Authors: Heather Cullman
A slow smile twisted his lips as he imagined her reaction when she tasted her crop. “I shall meet the misses,” he announced.
“Thank you, dear.” His mother closed her eyes as if lapsing into a coma. “Because of you, I shall find peace.” If all went as planned, so would he.
Chapter 9
Churr! Churr!
—
flap!
—
whoo-s-sh!
Sophie jumped, a scream startling from her lips as a dark shape glided from the trees lining the moonlit lane. Down it swooped, its long black wings flapping wildly as it twisted, then turned and shot straight for her head.
A bat! With a shriek she dropped into a crouch, almost toppling over into a faint as she remembered the tale Lydia’s brothers told her about the creatures; one involving a bat becoming entangled in a woman’s hair and sucking all the blood from her brain. To die such a gory, gruesome death —
Shuddering, she grasped her mobcap and slumped yet lower, certain that the murderous fiend hovered overhead, poised to attack her scalp. Bracing herself for the worst, she waited …
Dreading and…
Nothing happened. Blessed stillness reigned above.
She hazarded a glance at the sky. As she did so, another eerie cry rent the air, this one sounding from a distance. An instant later the fiend fluttered across the full moon, its form silhouetted against the pale lunar orb.
It had a birdlike tail. Yes, distinctly birdlike. And that pointy thing was most definitely a beak. As for the contours of its wings, well, didn’t they look more hawk than batlike?
Sophie frowned as she sought to recall the drawings she’d seen of bats. When she did, she sighed. Yes. Whatever it was, it most certainly was not a bat. Not with a wingspan like that. Thus assured of her brain’s safety, she picked up the valise she’d dropped in her panic and resumed her trudge down the country lane.
Exactly how long or how far she’d traveled, she couldn’t say. All she knew for certain was that she had to reach the road to Exeter by dawn. Dawn was when the farmers traveled to town for market, at least that was what she’d heard Cook tell a kitchen maid, and she hoped to wheedle one of them into giving her a ride.
And when she reached Exeter, then want?
She sighed. She didn’t know. In truth, she hadn’t considered what she’d do or where she’d go from there. All that concerned her now was getting as far away as possible from Hawksbury …
And Lyndhurst. Sophie kicked at a tuft of moon-silvered gorse, imagining it to be his lordship’s head. Despicable beast! No doubt he’d alerted his parents as to her identity and now searched the house for her with vengeful intent. She couldn’t help smiling at the thought of him lumbering through room after room, bellowing like a speared boar each time he failed to find her.
And when he finally ascertained that she’d fled?
She sniffed and shifted her heavy bag from her numb right hand to her left one. Arrogant tyrant that he was, he’d probably drag the other servants from their beds and bully them for information as to her whereabouts. Not that it would do him a whit of good. No one had seen her leave, not even Pansy.
For the tenth time that hour, Sophie thanked God that her bedmate had been off with her suitor when she’d packed her bag and stolen away. Not only had the girl’s absence freed her from explanation, it had saved her heaven only knew how much time.
And time was of an essence. So much so, that she’d let her sense of self-preservation overrule her vanity, and had fled the house garbed in her soiled work clothes. Had she paused to make herself presentable, she’d most probably be locked in the cellar now, waiting for Lyndhurst to drag her to London and justice.
Sophie grimaced as she glanced down at her stained and rumpled skirt. Ah, well. So what if she looked like a slattern? At least she was free. If all went as she hoped, she would stay that way. She had only to find a ride to Exeter before his tyrannical lordship finished browbeating the servants. Then —
Thudity-thud! Thudity-thud!
She froze, instantly recognizing the low rolling rumble.
Hoofbeat … distant hoofbeat on packed soil …
Thudity-thud! Thudity-thud!
It trembled through the soles of her thin walking shoes, the vibrations growing stronger…
And stronger… and —
Lyndhurst! She gasped and dropped her valise. What if it was Lyndhurst, hunting her like a blood-frenzied hound? Oh! Oh! She had to hide! Hide, yes. But where?
Wildly she looked around her, her gaze bouncing over the low stone walls and through the starlit mists enveloping the rural realm beyond. To her left lay a wheat field, the tall, moon-blanched grain swaying gently from … what? Not so much as a whisper of wind stirred the air. Not even daring to imagine what lurked between those stalks, she shifted her gaze to her right.
Blast! Just her wretched luck. It was a pasture; a particularly flat and open one, enclosed on one side by a hedgerow. She moaned her despair. Doomed. She was doomed to spend the rest of her life rotting away in prison, forsaken and forgotten. Unless —
Her eyes narrowed as she studied the breaks in the hedgerow. Perhaps if she crawled into the thicket and stayed perfectly still, Lyndhurst would ride on by. Then she would be safe …
Well, at least safe from Lyndhurst. Sophie shuddered at the thought of what might live in that thicket: hedgerow bogles, deadly little monstrosities with a poisonous bite and a hunger for human flesh. Lydia’s brother had told her all about them.
She swallowed hard, though her mouth was as dry as week-old cake, and glanced over the wall. The shadows back there looked deep. Perhaps if she crouched —
A circle of light appeared in the distance, one that grew larger and brighter with every passing second.
Double blast! The despicable man carried a lantern. So much for hiding in the shadows. As tall as Lyndhurst sat in the saddle, the light would spill over the wall and onto her. He’d see her at first glance.
That left her with only one place to hide: the hedgerow. And a choice between two evils: bogles or Lyndhurst. It took but a second for her to decide.
Over the wall she tumbled, landing in the tall, damp grass on her hands and knees. Pressing as close to the ground as she could, she more slithered than crawled toward the hedgerow. She was almost there when … yes, it was Lyndhurst … thundered down the road. Praying he’d pass without a glance, she dropped to her belly and lay still.
Ride on. Please ride on without looking this way,
she willed, helplessly watching the lamplight pour over the wall and flow nearer.
Please … please … please.
She screwed her eyes shut, absurdly hoping that by blanking him from her sight she would somehow render herself invisible.
“Oh-ho!”
Jingle
! — A soft nicker, and the hoofbeats ceased.
Dear heavens! Had he seen her? Convulsively, she dug her fingers into the earth, her heart landing in the pit of her stomach with a sickening jolt. Of course he had. Why else would he stop? Any minute now he would jerk her up and carry her off to prison.
And there wasn’t a bloody thing she could do to stop him.
For what felt like a millennium she remained frozen, waiting for her world to come to an end. Waiting …
And waiting…
And waiting. When she could stand the suspense no longer, she opened one eye and lifted her head to see what was happening.
To her bewilderment, he simply sat atop his mammoth stallion, peering at something in the road. As she watched, he leaned over and lowered the lantern to examine that something closer.
Whatever could be find so interesting? she wondered, unnerved by his intense scrutiny. Footprints, perhaps?
In a swirl of shoulder capes, he was off his horse. So agile, so very fluid was his dismount that it was nothing short of poetic.
Sophie’s other eye popped open in her surprise. Had he always moved with such eloquence? Her brow creased as she tried to recall. Come to think of it, she’d never bothered to note the manner in which he moved. Indeed, why would she? His very size marked him as clumsy, and thus not worth observing.
But I was wrong, she grudgingly admitted, watching as he soothed his restless steed. He moves quite well for a giant.
In truth, he moved better than well. His sleek, supple athleticism was as beautiful as it was unexpected. Not, of course, that you’d ever hear her say so. She’d die before she uttered a single word of praise about —
Abruptly he dropped down and disappeared behind the stone wall. Her frown deepened, as did her bewilderment. Whatever was he doing now? Sniffing her scent like a bloodhound?
Rather than ponder the question, Sophie took advantage of his distraction and scurried toward the hedge. She had just reached her destination and was about to crawl into the hole, when she heard a heavy scraping sound behind her. Gasping her alarm, she jerked her head around.
Lyndhurst stood in the center of the road, stuffing a wad of cloth into a lumpy piece of luggage.
Sophie sagged with relief. He’d just been picking up her valise. He —
Her valise! Good heavens. She’d forgotten all about it. Her alarm returned in a heart-faltering rush as she gaped at the bag in his hands. By the way it hung open, with bits of lace and ribbon tumbling out, it was clear that he’d rifled through the contents. No doubt he’d recognized the initials engraved on her silver hairbrush and now knew that she was near.
As if to confirm her frightening deduction, Lyndhurst called her name. He sounded furious. Praying for a chance, any at all to slip into the hedge unnoticed, Sophie rolled into a tight ball, making herself as small as possible.
Again he called her name, then again. Lifting the lantern to widen the circle of light, he stalked toward the wall … the one she was behind, naturally. Without breaking his stride, he dropped her valise at the edge of the road, then lifted one long leg and easily vaulted the low barrier.
Nearer and nearer he moved, the warm flood of light broadening with every step he took. When he was but a few yards from where she huddled, he stopped and demanded, “I shall give you to the count of three to cease this foolish game and reveal yourself, Miss Barrington. If you fail to comply, I shall be forced to — “
Rustle! Rustle!
The sound came from behind him. He whirled around, sweeping the lantern in a broad arch.
Aha! Her prayed-for chance. Feetfirst. Yes. She’d go into the hedge feetfirst so she could kick the bogles should they attack. Careful, so as not to stir the branches, she eased her legs in.
Nothing attacked. She sighed her relief. It appeared that she’d chosen a bogle-free bush. That fear thus allayed, she slipped in farther. Now she had only to brace her hands just so to propel herself the rest of the way in. Casting an anxious look to where Lyndhurst stood scowling at a hare, the perpetrator of the rustling, she slipped her left hand beneath the small of her back. Lifting her right one, she moved it over …
And over …
And down …
Onto something distinctly alive. Before she could think, much less react, what felt like a hundred tiny teeth sank into her hand.
A bogle! She screamed with all her might, her cries echoed by squeal after unearthly squeal as the beast bit her again and again.
Crash!
Lyndhurst dropped the lantern.
“Sophie?” He was on her in a flash, dragging her from the hedge and hauling her to her feet. When she instantly collapsed again, too overwrought to stand, he grasped her arms in a bruising grip and gave her a firm shake. “Good God, woman! Will you cease that infernal yowling and tell me what happened?”
“A bogle!” she wailed. “I was bitten by a bogle!” There was a pause, as if he were stunned by her dreadful revelation, then he sputtered, “A … bogle?” “Yes. Yes!” She nodded wildly, her frantic gaze searching the shadows at their feet for the deadly creature. “One of the poisonous, flesh-eating kind that lives in hedgerows. And it bit me. O-o-h! I’m doomed — doomed for certain.” That last line was uttered on an escalating moan.
As she stood paralyzed by terror, certain that she was only seconds away from death, Lyndhurst expelled a volcanic gasp, followed by a smothered wheeze. Dropping his hands from her arms to clutch at his chest, he burst out —
Laughing?
Her jaw dropped in shock. Why — why —
“A p-poisonous, flesh-eating, hedgerow b-bogle,” he howled with hilarity, clenching his ribs as if they ached.
Her shock exploded into outrage. “I don’t see anything the least bit amusing about this!” she hissed, glaring up at him.
“A bogle bit you, you say?” He erupted into another explosive series of guffaws. Though the shadows from the hedgerow shrouded his features, his teeth flashed white in the moonlight.
“Yes,” she snapped, ignoring the fact that those teeth were perfect. “Are you as deaf as you are boorish? Or just witless?”
“Neither,” he gasped between chuckles. “Just amused that a chit your age still believes in fairy tales. Hasn’t anyone told you that there are no such things as bogles … or pixies … or trolls?”