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  The fog was growing thicker, denser, wrapping around her like a heavy blanket, so deep that she could barely see in front of her. She’d walked this path many, many times in her eighteen years; she knew it as well as she knew the path out back of her father’s cottage to the privy. There was nothing to be afraid of.

  And if it were a year ago she wouldn’t have been afraid, she thought unhappily. Sometime in the last year, people from London had invaded their tiny little village. There was the Dark Man, whose own family had cast him off, who lived in the woods instead of in the fine house he’d inherited, who openly followed the Old Religion and ignored the vicar. She’d heard the rumors about the women. People said he bewitched women, touched them in ways that were unnatural and dangerous, made them weak and silly and unfit for any other man. Of course, she hadn’t yet met any of those women, and a tiny part of her was admittedly envious. She was a healthy young woman, and the idea of someone touching her in such a way made her want to swoon. It would be worth a certain amount of risk to sample that kind of pleasure.

  There was quality staying over at Arundel as well, though no one said much about them. London nobs, with their parties and their friends. They were free with the money, and that was all most people cared about.

  The first animals were found about six months ago, Violet remembered, edging forward tentatively, blindly in the enveloping fog. People whispered they were found in the midst of an oak grove, and there were signs of the Old Religion all around.

  It had to be the Dark Man, of course. He who admitted to studying the Old Religion, who turned his back on family and decency and faith. No one minded—the animals belonged to the landowner, and it was well-known that Gabriel Durham was the landholder of record.

  But when the first girl disappeared, people weren’t quite so happy. Josie Beverley was a wild thing, eager for the city, and everyone assumed she’d run away with the tinkers. Mary Hickey was dreamy, a little slow, and some thought she’d drowned one night, though they never found her body.

  But Maudie Possett was another matter. She’d been a good friend of the Twickham girls, and while she’d not been best pleased at finding she had a bun in the oven, Violet had no doubt she’d be able to make Horace Rumsford marry her. Personally, Violet couldn’t imagine why a pretty young thing like Maudie would be willing to tie herself to a middle-aged widower with too much belly and not enough hair, and five children besides, but then, Maudie had been willing enough to crawl between the sheets with him. And the Rumsford farm was prosperous enough—Maudie could go a lot farther and do a lot worse.

  But it seemed as if Maudie had just gone a lot farther. She’d disappeared two nights ago, and no one had seen or heard from her since. Rumsford was weeping into his stout at the Boar’s Knees, and old Tom Possett was looking like murder. And the night of Beltane was drawing closer.

  Not that that had anything to do with it, Violet reminded herself, trudging onward. They called it May Day now, and no one referred to it as Beltane except in whispers. Reverend Huston had put a stop to such pagan goings-on some long ago, threatening everlasting damnation, and people still remembered and trembled. It was a hard decision—Hernewood was named for the old god Herne the Hunter, protector of the forests. People used to pray to him regularly, along with their Christian God, wisely deciding one couldn’t have too many friends in the hereafter.

  But now that blasphemy was forbidden. And most people had forgotten all about such things, or if they happened to mention it, were quickly silenced by wiser souls.

  Still, May Day was fast approaching, no matter what you called it. And Maudie Possett had disappeared. Now Violet was walking alone in the blinding fog, the mist so deep the moon disappeared, and she knew with sudden, horrifying certainty that she wasn’t alone on the narrow path that traversed the border of Hernewood Forest itself. Something else was nearby. Something old and evil.

  “Who’s there?” she demanded in a quavering voice. The fog threw her voice back at her, startling her, and she froze, even more frightened. “You can’t scare me,” she said, the panic belying her words.

  She could hear them, all around her, the whispers, the rustle of clothing, the sound of heavy breathing as they moved closer. They came at her from every side, and she could feel their hands reaching out for her through the mist, grasping, painful hands, and she was too frightened to run, certain she’d run straight into their arms.

  And then she saw them ahead of her, more mist than substance, wavering in the light, and she knew there were indeed such things as ghosts. There were no monks left, and yet two of the creatures stood before her, neither solid nor air.

  “This way.” One of them spoke, without moving his mouth, and her terror increased.

  “Be quick about it, girl,” the other said. “Or you’ll end up in the soup like others of your kind. Take this path, and run as fast as you can.”

  They were beckoning her toward hell, she knew that with blind certainty, and it would be madness to follow. But she could still feel the others surrounding her, creatures of darkness coming up behind her, breathing down her neck, and despite what the vicar said, these phantoms were men of God, weren’t they? Surely they were safer than the creatures that crept up behind her.

  “For the love of God, be quick about it,” the taller one said in an irritable voice, though in truth there was no way she could know which one of them actually spoke when their mouths didn’t move. He took a menacing step toward her. “Run!”

  Violet ran. Something caught at her purloined shawl, ripping it from her shoulders, but she let it go without a moment’s hesitation. Her heavy shoes thudded along the path in time with her pounding heart, but she simply ran onward, blindly into the mist, trusting in instinct and the shades of creatures she had been taught to fear. She ran as if her life depended on it, knowing that whatever she’d left behind in the darkness, that unseen menace, was evil incarnate. A kind of evil that Violet Twickham had never even imagined, so terrible that ghosts were a happier alternative. She ran, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath burning, her limbs shaking.

  She ran, through the mist, until suddenly all was clear again. She was at the end of the pathway, the Boar’s Knees Inn and Hostelry was in sight, and the evil had vanished into the darkness along with the two ghostly monks.

  She staggered, weeping, into the common room. Her face was scraped, though she didn’t remember how it had happened, and her sturdy gown was torn. But she was alive, and Billy Tompkins was waiting for her, and no ungodly creatures could grab her as long as he held her to his burly chest.

  THE WIND HAD picked up, blowing Gabriel’s hair in his face, and he pushed it back with an impatient gesture. He ought to cut it—according to Peter, it made him too damned romantic-looking. Maybe he should shave his head and go back to wearing a wig like most proper gentlemen, but he wasn’t ready to go that far. He couldn’t be bothered with sartorial matters, and he certainly wasn’t about to hire a valet.

  He heard them in the distance, that ghostly horde, moving away from the forest, back toward Arundel. From the muffled sound of their disgruntled voices, he guessed they hadn’t secured their sought-after prey. He wondered what they’d been in search of. Another doe, perhaps?

  He hated to believe they would go so far as to interfere with any of the locals, despite the dark rumors that were circulating. He wasn’t intimately acquainted with the Chiltons, and he much preferred to keep it that way, but he’d spent far too much time with their sort when he was in London. The bored, wealthy upper classes had nothing better to do with their time than play at blasphemy and witchcraft, and the latest interest in ancient British religions had caught on like wildfire. He’d attended more than one ritual, mainly out of curiosity. They usually involved copious amounts of wine, incantations, and a paint-daubed virgin who was obviously well paid and more than willing. The proceedings ended up as little more than
an orgy, and after the first few, he grew bored. He wasn’t searching for sexual fulfillment in his studies. He could find that quite handily among the beautiful and the willing. He was looking for answers, and there were none to be found in London’s various, discreet, and well-bred bacchanals.

  The Chiltons were doubtless of the same ilk. While their London counterparts had been hard-pressed to find suitable oak groves within the city limits, and any ritual sacrifice had had to involve domestic livestock, the Chiltons had found more fertile ground. The Old Religions had never quite died out in the wild Yorkshire countryside, and there were oak groves aplenty. If they found some sort of entertainment in the ritual slaughter of wild animals, he wasn’t about to waste his time interfering. He deplored the waste of good food when so many were hungry but not enough to exert himself.

  Besides, he refused to believe the disappearance of the three girls had anything to do with the Chiltons’ fun and games. Any more than he put credence in the fact that Geoffrey Rumney’s ancient father had been found murdered a few months back, almost drained of blood. Henry Rumney had been a mean-tempered, villainous old sot, and any comeuppance he received on his death bed was long overdue.

  Nevertheless, Gabriel couldn’t be sure the Chiltons were quite as silly and harmless as he assumed. They had guests arriving daily, among them several of Gabriel’s more notorious former acquaintances and sybarites, including the inaptly named Merriwether, as dedicated a degenerate as Gabriel had ever met. And it might be mere coincidence that the feast of Beltane was rapidly approaching, but Gabriel never relied on coincidence without considering even the most far-fetched of possibilities. It kept life interesting.

  If the Chiltons were really intent on reenacting an ancient Druid ritual, then there was no certainty as to how far they’d go. And Gabriel’s long-submerged sense of duty was proving irritatingly intrusive. He supposed he had no choice but to encourage the Chiltons enough to assure himself they were basically harmless.

  There had been a thick mist lying on the ground when he first left the manor house, but he knew his way through the abbey ruins by sheer instinct. The mist had lifted now—blown away by the burgeoning wind, and the trees rustled overhead in a warning whisper.

  He bypassed his usual pathway to the standing tower, more restless than usual. His house was less than a mile away, and the night air was warm. It had been days since he’d been home—it might behoove him to see how the renovations were coming. To see if the old place was growing any more habitable.

  He could thank Sir Richard for its derelict state, a petty act of revenge that doubtless brought the old bastard a fair amount of pleasure. Durham had chafed at his devil’s bargain all his miserable life—even the tiniest of revenges must have seemed sweet.

  Rosecliff Hall was larger than Hernewood Manor, a fact that must have burned at Richard Durham’s soul. He and his childless wife had taken in the bastard infant child and claimed it as their own, in return for a baronetcy and an impressive manor house in the heart of the Yorkshire dales.

  But the well-connected bastard had come with gifts—money his supposed father could never touch, a neighboring estate that was far grander than Hernewood Manor, and the unchangeable fact that Gabriel was heir to everything Richard Durham had attained. It was no wonder the old man had despised him.

  His revenge had been petty but thorough. Rosecliff Hall had fallen into complete disrepair, untouched in the last thirty years as the fierce Yorkshire winters had taken their toll.

  It had taken inordinate amounts of money to begin to bring the ruin back into something even slightly habitable, but Gabriel had never lacked for financial reserves. Peter had told him the west wing was relatively comfortable, though the east wing might be beyond repairing. For some reason Gabriel seldom went there, content to live in the shabby luxury of the abandoned tower, happy among his books and the ghosts.

  But tonight he wanted to see what kind of progress had been made on the Hall. Perhaps he should sell it, leave Yorkshire, and spend his life on the Continent, pursuing his studies and his pleasures without distraction.

  There was distraction aplenty in Hernewood. The ghosts of his childhood, the Chiltons’ bloody games. And a pale young woman with fire in her eyes, who needed to be kissed, quite often and most thoroughly.

  Almost as much as he needed to kiss her. She was his bane and his delight, and the sooner he got away from her, the better.

  He would check the progress on the Hall and perhaps even spend the night in his own bed rather than the fur-strewn pallet in the tower. Tomorrow he would ascertain just how harmless the Chiltons truly were.

  And then he would be free to run as fast and as far as he wanted, if he could bring himself to leave the one place he had ever felt he truly belonged.

  It made no sense, his attachment to this place and these people. He’d tried to fight it, tried to reason it away, but still the place called to him. The abbey ruins, the ancient forest, the no-nonsense people who didn’t seem to care who he was or what he did as long as he treated them fairly.

  But he’d dreamt of Hernewood during the long years of his travels. And he doubted he could bring himself to turn his back on the place for very long ever again.

  Elizabeth was another matter. He could see her far too clearly, moving through the trees, her red hair brilliant in the misty light. Dancing in the moonlight, she’d said, and he was still haunted by the notion. He’d dream of her, curse him. And there was no way he could escape the strange spell she wove around him.

  Short of running away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “OH, LORD,” JANE said in the accents of utmost dread. “It only needed this!”

  Elizabeth looked up from her ignominious position, squatting in front of the fireplace in the small salon. She was doing her best to coax a fire from the recalcitrant logs, but since the wood itself was green and damp, and there was no kindling or any coals from the previous fire, it was hard going. Even though the room was small, a damp chill had invaded it, and both women were dressed in bulky layers of clothing in a vain effort to keep warm. “It needed what?”

  “The Chiltons,” she said in tones of deepest loathing. “You don’t suppose we could simply hide and pretend we’re not at home?”

  Elizabeth joined her at the front window. “Considering that they’re looking up at us and waving, I don’t think we can get away with it. You answer the door, and I’ll see if I can do anything about the fire.”

  “I think it’s a lost cause. Curse those wretched Twickham girls for abandoning us.”

  Jane was right. The fire was a lost cause. Elizabeth gave up, divesting herself of the wool blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders and trying to tuck her wayward hair into a subdued knot. She still couldn’t find any hairpins, and Jane’s short-cropped curls didn’t require any that she could borrow, so she had no choice but to let the mass of it hang loose.

  “Miss Pennywurst!” Delilah Chilton trilled in her musical voice, moving into the room with a delicate grace and a swaying of her bell-like skirts. “I’m delighted to see you again. I heard you were ill, and nothing would have it but that I must bring you one of my own particular tisanes to help speed you on your recovery. But I must say you look quite recovered already, and I am relieved to know the reports on your ill health were quite exaggerated.”

  “Penshurst,” Elizabeth said automatically.

  Delilah blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My last name is Penshurst,” she said, somewhat apologetically.

  “Pish,” said Delilah, dismissing it. “I’ll simply call you Emily. And you must call me Delilah.”

  “My name . . .” At that moment her husband strode in the room, one arm tucked in Jane’s, and the long-suffering expression on Jane’s face was so comical that Elizabeth gave up. For the sake of peace she could be Emily Pennywurst.
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br />   “Miss Durham informs me their servants have decamped, dearest,” Lord Chilton announced, drawing the reluctant Jane to the small settee. “Have you ever heard of anything so iniquitous?”

  “Iniquitous,” Lady Chilton echoed.

  “Actually my father dismissed most of the staff when he took the family to London,” Jane said. “He left a skeleton staff to look after us, but the two girls disappeared on Wednesday, and we haven’t seen them since.”

  “Disappeared? Never say so! Have they been kidnapped like those other three girls? Poor creatures. I weep for them,” said Lady Chilton, her pale, beautiful face entirely unmoved.

  “No, they’re home and not coming back. They’re flighty, unreasonable girls who’ve become convinced evil things are lurking in our woods.” Jane’s voice was tinged with exasperation.

  “My heavens,” Francis Chilton murmured. “And are there evil things in your woods? I’ve heard stories myself about ghostly riders and evil phantoms, but I’m not the gullible sort. I tend to dismiss such things as nonsense, though in this case I wonder if there might not be some truth in the matter. After all, there have been an extraordinary number of disappearances lately. I’m surprised your father allowed you to stay on your own with so little protection.”

  He was still holding Jane’s arm, his soft white fingers absently stroking her. Elizabeth could almost see her quiver in distaste. “I’ve lived here all my life and spent many long, happy hours in Hernewood,” Jane said sternly. “This is all baseless rumor and superstition.”