The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (28 page)

Moonlight
s
t
r
e
a
m
e
d
through
a window
in
the
roof,
illuminating a bed
covered with
velvet
and animal
skins. The
old woman
pushed her
gently down
on it.
Elspeth felt
herself
fall
from
a
great distance, landing
on
a
cloud of
luxuriant softness, her
hair
spilling around
her as she
stared
up
at th
e creature who
was her husband’s mother.

“Rest now, my child,” Morgana murmured, pulling
a
velvet
throw ar
oun
d her,
and
for
one
bizarre moment she reminded
Elspeth
of
Sister Mary
Frances.

Elspeth needed
to
escape.
She
was
tall
for a woman—
perhaps she could climb
out
the
hatch in the
roof and
disappear
into
the
forest
before
Morgana
realized she
was gone.
She
had to lull the old
lady into
thinking
she
was asleep. Indeed, her
eyes
we
r
e
so heavy
if
would
be
a relief
to cl
ose
them,
even
for
the
moment needed
to
trick the
old woman. She let
them
d
r
i
f
t
shut,
only
for a moment, only because she had to.

When
Morgana
checked
on
her three
hours
l
a
t
e
r,
she was
still s
l
ee
p
i
ng.
She’d shifted
in her
sleep,
making
small,
whimpering
sounds
at
the
back
of
her throat, and Morgana contemplated
trying
to tip
so
m
e of the
warm
tea
down her throat.
She truly
didn’t
expect
Alistair
to r
eal
i
z
e
where his runaway
bride
had disappeared to, not for another twenty-four hours
a
t l
e
a
s
t, but
it
would never do to underestimate her
formidable
son.

The
cottage was deep
in Dunstan
Woods.
The wind seldom penetrated beneath the ancient oaks, b
u
t
overhead
the leaves shivered
in the
warm
summer breeze, and the
night-flying
birds called
out
a
warning.
The
moon h
a
d
risen,
a witch’s
moon,
one whose silver light would lead Alistair s
t
r
ai
g
ht home. She
didn’t
dare wait.

The tea didn’t take
lo
n
g
to brew. Indeed, she
had
more call for love philtres than anything else. There
was
no challenge in making
them, no challenge
at
a
l
l
in
seeing
a reluctant maid succumb
or a
reserved swain fall prey
to
the lures
of
the flesh. She’d grown tired of
brewing them. But
this was
a
special instance. Her son’s
destiny lay sleeping in
the
bed,
and M
organa had
no
intention
of waiting
any longer. There
were
too many
things
out
of
her control. This much she could ensure.

Elspeth
la
y sleeping more lightly now as the dark hours of the night passed. Her white-blonde hair spread around her like a bridal veil,
and her face
was still and beautiful in repose. She really was a child, Morgana
thought
dispassionately.
Willful,
too. There weren’t many brides who’d cosh their husbands
on
the head
and take off into
the
d
epth
s
of a haunted forest. Particularly when her husband was the feared high
sheriff of
Huntingdon.

She’d do well for him. She’d bear him strong babies. Her body was
narrow,
but her hips were wide enough
to
bring forth
boys, lots of them.
Girls
as
well. And
Morgana wa
s ready
to be
a
grandmother. Kneeling
on
the soft
bed,
she
took Elspeth’s
narrow
shoulders
in her
strong hands
and pulled her upright.

“Here, sweeting,”
she
crooned,
reaching
for the bowl of tea.
“Drink
and you won’t
be troubled by these silly
doubts.
Just
a
taste,
love,
and things
will
be
ever
so
much
better.”

Elspeth
felt herself
struggle through
the fog
.
She opened her eyes, staring up into the
woman’s face
with
d
a
w
ni
n
g horror.
“Leave
me
alone,” she gasped.

“Just
a
sip,
and you’ll never—”

“Get away from her, you
hag!” The high
sheriff
of
Huntingdon stood
silhouetted in the doorway,
his
voice
thundering through
the
tiny
cottage.

“Fine
talk
for
a
son.”
Morgana
rose with
affront.
“Here
I
am, trying
to
help you, and—
”

“Trying
to
dose
her with your
filthy potions,”
Alistair
said,
shouldering his way
through the
narrow
doorway. He looked dark and dangerous
in the
cramped
quarters
of his mother’s
house, with
his black
hair,
h
i
s
wild eyes, his tall, lean body vibrating with
r
ag
e
. “I don’t
need your
help.”