Lamp Black, Wolf Grey (3 page)

Then, quite distinctly, she felt someone stroke her cheek. It was mad, impossible, ridiculous, but she was absolutely certain that was what it was. She raised her hand to her face and found a coolness, but nothing more. She had a second to wonder why she was not terrified before another sensation startled her. A scintilla of excitement, raw, real, sexual excitement, shot through her body. Laura gasped at both the strength and the unexpectedness of the feeling. She turned, searching the room, wanting to leave, and yet, at the same time, not wanting to. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the feeling went, and she knew she was alone again. She stood motionless, waiting for her ragged breathing to return to normal.

The sound of a blaring horn pulled her from her stupor. Looking out of the window, she saw Dan driving back up the hill toward the house, flashing his lights, the moving van growling up behind him. She realized she had lost all sense of how much time had passed since he went. She shook her head and hurried back down the stairs, putting the incident down to fatigue and the excitement of the move.

Four exhausting hours later, Laura sat on a heap of rugs, cushions, and throws in front of the inglenook and gazed into the dancing flames. They had pushed through the exhausting process of unloading of the van and crucial unpacking for as long as the light lasted. Then they had watched the men driving the empty lorry away, squeezing down the narrow lane. The thought of assembling beds was too much, and they opted instead for a night sleeping in front of the fire. Dan arrived at her side clutching wine and glasses. He sat down next to her.

“
Voilà!”
he said triumphantly, pulling a corkscrew from his pocket. He set about opening the bottle.

Laura snuggled into him. “How’s this for a romantic first night?” she asked. “Crackling log fire…”

“Logs being an old chair you found in the barn.”

“… wine, finger food…”

“Two Mars bars and a packet of cheese and onion crisps”

“… and animal skins to recline on. Well, OK, a picnic rug and a random selection of cushions. But, hey, how much perfection can a man stand?”

The idea of bedding down in front of a real fire had seemed lovely, but now Laura feared an uncomfortable night lay ahead. She took the glass Dan was offering her and downed a thirsty swig. Dan slipped his arm around her waist and they sat quietly together. Laura considered telling him about her strange experience in the bedroom earlier but decided against it. She knew it would sound silly and didn’t feel like having him laugh at her. As the wine began to do its work she felt herself relaxing once more.

Dan put down his glass and began to rub Laura’s shoulders. She closed her eyes, enjoying the soothing, sensual feel of his hands. He undid her hair and let it fall loose and heavy. He stroked the back of her neck softly, then pushed her T-shirt straps to one side, letting them fall. He kissed her tanned shoulders, moving slowly around until he was sitting in front of her. He took the wineglass from her hand and put it to one side, then leaned forward and kissed her throat, wandering slowly down toward her breasts as she let herself fall back against the cushions.

Laura lay passive, allowing herself to take pleasure from Dan’s attentions. It seemed the right thing to do, to make love now, here, like an affirmation of their new life. A wordless statement of intent. Unbidden, her thoughts strayed to what she had experienced upstairs that afternoon. There was a world of difference between the comforting, familiar nature of her arousal now, and the powerful intensity of the mysterious sensations that had so surprised her earlier. The memory of it excited her, and she responded more eagerly to Dan, aware of a peculiar sense that she was in some way being unfaithful to him. Then pleasure took over, and all such thoughts vanished.

*   *   *

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
Laura awoke soon after dawn, as light fell through the uncurtained windows. She slipped from beneath the throws, leaving Dan sleeping peacefully. She pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, stepped into her sandals, and went outside, shutting the door as quietly as she could.

The air was pure and still, and early sunshine sparkled on the heavy dew. In the valley sat cotton candy mist, and the distant hills stood softly, their edges blurred and colors muted by the moist air. Swallows and house martins swooped and dipped, hungry for their breakfasts, catching the first rise of insects of the day. The honeysuckle and roses had not yet warmed to release their scent, so the strongest smell was of wet grass and bracken. Laura smiled, breathing deeply, and walked lightly through the gate into the meadows. She hadn’t the courage to head off onto the mountain on her own just yet but could not wait to explore the woods at the end of the fields. By the time she reached the first towering oaks, her feet were washed clean by the dew. She felt wonderfully refreshed and awake. As she wandered among the trees she had the sense of a place where time had stood still. Where man had left only a light footprint. Here were trees older than memory. Trees that had sheltered farmers and walkers for generations. Trees that had been meeting points for lovers and horse dealers. Trees that had provided fuel and food for families and for creatures of the forest with equal grace. As she walked deeper into the woods she noticed the quality of sound around her change. Gone were the open vistas and echoes of the meadows and their mountain backdrop. Here even the tiniest noises were close up, bouncing back off the trunks and branches, kept in by the dense foliage. The colors altered subtly, too. With the trees in full leaf the sunlight was filtered through bright green, giving a curious tinge to the woodland below. White wood anemones were not white at all, but the palest shade of Naples yellow. The silver lichens which grew in abundance bore a hint of olive. Even the miniature violets reflected a suggestion of viridian.

Laura followed a narrow, meandering sheep track. Passing through a sunny glade she was surprised to find the ground muddied and churned. Looking closer she could clearly make out the tracks of a small-wheeled vehicle.

Who would be driving around in here?

Her silent question was soon answered, as the peace was broken by the roar of an approaching engine. She was suddenly conscious of the fact that this was not her land. She had no idea where the public footpaths might be, if indeed there were any. She thought of disappearing into the undergrowth, but within seconds a quad bike sped into view. Its driver slewed the ugly machine to a halt in front of her. A sheepdog with a matted coat kept its precarious grip on the back of the bike.

Laura felt wrong-footed at being discovered somewhere she had no business being. She had intended to talk to the local farmers and ask permission to walk on the land near Penlan. She did not want to upset her neighbors on day one. She put on a sunny smile.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, raising her voice above the noise of the engine.

The man on the quad stared hard at her. He was small and wiry and, Laura reckoned, would not see seventy again. His scrawny face jutted out beneath a grubby flat cap. Despite the time of year he wore a heavy tweed jacket, tied around the middle with baler twine. His hands were as gnarled and wrinkled as the roots of the trees around them.

Laura tried again.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I couldn’t resist exploring. Sorry if I’m on your land.” Still he did not answer, so she added, “We’ve just moved in up at Penlan.”

The man’s face twitched slightly. He leaned forward and switched off his engine. The peace of the woodland was even more noticeable now. Laura stepped forward, hand outstretched.

“I’m Laura Matthews.”

The man stared at her hand, then cleared his throat with a stomach-churning gurgle and spat at the ground, thankfully on the other side of his quad bike from where she stood. She dropped her hand awkwardly. He frowned at her, and when at last he spoke his voice was as thin and spindly as the man himself.

“There aren’t any footpaths through these woods,” he informed her.

“Oh. I see. I haven’t studied the map yet.” She was beginning to feel cross now. There was no need for him to be so rude. She had hoped for friendly locals. This was far from what she had imagined.

The man looked around, then turned back to her.

“’Ave you got a dog? I see a dog near my sheep, I shoot it. I’m tellin’ you now.”

“No. I don’t have a dog.”

The old man stared at her again, then turned on his engine once more. He nodded toward the fields.

“There’s a path across the top of the meadows. You can walk there. Without a dog,” he said, then tore off into the woods, sending up dust and twigs and stones in his wake.

Laura watched him go, not moving until he was out of sight and the noise of the quad was fading into the distance. The mood of her walk was ruined. Still seething at his unnecessary rudeness, she turned and strode off in the direction of home. As she did so her swinging hand grazed against the bark of an enormous, slanting oak.

“Ow!” she cried, instinctively sucking at her knuckles. When she checked the wound, it was bleeding quite heavily, as knuckles can. “Damn,” she said, fighting back stinging tears. She glanced up at the tree, barely noticing the curious angle at which it stood. Cursing herself for her carelessness, and her new neighbor for his rudeness, she headed for home.

*   *   *

M
EGAN LEANED BACK
against her favorite oak, gazing up at the sky through its sloping boughs. She closed her eyes and listened to the birdsong and the laughter of the two boys as they played nearby. It was wonderful to be out of the dark castle, to have some time away from Lady Rhiannon, and to be well out of the way of Lord Geraint. She opened her eyes and scanned the trees for the children. She always enjoyed spending time with them without their parents. Watching them now she could almost forget what family they belonged to.

“Don’t go too near to the edge,” she warned as they dropped sticks into the stream. It would be a rare outing where at least one of them did not get wet or muddy or both. Out here, in the woods where she herself had played as a child, they weren’t the sons of the most powerful noble in the region, they were just two little boys having fun the way all little boys should. Megan stepped away from the oak, brushing down her long skirts, seeing that the hem had collected moss as green and as soft as the worn wool of her dress. She noticed wild garlic growing a few paces away. She stooped to study it closer. A good garlic plant was a valuable part of her herb store; the stronger the specimen, the better its calming and cleaning effects on the blood. No doubt her father would have need of it for one of his animals soon enough. As she bent forward her waist-length plait of copper red hair fell over her shoulder. She flicked it back absentmindedly. People often commented on her glorious hair, but to her it was only important as a reminder of the mother she had lost when only a small girl. The wistful way her father looked at it sometimes tore at her heart. Not for the first time she wished that one day she could know a love like that.

Megan walked across the dry woodland floor to where Dafydd stood holding the horses. He, too, seemed to enjoy these outings, and he looked relaxed and happy leaning against his bay mare, watching the children. He straightened up as Megan approached. She would never get used to people reacting like that to her. Her position in the household was, technically, superior to his, but she could not think of herself that way. Besides, to her mind, his job was wonderful. If she had been born a boy she would have spent her life with horses, as her father had done. She smiled at Dafydd, taking the reins of her palfrey from him. The old courser was plain and brown and unremarkable, but had a good nature and a willing heart. She patted its neck.

“Now, Hazel, how about a quick trip across the meadows to pay Father a visit?” She raised her eyebrows at Dafydd as she spoke to the animal, not asking his permission, but seeking his agreement.

“Right you are, Mistress Megan,” he said with a nod as he set about tightening girths.

“Huw! Brychan! Come, now, boys. It is time to leave,” she called to her charges, who ran to her, giggling, and climbed aboard their patiently waiting ponies.

In moments they were out of the shade of the woods and under the strong summer sun. Megan let Hazel plod slowly across the fields, both of them savoring the warmth and peace of the moment. Now she could see Penlan, the low white farmhouse that had been her childhood home. The sound of ax on wood echoed around them, and she could soon make out her father in the yard, chopping and stacking fuel for the coming winter. As if sensing her approach, he stopped his work and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, as he looked toward the meadows. Megan waved, and the boys kicked their ponies into bumpy trots.

“Well, well, well, who are these two fine knights I see charging toward me? Why, it is young Master Brychan and Master Huw!” Twm laughed as the boys came to untidy halts beside him. “I feared for a moment I might be under attack.”

The children jumped down and hugged the old man, having grown close to him during their visits with Megan.

“Can we go and search for eggs, please, sir, can we?” asked Brychan, his younger brother clamoring behind him.

“You’d best ask Megan about that,” Twm told them.

Megan nodded.

“Go on then, run along,” said Twm. “But don’t go finding fleas’ nests and mice, mind, or you’ll have us all in trouble.”

As she watched him with the boys Megan thought how much he must have longed for a son of his own. It still warmed her heart that he had shown no disappointment at his only child being a girl, and that he had treated her with no less love and respect than he might have shown her brother, had she had one. Megan slipped lightly from the saddle and embraced her father. She was never more homesick than when he held her close and tight, as he had done for so many years, being all the family she had.

“Let’s look at you,” her father demanded, holding her at arm’s length again. “As I thought, paler and thinner than last time. Is Lord Geraint short of food this summer? I’ve a barn full of corn.”