Instead, the creature began to squeal and moan, and its kicking became more violent. Laine looked back, aghast, then ran for the flagstone path.
“I’m sorry, horse—I didn’t mean to scare you,” she panted as she warded off low-hung branches that slashed at her face.
Then someone grabbed her around the shoulders. She let out a yelp and began to struggle.
“Stop! Hold on!” It was a woman’s voice.
Laine dug in her heels and whirled around, pushing hard against thin, muscular arms.
The woman let go and dodged back, eyeing her suspiciously. Laine could see a pale face, long dark hair, loose clothing. “What are you doing here?” the woman demanded. She must have been running, for Laine could hear her panting.
“Nothing.” Laine, feeling truculent and uncooperative—and guilty—tried to dodge past her. But the woman moved sideways to block her way.
“Not so fast. What’s your name? You’re not from around here.”
“I’m staying at the inn, and I’ll tell you my name if you’ll tell me yours. We’re both out here in the middle of the night.”
“But I belong here,” stated the woman, not unkindly. She frowned at Laine and crossed her arms. “We’ve had some trouble. Vandals. Kids trying to spook the horses.”
Laine felt herself shrink. She’d certainly spooked the horse, but not on purpose. The animal was still kicking and pounding at the heavy wood stall door. “I thought I heard my brother down here,” she explained. “I thought I heard his voice. That horse—is it yours?”
The woman backed away a step or two, not taking her eyes off Laine, and Laine saw that her feet were bare. She looked like some kind of ninja warrior. “She’s new,” she said after a pause. “Very young, just brought in from up north. It’s taking a while for her to settle in. To see a stranger in the middle of the night—”
“I didn’t mean to frighten her.”
The woman finally appeared to judge Laine harmless. Laine tried to reinforce the impression by gazing guilelessly into her face. She’d been snooping around looking for magic horse creatures, truth be told, but why mention that now?
“My name’s Petra,” the woman said. “I board a couple of horses here.” She looked straight at Laine, as if daring her to question this statement.
Tension radiated from Petra. Laine could hear the horse in the stable behind her, panting harshly but no longer fighting. “I’m Laine. I’m visiting from Canada.” Laine, longing to know more, wondered if she could get Petra to chat a while. “Perhaps you’ve met my brother, Innis?”
No reaction.
Laine ventured, “So, where are all the animals?” She gestured at the stable. “Don’t tell me everyone goes riding in the middle of the night?”
Petra took another step back and raised her head as if sniffing the air. Her shadowed eyes contemplated Laine and her innocent query.
“There’s a show going on in the next county. Many of the horses are competing in it.”
“I see.” This sounded bogus to Laine, but she thought better of asking further questions.
Petra stepped aside to let Laine pass. She looked back to see the woman enter the stable, presumably to soothe the filly.
The moon had wheeled behind the trees, and the light was uncertain. She passed through the empty garden, thinking about the enigmatic Arren Tyrell.
She had an intense desire for him to appear again, to stride up to her and take her by the shoulders like Petra had done, pull her hard against his chest and tell her all his secrets. She was certain he had a lot of them.
Chapter Four
By nine the next morning Laine was in the dining room, now set up with a breakfast buffet. Eager to start exploring, she was drinking coffee and people-watching while munching hungrily on toast spread thickly with raspberry jam.
Mrs. Griffin wasn’t around. Laine would have to quiz her about local news some other time.
Several other guests were eating their breakfasts too, among them the elderly lady from last night. No hat this morning. She was spooning up oatmeal while chatting with a young couple sharing her table. Laine, shamelessly eavesdropping, deduced the couple was planning a scenic cruise along the River Po. The old lady was chiming in with tips on how to get off-season rates and where to buy the best souvenirs. Laine dredged through her memory for the Po River and came up with northern Italy. She watched them covertly, feeling envious.
She sighed. Here she was, on an adventure all by herself. But adventures were meant to be shared. She stirred her coffee. Her last significant boyfriend, a fellow grad student named Geoffrey, would only drink espresso. He was very particular about how it was made, and enjoyed forcing baristas to make his drink over and over till they got it right. At the thought of not having Geoffrey at her side right now, Laine began to perk up. Yes, here she was, far from home and ready for action. No annoying boyfriends cramping her style.
She glanced at the doorway, realizing she’d been hoping a certain man would come stomping in asking for trouble. I’ll give you trouble.
Then she yanked the thought back, listening instead to the restless surge of blood in her veins. What she craved was action. She had come here to look for magic, not men. Unless it was Innis, whom she knew would make his entrance when he was good and ready. If he’d been at the stables last night, he hadn’t wanted her to see him.
She popped the last bite of toast in her mouth and pondered the strangeness of life. How could the oddities she’d witnessed last night be reconciled with the very ordinary morning sunshine streaming in the ivy-draped windows? With the sound of cups clattering against saucers, with the smell of burnt toast? Last night, under the white moon, the magic had seemed too close for comfort; this morning, everything seemed too comfortable for belief.
Yet she’d braided her hair securely in case its strands started to act up.
Slinging her small backpack over her shoulder, she headed out. In the pack were binoculars, SPF 50 sunscreen, bottled water, and Innis’s map. Her plan was to locate the outfitter’s shop she’d learned was in the town, get a hat and some decent lightweight socks, then set off on her hike.
But instead, she found herself turning left at the inn’s front doorway and heading round the back toward the stables. This detour wasn’t in today’s plan, but it felt like a good idea. Everything looked less spooky in daylight. The stables were down a slight slope that led past them to the river, and Laine told herself that this must be why her footsteps were so eager and easy in that direction.
She passed the flowers that had shed their petals, and stopped to look at the ground. There they were, shriveled now, their delicate pink turned brown like the carapaces of insects. “Please don’t jump at my legs,” she murmured as she stepped over them.
She could see through the gnarled branches of ancient apple trees down the slope, past the stable to the paddocks and stone-walled fields, and finally to the river. The stable building was low and old, its foundations made of gray boulders mortared roughly together, its walls of broad, bare wood planks faded to the color of mist.
She quietly made her way to the box stall at the back. Hearing rhythmic soft breaths, she risked a peek inside, to see the horse—a delicate chestnut filly—lying asleep in the straw. It had plenty of hay and water and was definitely not being mistreated.
Vigorous munching sounds were coming from a stall near the door. Laine looked inside to see a taffy-colored pony rooting around in a bucket of oats, to come up dribbling grain and looking at her curiously. It tossed its tawny mane, not in the least upset by her presence. “Hello, you pretty thing,” crooned Laine. She knew better than to stroke it, having been snapped at by grouchy Shetland ponies before. The pony chewed, spraying grain and drool.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” Laine said with a smile.
Outside she spotted Petra. Dressed today in jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with the crest of the Darbridge Football Club, she was busy raking a paddock, the tines leaving neat swirling patterns
in the dirt.
Laine walked up and leaned on the fence rail. “I see your new filly has settled down.”
Petra stopped her work and turned to bestow a small, chilly, British smile on Laine. Okay, so no hard feelings.
Petra leaned on her rake and said, “We had to sedate her to get her to rest. We’re hoping that when she wakes up she’ll be resigned to her lot.” Petra’s lips thinned at this. “I think she’ll be a good addition to our herd here.”
A herd that was nowhere in evidence, except for the pony, obviously not a show jumper. Was the horseshow excuse merely that: an excuse for something mysterious? Or magical? “She’s a lovely animal. Best of luck with her.” Laine hitched her pack up and turned for the path, hearing the scratch of the rake resume as she left.
She located the outfitter’s shop between a chemist’s and an estate agent’s storefront, near the scenically crumbling stone bridge over the River Syn. According to its sign, the shop was due to open in a few minutes, so she took advantage of a bench out front to sit and open Innis’s map. It was detailed enough to show streams, roads, buildings, and patches of forest—mostly along the river’s course—and was decorated with a sprawling, curly black X over the inn’s position, presumably by Innis’s hand.
With a finger she traced the route she planned to take: from the X, over the bridge, and across a field to an area along the riverbank that was labeled as privately owned but still accessible to hikers. Innis had highlighted a couple of forested areas, and a lens-shaped island farther off that divided the river. Getting close to the water might give her a feel for what the area held.
She folded the map. All she had to do was turn a switch in her head, the one that controlled the sense of disbelief that kept popping up. Crackpot theories, fairy-tale wishes, magical thinking that led in circles. Laine felt heat rise in her face at the memories of embarrassment and the stubborn desire that always accompanied it. She wasn’t crazy. The things she had experienced, here and in Canada, were not delusions. She just had to learn not to talk about them.
But now that she was here, she could set self-doubt to the “off” position and let herself go.
Learning about the magic Innis claimed to have discovered might not be easy, and most likely unpleasant, no matter what he’d assured her. She’d read up on the legends of wild horse spirits inhabiting the area, and they were not for the squeamish. Called by several names throughout the British Isles, these creatures were dangerous, bloodthirsty, and definitely not eager to be studied.
Laine stuffed the map into her pack. She really should check in with her mother, but she didn’t want to hear Bethea’s tipsy rambling, or even her sober voice: crisp, demanding and self-absorbed.
Then Laine realized that she couldn’t call now, anyway—the time difference meant it was much too early back home. She vowed to call later and be as chatty and reassuring as she could be. The guilt lifted.
Just as the shopkeeper opened up, Laine spotted someone heading her way. Damn. Arren Tyrell.
He’d already seen her. She eyed him as he approached. Decked out in jeans, a faded green T-shirt and sturdy boots, he looked ready for a hike just as she was. Sunglasses dangled from a cord around his neck. He looked sporty and casual. In fact, he looked damned fine. Too bad he was such a jerk.
His eyes locked with hers for a moment; then he deliberately raised the sunglasses and settled them on the bump in his nose. Laine felt her brows draw together in a frown.
She’d better get moving before he planted himself in front of her and said something obnoxious. She got up, slung her pack over one shoulder and took off briskly toward the bridge. Shopping could wait.
But she hadn’t moved fast enough. He loped up beside her and fell into step, hands in pockets. They walked side by side for several paces, Laine feeling more and more foolish. I will not be the first to speak.
“Look,” he said finally, his voice gruff. “Stop for a minute.”
She kept walking.
After a beat, he said, “Please.”
She stopped, turning to stare into his sunglasses. She saw the reflection of herself raising one eyebrow.
He ran a hand through his hair and removed the sunglasses, letting them dangle on their cord. His eyes were piercingly blue this morning under their black brows. His fair skin had a light toasting of sunburn across the cheekbones. “I know I was out of line last night. I shouldn’t have taken my frustration out on you.”
She gave him a no-shit look from under her lashes. He sure spent a lot of time apologizing. Of course, if he’d act like a gentleman, he wouldn’t need to. But what the hell, at least he was trying. “It’s okay. You were right to warn me.”
He smiled then, a perfunctory movement of his lips. “Your brother ever turn up?”
Had he been spying on her? “He was . . . delayed. Anyway, I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Other people were around—I met a woman at the stables. She said nothing about any attacker.”
“Ah. Petra.”
“You know her?”
“I know, or have met, most of the people connected with Blackhorse Inn.”
“And Mrs. Griffin is your best friend, right?”
He laughed. “She’s a favorite of mine, though I imagine you wouldn’t have known it from last night.”
Laine curled her lip, turned her back on him and walked away. The man was impossible. The skin of her back prickled with the feel of his eyes on her, but he didn’t follow. Thank goodness. But he called after her, “Mrs. Griffin likes me, you know. She’s a big fan of mine.”
Laine stalked away, head high, until she’d gained the shelter of a large oak tree and could risk a look back. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Half an hour later she stood turning in a circle, hopelessly lost, trying to hear the river. It should be close, as she hadn’t left the stupid path marked on Innis’s stupid map. She was hot and sticky and had to pee.
“Drat you, you son of a bitch!” It was true; Mom was a bitch.
No river-sounds. All she heard was the rustle of leaves and the incessant chirping and rasping of insects in the tall grass. At least there was a breeze.
Perhaps it was the river that was lost, and not her. She crumpled the map into a ball and stuffed it in her bag. She dug out her water bottle and drank, then splashed some on her face. There was a tree nearby, and she contemplated climbing it to have a look-see.
Well, why not? There wasn’t a soul around to see her make a fool of herself. Slinging the binoculars around her neck, she scrambled up the tree as far as she could, hung on to the trunk with one arm, lifted the binoculars, and scanned around. Aha. There was the elusive river, glinting behind a screen of willows. Not far off at all, yet somehow she’d missed it. Long yellow willow-whips brushed the water, trailing their slender green leaves. Wisps of mist curled along the weedy shore.
Something was swimming up the river. Maybe an otter or beaver. Did they even have beavers here? The branches were in her way, and the binoculars kept fogging up from her too-warm face. She climbed down and forged her way toward the riverbank, not allowing herself to be distracted for a second. No toothed flower, spiraling butterfly, or lethally ferny glade was going to turn her aside.
And then she was almost falling into the river. She stood teetering on a crumbling bank right above the swiftly flowing water, able to see far into its clear depths. Its bank sloped down steeply into a rocky channel in which long water weeds grew, streaming like green hair with the current. The dancing water almost lured her in, it looked so enticingly fresh and cool.
A voice called, “Laine! Over here!” A voice she knew.
She turned, and her mouth dropped open. It was Innis, in shorts and a ratty T-shirt, sitting cross-legged on a red plaid blanket under a willow tree like something out of Alice in Wonderland. He had a thermos in one hand and a mug in the other, and a smirk on his face. “Tea?” He waggled the mug.
Laine burst out laughing with sheer joy at seeing him after all these
years. “Innis! What are you doing here?” Then she remembered that she was fed up with Innis. She drew her face into a scowl and tramped over to him, to stand looking down with her hands on her hips. “Are you kidding with the tea? Got anything cold?”
“Look in the basket. There’s bound to be something.”
Innis had picked up something of a British accent in his time here, she noted, rummaging in the fashionable wicker picnic basket that sat on the blanket. In it was an insulated nylon pack containing two chilled cans of cola. Laine opened one, and after a few minutes of nursing it and running the can’s cold sweat across her brow, felt somewhat less irritated.
She eyed her brother critically. He looked good. He had filled out, finally gotten a decent haircut, and looked more than three years older. “Have you been here all along? Watching me thrash around in the underbrush?”
Innis shrugged, a Gallic gesture suitable for a man decades older and starring in a film noir. “Possibly. I wanted you here last summer, remember? But you took up with that creep, what’s his name . . . ” He jettisoned his tea into the river and opened the other can of cola.
“If you mean Geoffrey, he was not a creep.” She tried to suppress a smile. Damn it, she had missed Innis. “He was more of a twit. There’s a difference, you know.”
“As long as he’s been kicked to the curb, eh what?” He twirled an imaginary mustache and raised his cola in salute.
Laine started to laugh and flopped back on the blanket, staring up through the willow tree that waved sinuously overhead. Were the branches going to make a grab for her? The sky was clear and untroubled, a high dome of sunny nothingness. The sweat was cooling on her body, and she felt good. “Well, I’m here, but I don’t know if it was a good idea.”
Innis bestowed a brotherly pat on her nearest shoulder and lay down beside her, sighing theatrically. “You’ve always been the bright one, so don’t worry.” He turned on his side and propped himself on one elbow, regarding her with his wide brown eyes. Innis was extraordinarily good-looking, in Laine’s biased opinion, with his shock of wavy blond hair, soulful eyes, and chiseled features. At least I’m bright, she consoled herself. Though he was shorter than she was, her brother was undeniably a hunk, and definitely no dummy. Too smart for his own good most of the time.
Water, Circle, Moon Page 3