Chapter 7

SEVEN

Reverend Lynden Stalker moved quickly. The collar of his coat was drawn up, as much to keep the rain out as to hopefully disguise his identity to anyone who might be peering out of their windows in the village. In his hand, he still clutched the stone with which he'd felled Mr. Desmond Crane. He'd thought, initially, that he would wait until Belladonna was alone, walking home. But Crane had spoiled his plan by putting her on his horse and sending her on her way.

The fury he'd felt at having his plans foiled had prompted his temper. And it was his temper that had led him to strike the man down. He wouldn't say that he was remorseful about it. Crane was an obstacle in his path—an obstacle to completing his divine mission.

Reaching the vicarage at last, he ducked through the low gate and entered through the side door. In the kitchen, his wife was preparing the evening meal. A dull creature, he loathed her as much as he loathed Belladonna. Silent enough to make others wonder if she was not dimwitted in some way, only he knew the truth. He'd trained her not to speak, to stay silent and keep his counsel. It had taken years to make her biddable, years of berating, belittling and even beating her. Now that he'd worn her down, now that she had no more fight left in her, he found her dull and uninteresting.

Entering the kitchen, he placed the stone on the table. It was still marked with Crane's blood. She looked at it, then looked at him. But again, she said nothing.

"I'll have your meal on the table in but a moment," she said.

He glanced at his pocket watch. "It is nearly six o'clock. It will be on the table at six on the dot… or you'll suffer the consequences."

She lowered her eyes and nodded. "Of course. I hall always endeavor to please you as a wife should."

Stalker turned and marched from the kitchen to the dining room. With his back to her, he didn't see that Maryanne, his wife, had raised her head. Her blue eyes, once bright and lovely, were now shadowed with exhaustion. But it was the hatred burning in them, directed at his departing form, that would have choked him the most.

Her gaze drifted to the rock, still dark with blood. So softly that anyone more than a few feet away could not hear her at all, she mused, "What have you done now, Lynden? Whatever it is, I hope you're caught and punished for as long as you yet live."

Bella moved about her little cottage with, what to an outsider would appear, purpose. In truth, it was nothing more than agitation and a pitiful attempt not to allow her emotions to get the better of her. Whenever she was upset, work helped her to ground herself, to recenter herself and regain her composure. Normally. But there was nothing normal about her current predicament or her current feelings.

Her aunt had taught her all the ancient ways, the secrets of their family. And as she gathered herbs and other things to combine them in the heavy pot that hung on a hook near the hearth, she paused only to consult the heavy book on the table. That she needed to consult it all was treatment to just how upset she was. Most of the contents of that book had been committed to her memory years and years ago. But she was shaken to her toes. Lost, confused, confounded. And ashamed. She was ashamed of her behavior. What had happened in that clearing?

She'd made a fool of herself. That was what. A single kiss and she'd been ready to throw all caution to the wind and simply give herself to him. And he'd been appalled at her behavior. That was the only possible explanation for why he would have sent her on her way with such haste. His statement that he did not trust himself to be alone with her had, she thought, merely been a way to spare her embarrassment or to perhaps spare him the unpleasantness the truth—that her forwardness had repulsed him. She had, in a single reckless act, proven to him that she was as wicked as everyone claimed her to be.

Dropping her head, her chin resting against her chest, she fought back the urge to cry. It was a mixture of shame, embarrassment, disappointment and years of loneliness. All those emotions welled inside her and worry over what he must now think of her swirled in her mind.

Pacing the length and breadth of her little cottage, she did not notice that with every step she took, no matter the direction, the candle flame followed her. It bent and danced in a way that would have astounded others. To her, it was hardly worthy of note.

"It is useless to cry about it, Bella," she told herself. "It was impetuous and stupid and it is done." Dashing away tears that had gathered on her lower lashes, tears she had refused to let fall, she took a steadying breath. "Do the work. There are remedies to be made, potions to be concocted and bread to be made for the week."

Turning back to the book, she traced her hands over the smooth, worn leather cover. The book's binding had been repaired time and again, and still it bulged with things tucked inside it. Bits of fabric, dried herbs, folded pieces of parchment and foolscap were all tucked inside the bound pages. Half grimoire, half recipe book, it contained a wealth of knowledge. Much of it, Bella had never even considered using. Her aunt had taught her the rule of three and she abided by that, for lack of a better word, religiously. Dark magic of any kind, any sort of spell that violated the free will of others, was forbidden. No amount of money could make her break that particular rule. But she wasn't about dark magic. She was about protection.

Crushing some herbs with her mortar and pestle, she was perhaps a bit more vigorous and hurried than necessary. If she had to stop a time or two to brush away hot and entirely useless tears, well, it was no matter.

By the time she was finished, her hand was aching from the exertion but her eyes were finally dry. Getting up from the table, Bella retrieved a bottle from the shelf and transferred the mixture to it, adding some oil as well and then a small crystal. With the bottle full, she walked to the door and opened it to the chilly air. The rain was falling in heavy sheets, but that did not deter her as she sprinkled the mixture over her doorway while chanting ancient words. It wasn't even a spell, rather, it was more a blessing. She did it every week as a way to keep negativity—her own or others—out of her home. In that moment, she was doing it to give herself strength, to keep her from going to him and pleading with him to—what? To love her? To want her? Desperation and pride rarely went hand and hand and her pride was something she valued too much to sacrifice it so easily. Once could be classified a mistake, a simple error in judgement. To do so again would be a willful and foolish choice.

Heedless of the rain, she stood in her open doorway, taking in the growing storm in all its power and glory. The wind whipped at her skirts, tugged at her hair and sent it tangling about her face. The elements in all their fury had always appealed to her. Thunder rumbled in the distance and there was a brief flash of lighting in the sky. She could feel the charge of it and for just a moment, she let it course through her, wiping away all the doubts and fears that had been circling in her mind. It calmed her in a way nothing else had. And it was that calm which allowed her other senses, those that were unique to her and the other women of her family, to stir.

She couldn't say what it was that actually alerted her, but the feeling of not being alone was too intense to simply ignore. Staring through the rain, she blinked to clear her vision. But it didn't dissipate. The vision was no simple vision at all, not some spectral image crafted by her own mind. A terrifyingly familiar masculine figure lay slumped against the side of her outbuilding, drenched through.

"Desmond," she breathed. Fear knotted in her gut. What was he doing there?

Injured. The word simply appeared in her mind. It wasn't simply a thought or even a question. It was a knowing. One that went bone deep.

Was she too late?

Moving forward without any thought for herself, she stepped beyond the threshold of her small cottage and into the slashing storm. The cold rain was a shock as it landed on her flushed face. The heat inside her little cottage as she'd built up the fire to work on her potions was quickly forgotten. Traversing the small yard to where he leaned against her shed, her heart pounded furiously in her chest, the frantic pace a result of her quickening fear. As she neared him, Bella breathed a sigh of relief. She was close enough to hear the soft groan that escaped him. He lived.

Another flash of lighting, allowed her to see much more clearly why he was slumped over in her garden. There was a wicked gash near his hairline, dark bruises forming around it already and blood still seeping into his dark hair from the wound. Kneeling in front of him, heedless of the rain and mud soaking her clothes, Bella touched his face. "Desmond?" There was no response. More forcefully, she all but shouted, "Desmond, you must awaken!"

Slowly, with great effort, his eyes opened partially and he looked at her. Dazed and barely conscious, his confusion was apparent.

Struggling to find words, she finally managed, "You've been injured and somehow you've wandered to my home. I need to get you inside but I cannot do so without your aid." Again, only confusion greeted her in response. Explaining more plainly, she added, "You are too heavy for me to carry or even drag you without doing further injury to you."

He didn't say anything in response, but he remained awake. Crouching beside him, Bella draped his arm about her shoulders and together they struggled to their feet. It was a difficult journey, short though it was, beset by stumbles and weakness from his injury. When at last they reached her door, Bella was beyond relieved. Her muscles were quivering under his added and considerable weight. Not that he was fat. Good heavens, he was anything but. Still, he was a very large man, towering over her even as he slumped forward. Those broad shoulders, and the thick, heavy chest that she admired so, were something of an inconvenience at the moment.

Leaning him up against the wall, Bella grabbed a drying cloth from the cupboard and attempted to dry him off. It was a pitiful effort. His clothes were entirely sodden and had been for some time. With no other hope, her only option was to strip him. "Do not give in to the darkness. I cannot do this alone."

"How did I get here?" He whispered the question weakly.

"I do not know. When I left the clearing, you were well enough, but I've no notion what happened after or how it is that you wandered here" she replied. "How did you find your way to my cottage in this state? How is it even possible?"

Desmond frowned. "He was watching… in the woods. Watching us. Watching you."

Bella shivered. "Who was watching?"

He tried to shake his head but let out a grunt of pain and slumped forward. It was all she could do to catch him.

"Nevermind about all of that," she said, stroking his cheek in a soothing manner. "Just help me get you out of your coat and then we'll tackle the rest with you sitting or lying down."

It took both of them. The fabric was wet and stubborn, not to mention very well fitted. It was clear in trying to remove the wet garment that he had to have a valet. As well fitted as his clothes were, se'd never dress himself without the aid of one. When the coat finally fell to the floor, he leaned back against the wall, trembling with the effort.

Leaving him there, Bella grabbed a straight backed chair from her small table. He sank onto it, the wood groaning beneath his weight. Kneeling before him, she began tugging at his boots.

"Why would someone want to hurt you?" The question was uttered softly, his words slightly slurred but no less astute for it.

She looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were open wider now, more alert, though there were stark lines bracketing his lips and his skin was unnaturally pale. Still, the power of those deep blue eyes was somewhat astonishing. Bella felt pinned to the spot beneath that gaze, even as she answered him as honestly as she could. "Because I am different from them. Because I am something they do not understand. And it is because you have gotten close to me that they have hurt you. I should never have agreed to meet with you today. You are wounded and it is entirely my fault."

He stared at her for a moment longer, trying to formulate a response—an argument against her assessment of the situation. But his injury got the better of him and he slipped once more into unconsciousness before he could speak.