Impulse by Candace Camp

more deeply than morals, and, after a moment, he sketched a stiff bow. “Monroe.”
    â€œI presume Lord Dunstan was about to leave,” Cam went on pleasantly, glancing from Angela’s pale face to the man’s. “Sorry that we did not get to talk, my lord. Why don’t I walk you out? That way we can chat a little.”
    â€œPerfectly all right,” Dunstan said smoothly. “I know my way.” A knowing smile touched his lips as he went on. “I have been here before you.”
    Cam’s smile was more a baring of teeth. He understood the double meaning that the other man intended to convey, but he refused to acknowledge it. “However, I am sure it is no longer familiar to you. I insist on escorting you to your horse.”
    He moved to Dunstan’s side, and the only way the other man could avoid Cam’s taking his arm and propelling him along was to turn and voluntarily move forward, though it was clear from the chill on his face that it galled him to do so.
    Jeremy moved over to his sister and slid a comforting arm around her shoulders, asking in a low voice, “Are you all right?”
    â€œYes.” Angela nodded. But the momentary flush ofvictory she had felt was fading. She felt sick and weak in the knees, and her mind was whirling. “Oh, God, Jeremy, what have I done?”
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    Cam was certain that Angela was regretting what she had said. He carefully avoided her for the rest of the day, so that she would not have a chance to withdraw her hastily uttered words. Instead, he spent the time closeted with Mr. Pettigrew and Jeremy, drawing up the terms of the marriage contract and making sure that the announcement of the impending marriage was sent to the Times. At dinner, Jeremy announced the engagement to his mother and grandmother. Angela looked a trifle trapped, but she made no demur. Cam went to bed that night feeling pretty well satisfied with himself.
    He was awakened by screams. He was out of the bed and headed toward the door before he was awake enough to realize what had happened. He paused, shaking his head to clear it, thinking for an instant that it must have been a dream. But then he heard a woman’s voice again, raised in fear, saying, “No, no, please…” in a way that sent chills down his spine. It was Angela’s voice.
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    It was the same as always. She was running down a long, dark corridor, her heart pounding, her breath rasping in her lungs. She was fleeing the thing behind her, the faceless horror that followed her. She didn’t know exactly what it was, only that it was monstrous and terrifying. And it was after her. It would not rest until it had her.
    She ran on in terror, careening around the corner and rushing down the stairs. The stairs went on forever, around and around until she was dizzy. And then suddenly she was outside, and now she knew where she was: the formal gardens at Gresmere, Dunstan’s estate. There was the statue of the satyr, hidden deep within the maze. He was grinning lasciviously down at her, hands on hips, hairy and goatish, but extending from him a huge and human male member.
    She was running now through the lanes of the maze, the close-growing, suffocating green hedges that often twined together at the top, blocking out most of the sunlight. Every corridor she took, every twist and turn she made, brought her back to the middle and the evil grinning satyr. Her lungs burned, and she was crying. Her legs ached, and she was so scared she wanted to vomit. She staggered and lurched along, shivering in the cold. Hands reached out, touching her, plucking at her. Then she realized she was naked. She wanted to stop, to hide, but there was no place in the thick green bushes. She had to run on, because the nameless thing was behind her, reaching for her. It would not stop….
    She fell to her knees and crawled on, sobbing and begging. Suddenly, instead of the bushes, there were people lining the