and what wasn’t.
SEVEN
UPON AWAKING IN UNFAMILIAR SURROUNDINGS
“SO PRETTY, KIT. I ALMOST ENVY YOU.” The voice was no more than a murmur. Something cool and dry caressed the side of Kate’s neck, fluttered across her collarbone, and drifted lower… She shifted, rolling away from the familiarity, groggy with fever and exhaustion.
“But why envy you when I can take whatever I want of yours?” His breathing was light, too, excited.“Including your life.”
The phantom fingers hooked beneath the edge of her bodice, pulling it lower. She flinched against the unwelcome intimacy, struggling to wake. The phantom hand caressed her breast languidly. Something moved close to her face.
“Tell Kit to enjoy the roses.” A mouth touched hers—She gasped, bolting upright.
In the corner of the black room something shifted, a darker blot dissolving into the corner. A sound like a soft laugh—or was it the wind in the smoke hole?— trembled across the air.
She struggled to her feet, light-headed and disoriented. She shivered, looking about. There were still a few embers in the hearth. They hadn’t been there when she’d woken. Unless someone had been standing between her and the fire.
Fear jerked her into full wakefulness. She turned, stumbling over MacNeill’s regimental jacket.Where was MacNeill?
She spied a short flight of stairs and staggered up them on wobbly legs. “MacNeill!” she croaked. Her throat rasped painfully, and the effort made her dizzy. “MacNeill!”
No answer. She started down a long, dim corridor, a shaft of moonlight piercing its length. She limped forward, passing room after empty room. All dark. All silent. Like tombs awaiting their tenants.
Finally, she emerged into a huge entry filled with dim gray light. She looked up. Three stories overhead a huge gaping wound in the roof revealed a dark, bruised sky. Clouds drifted across the face of a half-gone moon, and a cold, bitter wind spiraled down from above, stirring the leaves at her feet and tossing her hair about her face.
“MacNeill!” The wind caught her feeble cry and carried it away.
No one answered.
Her worst fear taunted her with pricks of panic: He’d left her. Abandoned her.
Not again. Please. She blinked back tears, refusing to cry even though her thoughts kept unraveling like mist in the wind and her legs felt like jelly, and the cold was sucking the last bit of heat from her and… and she saw a faint flicker of light.
He hadn’t left her.
With a sob, she hobbled toward the lighted room, dizzy and disoriented, her heart pattering like a snared rabbit’s. MacNeill stood inside, his back to her, the burning brand he held lashing the room’s dark walls.
“MacNeill—” Her greeting died in her throat as she took in the scene. A massive oak table lay on its side, its surface scarred with deep cuts, as if an ax had been taken to it. What might have once been benches or chairs lay in splinters. Glass shards covered the floor like a jeweled carpet, and dinted pewter trays and cups lay twisted at the base of scarred and notched plaster walls.
“What happened in here?” she asked.
“It looks,” MacNeill said calmly, “as though someone was unhappy.” He raised the brand he carried and illuminated the walls higher up.
Kate recoiled. Three feet above them a dagger pinned the carcass of a rat to the wall. Twined around the desiccated creature’s neck was a quartet of flowers, dried and shriveled, but still identifiable as roses. Small yellow roses. She put a hand behind her, groping for the wall.
MacNeill lowered his torch and the gruesome little corpse disappeared. His gaze swept over the room, noting, discarding, missing nothing, searching.
“Who did that?” she whispered “Was it him?”
He turned his head, regarding her intently. “Who?”
“There was a man in the kitchen when I woke. He said… your name and then he said he could take anything of yours he wanted, including your life.
SEVEN
UPON AWAKING IN UNFAMILIAR SURROUNDINGS
“SO PRETTY, KIT. I ALMOST ENVY YOU.” The voice was no more than a murmur. Something cool and dry caressed the side of Kate’s neck, fluttered across her collarbone, and drifted lower… She shifted, rolling away from the familiarity, groggy with fever and exhaustion.
“But why envy you when I can take whatever I want of yours?” His breathing was light, too, excited.“Including your life.”
The phantom fingers hooked beneath the edge of her bodice, pulling it lower. She flinched against the unwelcome intimacy, struggling to wake. The phantom hand caressed her breast languidly. Something moved close to her face.
“Tell Kit to enjoy the roses.” A mouth touched hers—She gasped, bolting upright.
In the corner of the black room something shifted, a darker blot dissolving into the corner. A sound like a soft laugh—or was it the wind in the smoke hole?— trembled across the air.
She struggled to her feet, light-headed and disoriented. She shivered, looking about. There were still a few embers in the hearth. They hadn’t been there when she’d woken. Unless someone had been standing between her and the fire.
Fear jerked her into full wakefulness. She turned, stumbling over MacNeill’s regimental jacket.Where was MacNeill?
She spied a short flight of stairs and staggered up them on wobbly legs. “MacNeill!” she croaked. Her throat rasped painfully, and the effort made her dizzy. “MacNeill!”
No answer. She started down a long, dim corridor, a shaft of moonlight piercing its length. She limped forward, passing room after empty room. All dark. All silent. Like tombs awaiting their tenants.
Finally, she emerged into a huge entry filled with dim gray light. She looked up. Three stories overhead a huge gaping wound in the roof revealed a dark, bruised sky. Clouds drifted across the face of a half-gone moon, and a cold, bitter wind spiraled down from above, stirring the leaves at her feet and tossing her hair about her face.
“MacNeill!” The wind caught her feeble cry and carried it away.
No one answered.
Her worst fear taunted her with pricks of panic: He’d left her. Abandoned her.
Not again. Please. She blinked back tears, refusing to cry even though her thoughts kept unraveling like mist in the wind and her legs felt like jelly, and the cold was sucking the last bit of heat from her and… and she saw a faint flicker of light.
He hadn’t left her.
With a sob, she hobbled toward the lighted room, dizzy and disoriented, her heart pattering like a snared rabbit’s. MacNeill stood inside, his back to her, the burning brand he held lashing the room’s dark walls.
“MacNeill—” Her greeting died in her throat as she took in the scene. A massive oak table lay on its side, its surface scarred with deep cuts, as if an ax had been taken to it. What might have once been benches or chairs lay in splinters. Glass shards covered the floor like a jeweled carpet, and dinted pewter trays and cups lay twisted at the base of scarred and notched plaster walls.
“What happened in here?” she asked.
“It looks,” MacNeill said calmly, “as though someone was unhappy.” He raised the brand he carried and illuminated the walls higher up.
Kate recoiled. Three feet above them a dagger pinned the carcass of a rat to the wall. Twined around the desiccated creature’s neck was a quartet of flowers, dried and shriveled, but still identifiable as roses. Small yellow roses. She put a hand behind her, groping for the wall.
MacNeill lowered his torch and the gruesome little corpse disappeared. His gaze swept over the room, noting, discarding, missing nothing, searching.
“Who did that?” she whispered “Was it him?”
He turned his head, regarding her intently. “Who?”
“There was a man in the kitchen when I woke. He said… your name and then he said he could take anything of yours he wanted, including your life.
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