The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (29 page)

“You haven’t
done too well yourself.
You’ve
had her for
almost
a week now
and she’s still as pure as
the day
she was born.”

“Did
you
touch her?”
His
voice was icy
cold, deadly, and
as
Elspeth lay
still and
silent
she
wondered
that his mother
d
i
d
n
’t
quail before him.

But
the old l
a
d
y was apparently the
only human, or semi-human, not
afraid of Alistair Darcourt. “Of course
not,” she scoffed.
“I
don’t need to
check
her
maidenhead
to
know she’s still unawakened. What have
been
doing the past week, boy? Toying
with
your harlots? I
want grandchildren.”

“You’ll
h
a
v
e them,” he said
as
his
eyes
met Elspeth’s
in the
dimly
lit
room. There was
an unspoken
threat in
them, and Elspeth wondered where her
panic had dis
appeared
to.
Perhaps
she’d
run so
far
and
so
fast that
she
could no longer fight him.
If
h
e
wanted
children
she’d
at least
b
e
expected to
survive another
nine
months in
reasonably
s
o
u
n
d
health.
S
h
e
should
take
that
as
a
good sign.

She
could see
the
cut
on the side
of
his face.
It
hadn’t
been stitched,
and
it
would
leave a
scar.
One more
thing he could blame
on
her, she
thought, wanting to burrow
down
beneath
the heavy fur
throws that cov
ere
d
the soft
bed.

He
moved further into the
tiny
cottage
with
disdainful, elegant grace, entering
the
tiny
bedroom,
dwarfing
it with
his presence. “She’s
the one,
isn’t she?”
he aske
d
almost absently.
“White
and
black…”

“
Aye,”
his mother s
a
i
d.

“She’ll
destroy
me.”

“Perhaps.”

He
moved closer
to the
bed.
He
was
wearing
a
loose black
shirt,
black h
o
s
e
,
and tall black boots.
He looked
impossibly
e
v
i
l,
and
his
black-gloved
h
a
n
d
reached out
and
took
a
strand of her pale hair. “She hardly
looks
lethal,” he
said
in a
deliberately
bored
voice,
which was
belied
by
the g
leam in
his
golden
eyes.

“If
you
can’t bring yourself to
touch her,”
his mother
said,
“I
could brew some
t
e
a
for
y
ou
as well. That
is, if you
don’t want
her…”

“Oh, I want her,”
he
said softly,
dangerously.

“Well,”
said Morgana briskly, taking a step back. “Then that’s
that.
The marriage bed
a
w
a
i
ts
you.
I’ve strewn
it
with
lavender
and tansy,
wolf’s b
ane
and
thyme.
There’ll
be a
son
from
this
night’s work,
yo
u’l
l
see.”

He
d
i
dn’t
e
ven
g
l
a
nc
e
her
way.
Slowly,
he
began
to
strip
off
his
heavy black
gloves, watching Elspeth’s
expressionless
face.
“Make
yourself
s
ca
r
c
e,
”
he
said.
“I’ve
no
desire
for
an
audience.”

“I
expect
you
k
n
o
w
what you’re
about,
“
the old
w
i
tc
h cackled.
“I’ve
got
some herbs
to
g
a
t
h
e
r
,
and
t
h
e
y
’
r
e
best picked by
t
h
e
dark of
the moon.
Ma
y
h
a
p
s
I’ll
head
over
toward
the
north ridge. Won’t be back till midday, or
later.”

He
nodded,
untying the
laces of his
b
l
a
ck
shirt,
not
moving
as
the
door closed
loudly
behind the old
woman.
In
the
still
night
air
they
could hear her voice mixing
with
t
h
e
sounds
of the
other night
creatures,
the cry of the
owl,
the
song of the nightingale.
She
was muttering something
in
a
singsong
voice,
familiar
words
that
made
no
sense,
and
slowly
they faded
a
w
a
y
in the
distance.
And Elspeth was alone
with her husband
in the heart of
the haunted forest.