would have concerned him. Of course, having been knocked quite senseless, his responses to everything were slowed dramatically.
Desmond, looking up through bleary eyes, instantly recognized his attacker. One word escaped him, accusatory and sharp, “You!” Then the creeping blackness closed in entirely. He lay motionless, the rain pouring down on him as the man who had attacked him once more faded into the shadows by the roadside.
SEVEN
Reverend Lynden Stalker moved quickly. The collar of his coat was drawn up, as much to keep the rain out as to hopefully disguise his identity to anyone who might be peering out of their windows in the village. In his hand, he still clutched the stone with which he’d felled Mr. Desmond Crane. He’d thought, initially, that he would wait until Belladonna was alone, walking home. But Crane had spoiled his plan by putting her on his horse and sending her on her way.
The fury he’d felt at having his plans foiled had prompted his temper. And it was his temper that had led him to strike the man down. He wouldn’t say that he was remorseful about it. Crane was an obstacle in his path—an obstacle to completing his divine mission.
Reaching the vicarage at last, he ducked through the low gate and entered through the side door. In the kitchen, his wife was preparing the evening meal. A dull creature, he loathed her as much as he loathed Belladonna. Silent enough to make others wonder if she was not dimwitted in some way, only he knew the truth. He’d trained her not to speak, to stay silent and keep his counsel. It had taken years to make her biddable, years of berating, belittling and even beating her. Now that he’d worn herdown, now that she had no more fight left in her, he found her dull and uninteresting.
Entering the kitchen, he placed the stone on the table. It was still marked with Crane’s blood. She looked at it, then looked at him. But again, she said nothing.
“I’ll have your meal on the table in but a moment,” she said.
He glanced at his pocket watch. “It is nearly six o’clock. It will be on the table at six on the dot… or you’ll suffer the consequences.”
She lowered her eyes and nodded. “Of course. I hall always endeavor to please you as a wife should.”
Stalker turned and marched from the kitchen to the dining room. With his back to her, he didn’t see that Maryanne, his wife, had raised her head. Her blue eyes, once bright and lovely, were now shadowed with exhaustion. But it was the hatred burning in them, directed at his departing form, that would have choked him the most.
Her gaze drifted to the rock, still dark with blood. So softly that anyone more than a few feet away could not hear her at all, she mused, “What have you done now, Lynden? Whatever it is, I hope you’re caught and punished for as long as you yet live.”
Bella movedabout her little cottage with, what to an outsider would appear, purpose. In truth, it was nothing more than agitation and a pitiful attempt not to allow her emotions to get the better of her. Whenever she was upset, work helped her to ground herself, to recenter herself and regain her composure. Normally. But there was nothing normal about her current predicament or her current feelings.
Her aunt had taught her all the ancient ways, the secrets of their family. And as she gathered herbs and other things to combine them in the heavy pot that hung on a hook near the hearth, she paused only to consult the heavy book on the table. That she needed to consult it all was treatment to just how upset she was. Most of the contents of that book had been committed to her memory years and years ago. But she was shaken to her toes. Lost, confused, confounded. And ashamed. She was ashamed of her behavior.What had happened in that clearing?
She’d made a fool of herself. That was what. A single kiss and she’d been ready to throw all caution to the wind and simply give herself to him. And he’d been appalled at her behavior. That was the only possible explanation for why he would have sent her on her way with such haste. His statement that he did not trust himself to be alone with her had, she thought, merely been a way to spare her embarrassment or to perhaps spare him the unpleasantness the truth—that her forwardness had repulsed him. She had, in a single reckless act, proven to him that she was as wicked as everyone claimed her to be.
Dropping her head, her chin resting against her chest, she fought back the urge to cry. It was a mixture of shame, embarrassment, disappointment and years of loneliness. All those emotions welled inside her and worry over what he must now think of her swirled in her mind.
Pacing the length and breadth of her little cottage, she did not notice that with every step she took, no matter the direction, the candle flame followed her. It bent and danced in a way that would have astounded others. To her, it was hardly worthy of note.
“It is useless to cry about it, Bella,” she told herself. “It was impetuous and stupid and it is done.” Dashing away tears that had gathered on her lower lashes, tears she had refused to let fall, she took a steadying breath. “Do the work. There areremedies to be made, potions to be concocted and bread to be made for the week.”
Turning back to the book, she traced her hands over the smooth, worn leather cover. The book’s binding had been repaired time and again, and still it bulged with things tucked inside it. Bits of fabric, dried herbs, folded pieces of parchment and foolscap were all tucked inside the bound pages. Half grimoire, half recipe book, it contained a wealth of knowledge. Much of it, Bella had never even considered using. Her aunt had taught her the rule of three and she abided by that, for lack of a better word, religiously. Dark magic of any kind, any sort of spell that violated the free will of others, was forbidden. No amount of money could make her break that particular rule. But she wasn’t about dark magic. She was about protection.
Crushing some herbs with her mortar and pestle, she was perhaps a bit more vigorous and hurried than necessary. If she had to stop a time or two to brush away hot and entirely useless tears, well, it was no matter.
