“Let me see.” She took his hand, and stroked a finger gently over the wounds. He recoiled violently, pulling away as if she’d just stabbed him.
“But you said it was nothing.” She didn’t understand his reaction.
He was looking at her strangely, his body tense. She’d done something wrong, broken some code of manners. Was she going to have to rediscover how to behave once she was better?
Then she remembered something he’d said, or she’d dreamed he said. He’d called her a witch. A shiver coursed through her.
“Come, Isobel. ’Tis of no importance. The scratches sting a little, is all. Now, have you a pin? We have a cottage to break into.”
Her pins, as it turned out, were no use at all on so large a lock, but a bent nail was eventually found with which to pick it. The dexterity Will exhibited as he broke into the cottage was impressive. She wondered how often he’d had to do it before. Had he said something about being a soldier? If so, he might have had to break into places while on campaign, in search of a billet. In fact, hadn’t Edward mentioned such a thing in one of his letters?
What had happened to those letters?
Once inside the building, she stayed by the door while Will ignited the kindling in his tinder box and lit a couple of candles. The room was plainly furnished, featuring an oak settle with a carved back, a chest, a linen press, and a chair with an upholstered seat. The fireplace was deep, with a small bread oven tucked on one side, and a separate space for smoking meat on the other. Several mice scuttled about in the corners, and a cobweb draped the gap between the two mulling jugs on the hearthstone.
There was a small press containing a few books. Was there anything there beyond the usual Bible and Book of Common Prayer? She hoped so. Most of the books at Marston House had disappeared. Stored away for safekeeping, Hubert had told her.
“I daren’t light a fire, as that would signal our presence.” Will was poking about, opening doors, lifting the lid of the chest, peering in the linen press. “There may be some blankets somewhere. I can manage without, so there’ll be more for you. I’ll light another candle, and see what can be found in the pantry.”
While he explored the house, she examined the book press. She chose a volume at random, pulled the candle closer, and settled to the comfortingly familiar task of reading.
Will gave her a broad grin when he returned. It revealed healthy, white teeth and a dimple in either cheek, bringing warmth to his handsome features. It had not been fanciful to compare him to a Greek hero—that strong jaw, those sensuous lips, were just the sort of attributes she would imagine one to have.
“I could only find some dried apples. But when it gets darker, I may be forced to take the horse and see if I can find a hostelry. Hopefully, there’ll be one not far off, as I hate to leave you alone. But you’ll be hungry, so I must bring something back for us, and get some oats for Jennet as well.”
Not exactly nectar or ambrosia. But dried apple slices washed down with well water were most welcome. Part of Isobel urged caution as she ate—she needed to be sure she could trust whatever she consumed. But was she in danger from Will, or someone else? She couldn’t remember.
Best to lose herself in the book she’d picked, which was a copy of Aesop’s Fables. She would face whatever peril was to come when she felt better—and Will would help.
He sat down opposite and gazed at her, the empty fireplace between them. But he said nothing, just left her to her reading.
Gradually, she felt a familiar pressure behind the eyes, and the words melted together on the page. Her heart beat faster, filling her veins with an uncomfortable urgency. Something was amiss.
Her head shot up as the book thumped to the floor. Daylight had faded from the chinks around the shutters, and the man watching her from the other side of the hearth was a shadowed creature of candlelight and darkness.
“Isobel? Do you sicken for something?”
Where was she? Who was the stranger?
“I don’t know you.” Her hands shook, so she twisted them together in her lap.
“You’ve forgotten me, but only for now. You asked me to take care of you, remember? I’m Will. Orpheus?” His voice was gentle, and his face looked kind. “You’re safe. We’re hiding from Master Hubert Pike and his henchman, Flinders.”
Hiding? That sounded amusing. She willed her heart to slow. “Is this some manner of game?”
Was that compassion in his eyes?
“Aye, a game, if you will. We cannot allow them to find us.”
She nodded her understanding, then realized there was a book by her feet. What was so precious a thing doing on the floor? Opening it, she discovered it to be Aesop’s Fables. She flipped the book open, then glanced up. “Is there aught to eat?”
“Ah.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “Only more dried apples, alas.”
A pity. She’d have loved a mouthful or two of cheese. Pressing a hand against her empty stomach she gazed down at the book.
“Isobel, I fear I must go out to get vittles for us—but I daren’t take you with me. You may not stir from the house or make any noise.”
She flipped over another page and admired a handsome woodcut of a wily fox. “Was I reading this?”
“Aye. Pray continue to do so until I return. Remember, don’t light the fire, or open the shutters or windows. I must lock the door when I go.”
Lock the door? She didn’t like locked doors. A locked door made a chamber, or a garden, into a prison. But it was too late—he was gone. And she couldn’t get out, because they had no key, only the bent nail that he’d taken with him.
She became agitated. Will had bidden her be quiet but how could she be when her feelings were coiled inside her like a snake about to strike? Flames licked up from her vitals and entwined her limbs, making her sweat, exhorting her to panic.
It was impossible to keep quiet and she couldn’t remain still. There was a crisis coming, and it would tear her asunder if she didn’t do something.
A familiar shape in the far corner of the room caught her eye. She hurried over and flung off the sheet that covered it. A harpsichord—the perfect distraction from disquiet and an empty belly! Dragging up a stool, she flexed her fingers and began to play.
Chapter Nine
Will thanked Lady Fortune he’d found an inn that was no more than half a mile from the cottage where he’d left Isobel.
Where he’d left Isobel. He should never have abandoned her in her confused state, for who knew of what she might be capable? She’d grabbed at Edward’s sword as if it were a toy—what if she should find a sharp knife in the cottage or—God forbid—an ax?
Perspiration broke out on his forehead as he scrambled up the maple tree by the wall of the manorial estate. If Isobel had injured herself, he’d need a physician—then awkward questions would be asked. What if she’d decided to climb out through an upstairs window, so she could make her way back to Marston House? He’d find her in a pathetic heap, with her neck broken, and Edward’s ghost would torment him the rest of his days.
Foolish fellow—he’d be jumping at shadows next. He’d left her quietly reading, and had returned as soon as he’d bought provisions, and fed and watered Jennet. Isobel would most likely be asleep and his fears unfounded. But he must take care, and plan more thoroughly next time.