Then again, Brien wasn’t much like the shiny, pretty things that usually grabbed Scarlet’s attention. He wasn’t smooth like silk, he didn’t sparkle, and he certainly did not bounce back Scarlet’s own vainglorious reflection. Captain Brien grunted and glowered. And Scarlet’s longings for muslin and looking glasses had never pitched his body into quite such an excruciating state of arousal as had Brien’s callous handling.
“I won’t even think of it.” Scarlet straightened; his chin jutted with a renewed determination. “The Greenwood has always given me what I need, and I will do this one thing for the Greenwood. His memory will burn to dust with the mansion.”
But he did not go straight in through the front door to finish the incendiary task during which he’d been interrupted. A longing for his things compelled him to scamper back around to the stables. “Just to see if there is anything I can salvage.”
The sight of destruction only fuelled Scarlet’s anger. His mirror was broken, his vase beyond repair, and the rogue had taken all the silk and muslin. Scarlet had intended him to do so; he had felt oddly about the clothes from the moment he realized they, by rights, belonged to Brien. But it disappointed him, all the same. If Brien had felt anything at all for him, he might have left them for him, although that would, in some strange way, have marked Scarlet as his.
“Why would you want that?” Scarlet anguished out loud. “You silly fool!”
“You are hard on yourself, Scarlet. Is there good reason for your condemnation?”
Scarlet nearly jumped a foot in the air, although he well knew that velveteen voice. Dropping instinctively to his knees, he listened to her footsteps drawing closer across the crisp straw. Then he felt a reassuring touch on his shoulder. Jemima stepped around him and smiled.
“Don’t kneel to me, Scarlet. I need to speak to you about something important.”
With a hasty nod, Scarlet rose and met her gaze falteringly. Jemima was a magnificent woman, the equal of Scarlet in height. Her thick hair, the colour of burned umber, cascaded as far as her voluptuous hips. Over her back was slung a long, graceful yew bow and a quiver of arrows. Before he had shadowed her around the mansion, Scarlet had met Jemima in the forest on many an occasion, and she had always been kind to him. But now her mere presence had him stricken with a crippling sense of guilt. Somehow she knew he had been with her brother.
“Did he touch you, Scarlet?”
She knew, all right. She must have smelled the stench of rot about him, as if he’d been rolling in the autumn leaves. “I…I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. I need to know what happened just now. Did you…yield to him?”
“No! I wanted nothing more than to get rid of him. Look at the mess he made of my home. I fought him tooth and nail, and I’d have scratched his eyes out if I could. But he’s gone now. Did I not do well?”
“Holgaerst stirred here, Scarlet.” Her eyes narrowed, and Scarlet felt a hot blush spread from his neck up to his cheeks. “The belief is weak in my brother, but if the forest can get through to him, the reaction is visceral. He cannot repress what is in his blood. I felt it move in him, Scarlet. The oaks whispered of it, and then I heard you calling out to them.”
“What do you mean?” Scarlet did his best to fight back panic. He had done his best to drive off the captain, hadn’t he? He couldn’t help the ways that his body had betrayed him.
“You may have been the one that stirred him,” she answered. “I don’t think you meant to, Scarlet, but something evoked the primeval drive of his body, awaking the forces lying dormant within. I don’t think it will be powerful enough to keep him here, but…” Stepping forward, she braced both hands on Scarlet’s shoulders. Her fingers were long like her brother’s, but much thinner and very smooth. “Promise me you won’t ever go near him again?”
Scarlet’s guts knotted. He hated the request and fought an innate refusal. “I promise. But…why? Why is it so important?”
“I don’t believe Melmoth is truly evil, but he cannot be trusted. He’s a traveller, a restless, careless soul who belongs to the world beyond the forest. If he was to stay here long, it could only lead to destruction. Do you understand me?”
Shakily Scarlet nodded. “Is…is he faederswica? If he comes back, will they hang him from the oaks?”
There was a moment of awful silence, and then Jemima burst into a laugh. “Old Brigit really did teach you the fouler legends, didn’t she? Well, don’t you worry, little one. We don’t hang people in this forest anymore. Not now that it is we women who channel Holgaerst best. The days of Niogaerst and sacrifice are long gone.”
Scarlet nodded wordlessly, but he felt irritated. If what Old Brigit had told him was nothing more than the “fouler legends,” then how come everything that Jemima had just said seemed to support his every fear about his kind being easy prey for the fouler side of the spirits? And if it was all such rot, why shouldn’t he see Brien again and let him touch him all he pleased?
“I know what you’re thinking. You want to see him again, don’t you?”
“No, I bloody well don’t! You don’t know my mind, Mistress. I thought him a bracket-faced scoundrel, and I drove him away. Is that not good enough for Holgaerst?”
“I hope that it is,” she replied, calmly letting her hands drop and taking a step back. “Get out of here, Scarlet. Disappear. Oh, and one other thing…”
“What?”
“Stop spying on me. Anybody would think you found me beautiful. What were you doing in Carseald Hall, seven nights past?”
So she had sensed him. Scarlet was not surprised, but the way she looked at him now made him squirm—and distrust her even more. What did she think he was? Some sort of destructive force, like her brother? His love for the Greenwood was as pure as her own—purer, maybe. Scarlet made a hasty decision not to tell her all the truth. When he succeeded in driving out the newcomers, Holgaerst would have him alone to thank.
“I was just looking around,” he answered, his gaze slipping to the floor. If she’d not noticed the broken banisters or seen the pyre he’d built, then that was her misfortune. “I don’t think I’m the first curious soul to have explored an empty house.”
Her smile returned, but Scarlet dared not scrutinize her expression too deeply. “Very well. Now run away, Scarlet. I am going to discuss what to do about this with the druidesses. We will take care of things.”
* * *
Scarlet slammed his back up against the trunk of an elm, his lip curling into an angry snarl.
How dare she? One moment forecasting gloom and doom, and then laughing at his fears and calling him “little one!” He was a grown man who could take care of himself and fight his own battles, and it wasn’t only the women of the forest who could still call for the aid of its spirits. Jemima claimed the druidesses would “take care of things.” The druidesses, a sisterhood who lived deep in the forest, followed the ancient religion of the Mother Goddess, the creator of all nature, including the spirits themselves. But if the Goddess had revealed to them some useful plan, why were they not here at Carseald Hall? Only tonight remained to save the heart of the Greenwood from violation and, in Scarlet’s mind, only one thing to be done.
Yet as he inhaled deeply of the peat-spiced air, he found his temper dissipated a little and, with it, his confidence in himself. He might not need Jemima’s warnings, but was burning the house really the best way to drive off the newcomers?
“Holgaerst, Spirit of the Greenwood,” he murmured, letting his eyes close slowly. “Bid me do the right thing.”
The wind rustled gently through the branches above him, and Scarlet urged all his senses into action. Pressing the flats of his palms onto the ridged trunk, he felt warmth seeping into him, rippling like tiny caresses beneath his clothing and then his skin, penetrating to his very core.
“Tell me,” he begged, as the heat within him rose. His eyelids twitched and parted, and his focus latched on to a single leaf that drifted from the branc
hes above, passing just inches from his nose. As it came to a rest on the mulch in front of his toes, he stooped to pick it up.
It was a perfect, flaming orange. Scarlet’s heart hammered triumphantly as his eyes confirmed what he already knew: each elm leaf above was a fresh, spring green.
He allowed himself a wicked smile. “Holgaerst speaks. There will be flames!”
* * *
Brien’s trek through the Greenwood was by no means as lonely as he had expected when he’d snatched a last glimpse over his shoulder at the house. Damn it, but there was not a moment when he didn’t feel like he was being watched. His nerves twitched constantly, his gaze darting about from the treetops to the snowdrops and then back once more behind him, checking for signs of life.
Every time he heard the slightest murmur, his heart leaped—and then he cursed himself. Scarlet was not following him. Brien did not want him to be.
But how you wish you’d tasted him properly and fucked him thoroughly.
Brien set his jaw rigid against the whispers on the wind and mentally reiterated his plan. When he got back to London, he would sell the jewels and then keep himself out of debtors’ jail at least long enough to find himself the prettiest whore in town and get these longings out of his system, once and for all.
A very definite sign of human life interrupted his ruminations: a group of horsemen drawing closer along the track ahead. Not in the mood for company—Scarlet aside—Brien urged Smithy into a canter so that he might pass them quickly, but had to slacken his pace when he realized the track up ahead was too narrow. He did not want to subject his stallion’s legs and flanks to the scratches of thick brambles.
Brien drew to a halt.
“Good day to you, sir!” The stocky, plump-faced leader of the oncoming riders raised his tricorn hat jovially as he approached.
“Good day.” Brien’s reply did not invite much conversation. He watched dourly as the procession passed him, counting six men in all, four of whom appeared to be aged between about eighteen and twenty-five, their matching, round-faced stockiness indicating them to be the sons of the first man.
None of the young men saw fit to address him as they passed. But the sixth man, a thin, raven-haired cove who looked nothing like the father and sons, shouted, “Told you, Hastings. These woodsmen are a sour-faced bunch. You sure you want to come and live here?”
So this was Hastings, the wood merchant, bound for his new home. Brien merely lifted a brow at the revelation. He was through with the place. He listened to their fading words with indifference, not caring that they could not tell his once-fine clothes from those of a lowly hovel dweller.
“It’s not the woodsmen we should fear,” one of the sons said. “If the ghosts and ghouls of the Greenwood don’t take to us, they’ll hang us from the trees.”
The air still rang with a raucous, if nervy laughter when the realization hit Brien abruptly. Scarlet! If he’d decided to carry through with his little plan of setting light to Carseald Hall that afternoon, he would be caught by the returning owners.
“Which is not my problem.” Brien’s fingers clenched tight about the reins, and Smithy gave a plaintive whinny. He jabbed his heel into the horse’s flank, urging the animal forward. “Anyway, the boy would never have returned after I scared him off. He’s probably miles away, laughing it off in some village alehouse.”
The wind picked up suddenly, cold, harsh, and resisting against their progress, making the horse drag his hooves. Brien shut his eyes and found his hands were shaking. Damn it, he’d not felt this nervous when he’d faced Napoleon’s cannons at Waterloo. What the hell was wrong with him?
* * *
It all happened far too quickly.
Scarlet was crouched beside his pile of broken banisters, furiously rubbing two sticks together. The sparks flashed and leaped, and then, suddenly, there came the triumphant lick of flame.
Nurturing the yellow tongue in the curve of his palm, Scarlet hesitated. Why was this so hard? He hated destroying things, but this house had become an evil canker in the heart of the Greenwood.
“I can do this,” he whispered. And then his breath jammed in his throat.
He’d felt no foreshadowing, no beat of warning, but he heard heavy footsteps entering the hall. Scarlet blew out the flame and urged himself to run. Or better, he should climb out through the nearest window. Right now.
But had Brien come back? Neither fear nor the echoes of Jemima’s words could do anything against the throes of instinct. Scarlet dashed out into the hall—and smacked straight into a complete stranger.
“What the hell?” yelled the intruder.
Before he knew what was happening to him, Scarlet was slammed back against the wall again. But not by his captain. If only. This man had raven black hair and a thin, weasel-like face, and his scent was all wrong. He reeked of liquor and of human dirt, and it made Scarlet want to retch.
“Look what I’ve found!” shouted the man, giving Scarlet a second, energetic shove against the panels. His head cracked back painfully, and for a split second, his vision went black. Another violent shake and Scarlet stared, wide-eyed, into his captor’s face again, as the man’s thin features twisted with malice. His terror pounded with his blood in his ears, rising to a deafening roar as a second man moved up behind the first, holding up the charred sticks that Scarlet had just dropped.
“What have you got to say to this, boy?” The second man was older, with plump, buttery cheeks, and he sounded ever-so-slightly less murderous. “You break into my property, and when there’s nothing left to steal, you try to burn it down, eh? That’s a hanging offense.”
“You’re right!” The breath of the black-haired man who grabbed him smelled as foul as the rest of him, and he leaned ever closer to Scarlet, tightening clawlike hands about his throat. Scarlet snatched a ragged, bubbling breath, but the pressure built, and the man lifted him clean off his toes. He screamed to himself that he must find the will to fight, to run, but he could scarcely even breathe now.
“Let the lad speak, Connor.”
The pressure released, but even as Scarlet dragged the air back into his lungs, Connor twisted his arms behind his back so that he faced the second man. The only relief was that he could no longer see his chief persecutor. Connor was taking great pleasure in hurting him, wrenching at his wrists. Scarlet could tell.
“Do you admit to your crimes, boy?” asked the squat, older man. “It will be a lot easier for everyone if you do so.”
“I…I…”
Scarlet could make only one last effort; he had to play dead. With a strangulated cry, he sent his eyes rolling up into his head, baring the whites a moment before letting his limbs go limp and his knees sag. The iron grip on his arms loosened. Scarlet sensed the floor rise up to meet him.
“If the plaguey little cove hasn’t fainted!” There was a pause, and then Connor’s soft, sinister chuckle. “By the devil, he’s as pretty as a hussy, this one.”
Scarlet knew Connor was leaning over him, but he had not anticipated the sudden, bruising pinch on his face. His eyes flew wide; he couldn’t help it. And then he lashed out with everything he’d got, cracking the bones of his wrist against the thin man’s chin and sending his head butting into the older man’s soft belly as he launched himself to his feet.
The paneled room swirled around him. For a moment, Scarlet feared he really would faint. Swearing, Connor grabbed at him from behind, but Scarlet twisted free and launched himself toward the door.
“Holgaerst! You sent me here; now save me!”
Scarlet ran blindly, cool evening air splashing against his cheeks. Then somebody grabbed him by the wrist. Spun around, he stared wildly at a quartet of stocky young men. A racing heartbeat later, one of them hurled him to the ground.
“English justice is too good for this sort of scum.” The sinister words came from Connor, who had joined the four sons to form an imprisoning circle around Scarlet. “I say we deal with him ourselves.”
They shouted other words over Scarlet’s head, but he could scarcely make sense of them anymore. The men closed in, heavy hobnailed boots and tree-trunk legs, with not a gap between them. Playing dead had been his best shot, and it was too late to try that again.
Terror overwhelming him, Scarlet curled his knees to his chin and huddled his arms over his head. But the men were in no mind to leave him alone. They yanked his hair, twisted his limbs, opening and stretching his helpless body. And, their cruel laughter slicing through the fading daylight, they hauled him up and dragged him away.
Chapter Five
It took a fraction of a second for Brien to assess the situation. Scarlet was strung up by his wrists to a low branch of one of the oaks. He had been stripped naked to the waist, and the four sons were circling him and taunting him. Brien heard a sickening crack as a fifth man, the one they’d called Connor, brought a strip of birch lashing down across the woodsman’s exposed skin. Even in the ebbing light, red welts were visible, crisscrossing Scarlet’s back and ribs, patterning pale, vulnerable flesh.
The roar surged up from deep in his chest, and Brien let thundering hooves carry him forward. Ripping a branch from a tree, he felled the man carrying out the beating with a glancing blow to the back of his head.
“You touch him again, I’ll kill you all.” He yanked the horse’s reins, and Smithy reared with a loud cry. Hooves slammed down in a cloud of mud. “Get away from him!”
Brien spun his improvised lance in his hand, wild eyes ranging over his adversaries. They were regrouping, and fast. Even Connor had already scrambled up from the ground, red-faced and angry.
“You have no business here, woodsman!” yelled Connor. “Get out of here unless you want to see your own hide tanned, like this little thief.”
Scarlet stared at Brien, shaking with shock but struggling to retain his dignity. His teeth were clenched; his cheeks were quite dry. But it was the strange intensity in the boy’s eyes that really got under Brien’s skin. What did it signify? Defiance? Expectation? Then words tore through Brien’s mind, pouring forth as a shout before he could comprehend them.
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