Death in the West Wind by Deryn Lake Page A

marched into the bedroom. At last their owner came into sight as she sat on the bed to remove her boots. John got the vivid impression of a tall, muscular frame; of a cloud of black hair tumbling to her shoulders as her riding hat went flying; of a terrible scar, long healed, that ran from the corner of the woman’s right eye to well below her well defined cheek bone. Then, probably because he was now married and decorum had been thrust upon him, like it or no, the Apothecary turned away his gaze as the supple creature he was regarding slowly began to strip herself naked.

7

    I t was all Emilia’s fault, or so the Apothecary kept telling himself. Feeling him turn away and remove his eye from the crack, she tugged at his elbow and silently mouthed the words,
    “What is she doing now?”
    In the tight fit of the clothes cupboard, John shrugged and mimed, “I don’t know.” Without saying a word, his bride motioned him back to his observation post and so, not totally reluctantly, the Apothecary was once more forced into the role of voyeur.
    It was an extraordinary body he was looking at. Well above average height for a woman and so muscular that its owner must have spent many years walking, riding and swimming, it was almost masculine in some ways. Lean hips and a flat stomach, totally devoid of spare flesh, long legs and strong arms, would have made the woman he watched totally mannish if it had not been for her bosom. For this, though small, was very beautiful, high and round and, like the rest of her, firm and unsagging. Yet she was not young, probably in her early forties. The Apothecary watched in amazement as this Amazon of a creature put on men’s breeches, a man’s frilly shirt, a cloak and tricorne, into which she pushed up her netted hair, and a pair of dark riding boots, not the ones she had worn when she had come in. Then, once dressed, she walked back into the salon and was lost to view.
    There was a pause while the woman poured herself another glass of wine, John distinctly heard her do so. Then after a few minutes that confident tread left the room and was eventually lost to earshot.
    “Has she gone?” murmured Emilia.
    “I think so.”
    “Can we come out?”
    “Give it a while just in case she returns for some reason.”
    They waited in silence but there was no further sound and the Apothecary, cautiously opening the cupboard door, popped out his head. All was quiet and he stepped out, then lifted out Emilia who was caught up in a flowing gown and having some difficulty in moving.
    “Who in heaven’s name was she?” asked his bride, flushed in the cheeks and definitely looking somewhat the worse for her experience.
    “I have no idea.”
    “And what can she be doing living in a place like this?” John shook his head. “I get the feeling that this is a bolt-hole, somewhere she comes when she needs to escape.”
    “Escape what? The law?”
    “Sweetheart, all the time we stand here in discussion we are in risk of discovery. Let us get out as quickly as we can and ask Tom what he saw. He’s been waiting round the coach all this time. Perhaps he saw her ride past. At least he might be able to tell us in which direction she was heading.”
    “Was she beautiful?” asked Emilia as they hurried down the overpowering staircase.
    “In a strange sort of way.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “Well, her bone structure was fine and her hair and eyes both lustrous and dark, but the poor soul was scarred.”
    “On the face?”
    “Yes. A gash ran from eye to cheek, a deep cut that looked as it had been done with a sword.”
    “This,” said Emilia, suddenly shivering, “is an evil house and brings no luck with it. I worry for her, whoever she might be, that she chooses to dwell here, even if it is only as a place of refuge.”
    Unsuperstitious as John was, he was relieved to step through the window embrasure and feel the fresh Devon air blowing in his face. His bride was already hurrying towards