‘Hello.’ He put down his hammer. It was impossible to tell if he was blushing; his face was hot and sweating already. But Rosa felt her own face flush with blood again at the sight of his hands and his lips, and the memories of last night came crowding in. She wanted to touch him, reassure herself that he was really there, that it had really happened.
‘Hello,’ she whispered. They stood, smiling foolishly at each other, saying nothing, not knowing what to do, and the smith rolled his eyes.
‘Young love! Get away wi’ ye both. You’re due a break, lad. Tek the kettle upstairs wi ye. There’s tea in the caddy and ye can bring me a brew when you’re done.’
Luke carried the heavy kettle carefully up the ice-dusted steps to the attic and set it on the little bare table, and they both stood, awkward and strange, in the quiet of the little room.
‘You were asleep when I woke,’ Luke said at last. ‘I thought I’d just go down and start, not disturb you.’
‘That’s all right.’ She found herself smiling again and, to busy her hands, she got out the cups and the tea. There was even a little battered strainer inside the caddy.
‘Last night—’ Luke said at the same time as she said:
‘There’s no—’
They both laughed, shakily, and Luke came around the table and took her in his arms and kissed her cheek, and her lips, and the soft skin at the curve of her jaw. She did not speak, but she made a sound like a whimper or a sigh, and she felt his arms tighten around her, as if he were afraid to let her go.
‘Last night . . .’ he said again, his voice soft against her ear, and she hugged him harder and pressed her lips against the warm skin of his throat, above his collar, and said:
‘I know.’
‘I never knew . . . I never thought . . .’ His voice shook.
His closeness made her shiver with a strange faintness; she could feel his long hard body pressing against her through her dress, and she remembered the feel of him against her skin last night, and the feel of his hands on, around, inside . . .
She shut her eyes.
Then she pulled away, smoothing down her skirt.
‘Come on. Tea. Mr McCready won’t wait for ever.’
‘Damn, McCready.’ He caught at her waist as she poured, running his hands up her bodice to the thin sliver of skin that showed above the high neckline, and she felt a shiver of wanting run through her and laughed, a strange tremulous laugh that didn’t sound like her own.
‘There’s no sugar.’ Her voice was a gasp and her hand shook when she picked up the cup. ‘That’s what I was going to say, before.’
He let go of her waist and took the cup, but his hazel eyes remained on hers as they drank. She watched the dimple come and go above the cup as he smiled, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed.
At last it was drained and he set down the cup on the table and came across to put his lips to her throat one more time.
‘Go!’ she said, laughing, pushing him away even while her lips sought his. ‘No, wait, here’s Mr McCready’s tea. And the kettle. Go on, back downstairs. We need this job.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know. I might walk into Langholm, buy something for supper.’
‘We’ve only pennies left.’ He fished in his pocket and put the last of their money on the table. ‘Want me to ask McCready if he’ll let me have my wages early?’
‘No . . .’ She counted the pennies and farthings. ‘No, it’ll be enough if I’m careful.’
‘Good. Do that. Be careful.’
She followed him down the icy steps and into the yard, her shawl huddled around her, and at the door of the forge she kissed him, once, quick and chaste, the kiss of a sister or a good wife setting off to market.
He smiled and she walked off into the speckling snow.
All through supper they looked, but did not touch. It was as if they were afraid, now that the smith had gone home and the place was their own again, afraid of what was to come.
Or not quite afraid, Luke thought. That wasn’t the right word. It was more like Christmas morning when he was a child and had felt the weight of the stocking at the end of his bed; instead of leaping up, he had lain there with his eyes tight shut, almost frightened to open his eyes for fear of it being too lovely to bear.
He watched Rosa as she ate, picking at her kippers and the potatoes they’d roasted at the edge of the forge-hearth. She had coiled her hair low on her neck and in the candlelight it looked almost back to its old flame-like glory. In the dim light, her skin seemed to glow, as if the candle was inside her, not stuck in a saucer between them, and when she looked up, her eyes were dark and shining as they met his.
She licked her fingers, one by one, and he watched, hungrily, watching the soft pink wetness of her lips and tongue as she sucked the last savouriness from her fingers. He swallowed and, looking down at his plate, he realized suddenly that he’d barely even touched his own food and was hungry.
‘I didn’t buy beer,’ she said, her voice low. ‘There wasn’t much money; I thought food was more important.’
‘That’s all right.’ He put a piece of potato in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or sorry that there was no beer to drink. He could have done with the borrowed courage – but he didn’t need anything to make his head reel more.
The potato crunched in his mouth, half cooked, and he suddenly felt that perhaps he was not hungry after all. His stomach clenched with fluttering nerves.
He pushed the plate away.
‘Rosa . . .’
She put out a hand towards him, her magic a shimmering fire in the candlelight.
And then there was a sudden pounding at the door. They both looked at each other, frowning, surprise giving way to puzzled apprehension.
‘Sebastian?’ Rosa mouthed. Luke frowned.
‘Would he knock?’
She shut her eyes and her magic flared up, hurting his eyes, and he realized she was looking outwards, through the door, using her magic to see who was there. When she opened her eyes she shook her head.
‘Strangers. I’ve never seen them before. Two. There’s a carriage downstairs with two more.’
‘All right.’ He stood and took a breath. ‘With luck it’s just someone wanting directions or a loose shoe fixing. I’ll find out. You stay here.’
Rosa watched as he strode across the room to the doorway and opened it. His silhouette filled the frame, and she couldn’t see the faces of the men outside, but she’d already seen them in her mind’s eye. Two fair-haired strangers at the door, muffled against the swirling snow, and another two men standing by the carriage: one a fat man wearing glasses, the other a little monkey-faced man with a grim expression.
‘What is it?’ Luke said.
‘Shoe gone,’ said one of the men shortly. He had a London accent. ‘Can you ’ave a look?’
She heard Luke’s sigh, and he glanced back over his shoulder at her. She shrugged and then nodded. The smith wouldn’t be pleased if he heard Luke had turned away business.
‘All right. I’ll be a few minutes, Rose.’
He closed the door behind him and she heard his feet on the steps outside, voices murmuring. Then silence. She waited for the sound of the forge door, the roar of the bellows – but it didn’t come. The wind moaned in the chimney and she heard the whisper of snow at the window.
She stood and walked to the door, trying to listen, then opened it a crack. Nothing. There was nothing there. Just the carriage, standing still and dark in the centre of the courtyard. Had they gone into the forge? But the horses were both still between the traces.
It was as if they’d all disappeared.
Something was very wrong.
Pulling Luke’s greatcoat from the peg, she slung it around her shoulders and tiptoed out into the dark, swirling night. The snow was disorienting as she made her way silently down the stone steps and stood uncertainly in the courtyard. The windows of the forge were dark. Where had they gon
e?
She closed her eyes and let her magic unfurl, searching for Luke’s familiar form, feeling for his presence. He was not in the forge, nor out in the lane. She turned her attention to the carriage.
Rosa let out a gasp. He was there. Inside the carriage. But not seated between the men, talking. Instead he was slumped on the carriage floor, face down, and a man was bending over him, efficiently binding his wrists.
Her eyes snapped open. She felt her magic roar and build like a scream inside her, ready to annihilate whoever had hurt Luke.
She opened her mouth to shriek a curse that would rip them all to shreds – but before she could speak, a hand came around her throat from behind, grabbing her jaw. A wet rag was stuffed into her mouth and she felt a blow on the side of the head that sent her staggering to her knees in the snow.
‘No!’
It was supposed to be a shout, but the word came out hopelessly twisted and muffled by the stinking rag. She knew the smell, it was the same stuff in the bottle she’d broken over Alexis’s head – the choking fumes were already making her head spin, and the smack to her head had left her gasping and reeling, unable to think . . . unable to . . . Luke . . .
She was on her hands and knees in the snow, trying to claw the chemical-soaked gag from her mouth.
Luke . . .
She gathered all her magic, forcing it through her muscles to give herself the strength to stand . . . fight . . .
‘Give up, you stupid bitch,’ snarled a voice from behind her, and she saw a shadow fall over her shoulder and half turned in time to see a hand raised, holding some kind of cosh.
It came crashing down. And that was the last she knew.
Luke woke with a pounding headache and a feeling that he’d been carried a long way in a wooden box that was too small for him. As he came round he realized that was not far off reality. There was some kind of blindfold over his eyes, but he could tell he was lying face down on the floor of a carriage, bare boards beneath his face. He was penned in by legs on either side of his body and his hands were tied behind his back, so that he couldn’t push himself upright but could only lie there groaning, feeling the pain at the back of his skull. Someone had hit him hard. But who?
‘Who are you?’ he croaked.
‘D’you need to ask that?’
The voice was grim but somehow familiar – horribly familiar. And the smell in his nostrils was familiar too – sawdust and blood, and a kind of faint chemical underlay. For a minute Luke’s jarred aching head could not put it all together – then suddenly it came.
‘John! John Leadingham, for Christ’s sake, what are you doing?’
‘I could ask the same of you.’ There was no laugh in the voice, none of the kindliness Luke knew so well. It was as hard and cold as stone.
‘John, please.’ He strained against the bindings, knowing it was useless, knowing he was caught – trussed like a pig for slaughter. ‘John, mate . . .’ His voice cracked and broke. ‘You’ve known me since I were a boy. Please. Please don’t do this.’
‘No one made you join us,’ John Leadingham said. ‘No one asked you. You came of your own free will. You knew the rules.’
‘Please,’ Luke said. ‘If you won’t spare me for my sake, think of William. Think what this’ll mean to him. John!’
But there was no answer, and eventually Luke gave up pleading to lie silent on the jolting floor of the carriage.
Yes, he knew the rules, God damn it. He’d had three tasks. The trial of the knife – to show he was obedient, and would not flinch in his duty. The trial of fire, to show he was unafraid and would never betray the Brotherhood. And the trial of the hammer, to kill a witch. And although he had passed the first two tests, in reality he had failed all three. He had betrayed the Brotherhood in every way imaginable. He had disobeyed their commands. He had betrayed the secrets of the order – and not just to anyone, but to a witch. And he had failed in the last and most important task of all: he had not killed Rosa. Instead, he had fallen in love with her.
He had known the rules. He had known the price he might pay for sparing Rosa’s life. Well, now he was being asked to pay it, that was all.
There was only one bright spark in all of this: at least they did not have Rosa.
The hours passed, painfully, slowly, and Luke drowsed, lying on the floor of the carriage, jostled by the men’s boots.
Then at last he came out of his half-sleep to find the carriage was slowing down. At first he thought it was just a crossroads, but it swung off the main track on to a stony courtyard and there was a sighing and a stretching of legs and the sound of men getting out.
He heard doors opening and closing, panting horses being changed. He heard a man gulping down a draught of something, and his throat ached with a powerful thirst.
Then the door of the carriage opened and Leadingham’s voice spoke.
‘Go on, lad. Get yerself a pint.’ For a crazy moment Luke thought he was talking to him, and he raised his head blindly, but then he felt the boots against his spine shift and someone lumbered heavily out of the carriage, so that it groaned and squeaked on its springs.
‘You too, Merriman. I’ll keep an eye on the boy.’
‘I won’t deny, I’ll be right glad to get a dram of beer and summat to eat. Seems like a long time since we had a bite.’
‘We’ve been eight hours on the road,’ Leadingham said, ‘and we’ve got a deal longer to go. So get something wet down yer.’
The man shuffled off, his footsteps disappearing into the distance, and Leadingham climbed up into the carriage and stood in silence. Luke could see nothing, but he could feel the man staring down at him.
At last he spoke.
‘I’ve got water here, d’you want it?’
‘Yes,’ Luke said croakily.
‘I’ll help you sit up.’ As he did, Luke found that the reason he hadn’t been able to twist round further was because his wrists were tied to a ring on the floor. Leadingham held the flask to his lips and Luke gulped blindly at the water, choking as it ran down his chin and soaked into his shirt.
‘If you untie my hands,’ he managed, ‘I’ll give you my word not to run for it.’
‘You’ve shown us what your word’s worth,’ Leadingham said shortly. Luke flinched, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. He’d sworn himself to the Brotherhood and, not two weeks later, he’d betrayed them.
‘How did you find me?’ he said at last, leaning back against the bench. His wrists twisted painfully where they were tethered to the ring.
‘Because you’re a soft-hearted fool,’ Leadingham said shortly.
‘What does that mean?’ Luke said, and then before Leadingham answered, he realized, with a sickness to his gut that made him almost groan aloud.
Minna.
‘Minna Sykes,’ Leadingham said, echoing his own realization. Luke could almost see the twist in Leadingham’s lip, his acknowledgement of the injustice of it; that it was not Luke’s betrayal, but his loyalty to his own kind that had ultimately cost him his liberty.
‘But – but I said nothing of where we were . . . I—’
‘Ain’t you heard of postmarks, you young fool?’ There was bitterness in Leadingham’s voice. Luke knew that he was not relishing this, that in some secret part of himself he might have been almost relieved that Luke had made a clean break. But, unlike Luke, he was a man of his word. A man of honour and courage, who would not flinch from a task, no matter how painful. ‘And more than that, you let the postmistress put her seal on it. Langholm P.O., it said, clear as day. Minna got it yesterday morning. By ten o’clock she’d sold it on to me.’
‘How much did you give her?’ Luke asked. His voice cracked. He was not sure what he wanted to hear; that at least Minna had sold their friendship dear, perhaps.
‘Two shilling,’ John said.
Two shillings. He had sent her five times that, under the seal. And for just another few pence, she’d betrayed him.
‘And then?’
‘Then we caught the train up to Carlisle, hired a carriage and a pair of hacks, and were at Langholm by dusk. It didn’t take us long to get word of a Cockney lad and a well-spoken red-head girl. We knew you’d be with her.’
Her. Rosa. What would she be thinking? She’d be frantic by now. Would she be scrying? Stay where you are, he thought desperately, hoping that if she was searching for him she could perhaps hear his thoughts. Stay safe. You can’t help me by getting killed yourself. At least . . . He felt tears rise in his throat and swallowed them back down. He would not cry in front of Leadingham, he’d be damned to hell and back first. At least if you’re safe . . . He pushed Rosa resolutely from his thoughts. Breaking down in front of Leadingham would solve nothing. And if he was to die, he wanted to do it with dignity.
‘Did you bed her?’ Leadingham broke into his silence.
‘What?’ Luke jerked upright, the ring in the floor creaking as he strove to free his arms. Hot fury flooded his body and the ropes bit into his skin as he pulled against them. ‘What did you say?’
‘I just wondered.’ There was a shrug in Leadingham’s voice. ‘I wondered what hold she had over you, to make you betray the Brotherhood so fast. And what you got out of it, for your pains. Whatever tricks she turned, I hope she was worth it.’
‘Shut your mouth, you filthy bastard,’ Luke snarled. He was panting behind the hot blackness of the blindfold, the blood in his arms and hands pounding with the desire to hit someone very hard indeed, and keep hitting, until they begged for mercy.
Beside him, Leadingham began to laugh, a bitter, mocking laugh that went on and on, until Luke thought he might run mad with fury.
‘Oh!’ Leadingham could hardly speak for mirth. ‘Oh! So it was like that, was it? It was love! You, Luke Lexton, of all people, to fall in love with a witch.’ And then suddenly, as suddenly as he’d laughed, he was serious again. ‘Your mother and father’d be turning in their graves, boy.’
‘Shut up,’ Luke snarled again. ‘You know nothing – nothing.’
He thought of telling Leadingham – telling him where his precious witch-finding sight had come from. Telling him that his father had more than likely had it before him. Perhaps that was even what had led to his death.
Witch Hunt (Witch Finder 2) Page 17