Page 45 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
The back of him was nearly as infuriating as the front. “You admit you swindled them, then?”
“Power of suggestion. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more?”
He whipped around to face me, looming large, and I felt an unfamiliar stab somewhere deep in my belly as he looked down at me. “You see some lad mooning over the baker’s daughter. Or a scullery maid making eyes at a stable hand who can’t hardly string two words together whenever she’s around. You just…”
I pressed my lips together to disguise both my amusement at his words and the unpleasant discomfort at his proximity. Not that I was afraid of him. It was frighteningly the opposite. “You’re telling me you are a matchmaker.”
He sighed heavily, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I don’t matchmake. I just…” His voice was low in the darkness as we continued along the path to town. The wind had picked up not long ago and clouds had set back in. More blasted rain. “I see a pair who ought to be together if they could stop trippingover their own feet bungling the whole affair. One of them comes to me asking about their true love and I—”
“Give fate a nudge?”
“Exactly.”
“Ruan Kivell, you are a hopeless romantic!” I traipsed along the moonlit path beside him as the first few drops of rain began to fall. I wiped them from my face. “But you are a miserable witch. I mean honestly, look at this weather!”
He snorted. I cast a glance over my shoulder, half expecting my needling to have upset him after his outburst earlier. But it seemed he didn’t mind my teasing. It was the silent doubting that troubled him. Everyone in the county, save the vicar, worshipped the ground he walked upon. The chosen one. Hell, he’d likely give Christ a run for his money in their estimation, but to my sudden surprise—he didn’t care for it. Not one bit.
By the time we made it to the crossroads, it was clear that I wasn’t going back to town tonight. Water rushed over the bridge that led into Lothlel Green and my warm bed at the inn. And while I was an adventuresome lass—as Mr. Owen always chided—the idea of being swept down a flooded stream was not to my taste.
“My cottage is near, shall we wait it out?” Ruan shouted over the viciousness of the roaring water.
I nodded rather than wasting my voice. My feet stuck to the muddy road, making it a slippery and treacherous hike. But provided there were no flooded streams between here and there I was quite happy to shelter for a few hours.
But that was not to be.
CHAPTERTWENTYA Crisis of Bovine Proportions
ABOUTtwelve minutes after walking in the door, a great commotion rose up outside. Banging and shouting flooded the small cottage.
“Ruan! Ruan Kivell!”
Marvelous. More excitement. I stifled a yawn beneath my fist. Ruan opened the door as another crack of lightning lit the night, revealing a very soggy Benedict something-or-the-other from the pub earlier.
“What’s the matter? Get in here, man, before you drown,” Ruan grumbled, stepping back into his rather cozy front room. It was small before with only the two of us; a third made the space positively cramped.
Benedict shook his head. “No time. It’s my cow. Someone’s put the eye on her. I’m certain of it.”
“What’s happened?” Ruan ushered him inside, despite Benedict’s protests.
“She’s laid out in the field, unable to get up. Frothing. Can you do something about her? She’s my best breeder, she is. I can’t afford to lose her.”
Ruan sniffed and nodded. “I’ll be along dreckly. Dry yourselfby the fire while I gather my things.” He turned and immediately began grabbing various concoctions from his shelves and placing them into his stained British Expeditionary Force haversack. Benedict remained by the door, arms folded across his chest. His worry palpable even to me. Ruan on the other hand remained steady, calmly lifting jar after label-less jar, sniffing, and closing them back before deciding which to secure into his pack.
I stepped closer to him and lowered my voice. “What are you thinking, going out again in this weather. You’re liable to drown out there yourself. Can’t it wait until morning?”
He shook his head and secured his satchel, slinging it over his shoulder. His voice was low. “It can wait if you want a dead cow. Are you coming along?”
I cast a longing glance at the fire crackling away in the hearth and then back to Ruan.In for a penny…“I suppose it isn’t possible to get any wetter than I already am.” I leaned forward and plucked the damp blue handkerchief from his coat pocket and tied my hair back. I half expected him to swat my hand away, but he just shook his head and turned and walked out the door. And I—fool that I was—followed the Pellar into the storm.
DURING THE WAR, I’d seen all sorts of creatures—man and beast—in various states of distress. Horses. Mules. Dogs. Stray cattle that had somehow survived crossing the lines only to be captured and turned into supper for the troops. But in all my life I’d never seen anything close to this. Well, I had once, but it hadn’t ended well for the beast. The great brown cow was on the ground heaving, each breath a struggle. The contrast of the cool night air and the hot exhalations gave the impression thatshe breathed fire. She was in pain. Great amounts of it from my inexpert opinion.
I bit my lip, unable to take my eyes away from the scene before me. Ruan had been right. If he’d waited until morning the poor thing would be dead—granted, it didn’t look long for the world as it was.
He leaned over the flailing creature, much as he had Edward’s body earlier. A strange parallel. I shivered and hugged myself tighter against the unrelenting rain. His eyes remained closed—not that I could see them from this distance, but I knew it all the same—his hands on the creature’s great flanks. Cold droplets beat down as the cow let out a great bellow that echoed in my ears. The ground beneath me shook with the violence of the animal’s convulsions, and yet Ruan Kivell remained still.
He was liable to get crushed.
