Heart of Darkness (2 page)

With the tip of her tongue, she prodded a
strange mark on her lip and realized that it was a scar. Using her
fingers, she delineated the scar and realized that it cut across
both of her lips and along her chin and down her jaw.

The petite and curvy figure became skinny and
lanky. The ragged clothes became even more ragged and drowned her
now thinner frame. With her costume complete, she exhaled in
relief, feeling almost like the tortoise, who could pop into its
shell whenever it felt endangered.

Her glamor was her shell and no matter how
many times she used the gift of hiding and disguising the true
Isabeau, it always surprised her when her appearance changed and so
thoroughly.

It was simply a case of wishing to change her
appearance and her talents prevailed. Isabeau never knew how she
would change or how she would look, she only had the security of
knowing that she would certainly not look like Isabeau Hart! And
living in constant fear for her life as she did, that was an
important talent indeed.

The lane came to a sudden cessation and she
had to crinkle her eyes to see into the distance. Clouds roamed
across the sky, leaving her little light by which to see, and she
realized that she would have to take pot luck as to which direction
to take.

She hesitated, knowing that the lane could
lead her to a wood, along an even lengthier country lane which
would take her to the nearest town and then, according to the
innkeeper, a manor house.

Isabeau wanted to enter the reasonable
security of the woods, as the other two were entirely unsuitable
for her needs. Biting her lip, she examined her options. She was
certain the dirty pig of an innkeeper had said left for the woods,
right for the estate and straight ahead for the lane that lead to
town.

Deciding to trust her memory, she turned
left, when all of a sudden, she heard the clatter of horses'
hooves. For a moment, Isabeau froze. Her mind's eye flashed her an
image of thirteen horsemen. Each dressed as darkly as the night
itself, their auras ominous and grim and their faces taut with
purpose. To capture her.

She dropped back into her body with seconds
to spare and lifting her petticoats and skirt, Isabeau quickly ran
down the left lane and praised the Goddess, when she felt the soft
mush of leaves squelch underneath her boots and the darkened shade
of the tall trees overhead. She had taken the correct path, thank
heavens. The large and the small animals scurried away from her
noisy retreat, as she tore through the woods and battled with
nature to bolt away from the men who wished to capture her.

Her heart began to pound in her chest and her
breath rattled and whistled through her teeth as she tried to suck
in as much air as possible. A feeling of sickness settled in her
stomach as she ran as fast as she could and still, the cantering
hooves of the men on horseback sounded loud in her ears. She was
unsure as to whether they were close by or in her thoughts, but
either way, wherever they were, they were too near to her
person.

Suddenly, she heard the slurp of the horses'
hooves against the sodden and damp ground. Turning her head around
to attempt to visually pinpoint their location, she managed to
catch her cry as she tripped over an unseen tree root. Quickly
jumping to her feet, she hopped into the slight twist to her ankle
and urged herself into a higher speed. Only the tightly fastened
boots securing her feet and lower calves kept her upright. Quickly,
she attempted to heal herself with the ring, but as her thoughts
were muddled, she could not concentrate on curing her injury.

The echoes of her pursuers came closer and
closer, until she felt almost as though they were at her heels and
all thoughts of injuries disappeared with the blast of fear that
overcame her instead. Perhaps they were nearby, but she refused to
look back this time. Her eyes were focused before her, where they
should have been earlier and then she would not have damaged her
ankle. Because of her inattention, she was now stumbling through
the forest like a madwoman.

Above the crashing beat of her heart and the
soughing breaths that entered and exited her lungs, she heard the
slide of hooves beside her and knew that this time, they were
actually there. She gulped but continued running until finally,
Isabeau had to desist when she felt the horses change course and
start to run in front of her. When Isabeau felt them at her back
and at her sides as well, she knew that she was cornered and
surrounded and had nowhere else to run.

Her knees crumbled at the realization that
she had been caught and she felt the damp and moldy leaves cling
wetly to her skirts. Her hands came up to support her upper body by
pressing against the floor and with her head ducked down, she
managed to reclaim some of her breath.

Isabeau's head shot upwards when she heard
one of the men jump down from the saddle.

"Who are you?" she called out, her voice
husky from her exertions. Isabeau peered into the darkness but it
enshrouded the rider like an all-encompassing cushion.

Boots crunched fallen leaves as the rider
approached.

"The Night Rider," came the eventual
response. It was definitely a man's husky voice.

Whether it was fear or some other impossible
to name emotion, his words had ripples of tension shuttling up and
down her spine. The tiny hairs at her nape fluttered as she tried
to calm herself down.

"Why do you hunt me down as though I'm the
fox and you the hounds? What right do you have?" she declared
indignantly.

The only response she received at first was a
gravelly chuckle.

"As both Wolfe Sinclair
and
the Night Rider, I have every
right to hunt you down. You know why I seek you. Just as you know
why I have been following you."

Staring up at him with bewildered eyes, she
felt anxiety strum her nerves to fever pitch. Isabeau had no idea
as to why this man would be seeking her. All she did know was that
she had been running to avoid a similar fate to that of her
parents'.

As far as she had always been aware, there
had been no real or definite reason for her beloved mama and papa's
deaths. Only supposition.

But, was this man their murderer?

By admitting that he had been following her,
was he also admitting to the slaying of her parents?

She damned her muddled brain's confusion as
her thoughts were sluggishly processed and no answers, intelligent
or otherwise, were forthcoming.

With a tortured voice, she replied, "I do not
know why you're following me."

He laughed again and she winced at the
harshness behind his tone. In her mind's eye, she saw the flames
that licked at her family home. The thatched, straw roof smoldering
as it was consumed by a fire to end all fires.

The man behind the voice seemed capable of
anything. Perhaps that was her fear talking, but then, what other
emotion should she be feeling in so malevolent a situation such as
this one?

Wincing as she placed her scratched palms
against the leaf-strewn ground, Isabeau shakily climbed to her feet
and stood defiantly before him.

"You killed them, then..." she stated quietly
and was horrified when he laughed. The sound menacing in the
darkness of the wood. She flinched at what she took for an
admission of guilt and waited with bated breath for his reply.

"Who haven't I killed? Your sheriffs would be
most pleased to pin the majority of the unexplained deaths on the
shoulders of my brethren and I."

She swallowed, the convulsive movement adding
to the nausea that had settled uncomfortably in her stomach.
"That's no answer. Your evasion does not befriend you to me,
sir."

He sniggered. "And I am certain that if I
treat you like the veriest maid, you would come running into my
out-stretched hands. You have led me a merry chase, fair lady, but
no more. You will return with me and mine to my land and submit as
your kind should."

"My kind?" she screeched, her anger lifting
her voice to a higher than normal pitch.

She could only thank the Goddess as the
horses seemed to react to her screeching anger and they skittishly
moved and jolted their riders. All of the thirteen horseman rushed
to soothe their horses and she took the opportunity to flee their
circle.

Within five steps, she felt herself being
hurtled to the hard ground and her head simultaneously being
slammed against it.

Grunting at the pain that rushed through her
from both the hit to her head and the consequent heavy weight of
the man's body landing atop hers, she wheezed, "Get off me, you
brute!"

Instantly, she was spun around and dragged to
face him. The intimacy of the position was not lost on her and she
struggled to move away from him, striking out with her hands and
feet. Isabeau was only allowed this freedom for a few moments,
until her hands were captured and her legs pressed against the
ground with the weight of his own bearing down upon them.

His hands slid upwards, along the length of
her wrists and then suddenly, they were touching her fingers. A
sharp zip of energy jolted her and her back arched upwards, so
powerful was the strike. Breathlessly, she tried to shrug off his
hand, but he wouldn't let her and Isabeau cried, "Let me go!"

"Your glamor is of no use to me, fair
lady."

A sudden slash of moon light pierced through
the canopy of trees and seemed to bathe them both in its pure
luminescence. She stared up at him, saw the almost satanic darkness
of his features and closed her eyes in terror, certain she was
about to be raped or worse, murdered.

His dark black hair appeared almost as
stygian as the stone in her ring and it hung untidily about his
face. A queue tied the majority of his hair back but the recent
tussles with her on the forest floor had added a disheveled edge to
his appearance. His eyes were hidden from sight by the night, but
she just knew that they would be black. Devil's eyes.

There was no gentleness in his face, no
kindness, nothing that gave her hope of her safety and she slowly
fluttered her eyelids open to face what was about to happen to her.
She was no coward.

The four years without her parents had been
difficult, the most difficult of her life, but she had grown up,
become an adult and she had learned to face whatever adversity life
threw at her with bravery and courage.

There was a lingering emotion in her
eyes, did she but know it. It was pain from his continual touch of
the onyx ring. She had never understood its powers and even to this
day did not entirely comprehend how it aided her. But now, this
stinging burn was enough to drive her mad. Sharp, gasping breaths
escaped her lungs as it seemed to singe her flesh until finally he
released her hand
and
subsequently the ring.

Wheezing in relief, she licked her lips and
turned her face away from him.

"To deny the world your allure was an
intelligent move, but during your stay at my stronghold, you will
not deny me the pleasure of your beauty, sweet Venus."

She resented the order, fiercely and glared
up at him. "My talents are mine to command and not at your
fingertips. You may think you have captured me, Night Rider," she
spat. "But you are entirely incorrect in your pitiful
assumptions!"

"Ah," he said, and sighed musingly and
seemingly ignored the rest of her tirade. "I notice your choice of
the plural. Talents. What other tricks and sorcery do you have
hidden then, I wonder?"

"Enough to curse you!" she spat and struggled
against his hold.

"You must join the ranks, fair maid. You are
not the first to wish me cursed and not the last to be satisfied at
my current state. But you, on the other hand, dear lady, are the
answer to my prayers."

"Then you shall have to pray to the Goddess
until your knees bleed! I shall never help you! Never!"

Chapter Two

With her teeth gritted and her jaw tensed
against the anger that had her blood boiling, Isabeau clung to
Wolfe Sinclair's body unwillingly as the thirteen horses tore
through the forest at a speed that had her stomach churning
nauseously.

Off the side of the horse hung a huge
crossbow, and if she’d only had the strength to lift and notch a
bolt, she would have taken the weapon and shot him to gain her
freedom.

For what had felt like endless moments at the
start of her journey atop the horse, Isabeau had shifted
uncomfortably as she'd tried to absorb the jolting and swift canter
of the horse's gait. Hating the feel of him against her, she had
wanted nothing more than to put distance between them, but on a
horse's saddle, it was rather impossible to place any space between
them at all. As it was, she had been perched rather delicately
against the leather seat. The cantle had dug deep into the fleshy
mounds of her buttocks and had caused an ache all of its very
own.

When he had first tossed her into the saddle,
Wolfe had hoisted himself up and sat in front of her, with the
pommel at the apex of his thighs. As they had ripped through the
woods with indecent haste, Isabeau had plotted and schemed as she
attempted to find a way to escape the bastard, who was taking her
to only the Goddess knew where!