Goddess of the Hunt (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #1)(103)

“Where is Her Ladyship?” he asked the maid brusquely.

“I … I don’t know, my lord. I believe I saw her heading downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” That made no sense. If Lucy had gone downstairs, why hadn’t she found her aunt? Jeremy turned to exit the room, but something stopped him. The damn drapes were all pushed to the sides. No wonder the old lady went wandering off. The draft must be ice-cold. He crossed to the window and reached with both hands to gather the blue drapes together.

Then he saw it.

A tiny light, winking at him from the edge of the woods. Bobbing and weaving through the darkness. Like a fairy light.

But Jeremy didn’t believe in fairies. What he believed, with a sick certainty, was that when it came to wandering into danger, his wife clearly took after her aunt.

He bolted from the room and took the stairs at a run, for the second time that evening. This had already seemed the longest day of his life, but every second now felt an eternity. He barely mustered the patience to duck into the study and grab up his gun before charging out into the dark.

Damned fool chit. He watched the flickering light recede into the woods, and he redoubled his pace. He was running now, the heavy necklace in his pocket slapping against his chest with every step. How was he supposed to cherish and protect his wife when she kept hurling herself into harm’s way at every opportunity?

And she didn’t need him, she’d said. She didn’t need him to take care of her. Well, he thought bitterly as he began weaving through the trees, someone had to. She sure as hell couldn’t take care of herself. When he caught up to that flickering light that kept teasing him in the distance, he would have a thing or two to say about taking care. And his wife would bloody well listen.

Jeremy came to a halt. He’d lost track of the light. He scanned the woods in the direction he’d seen it last. The night was overcast, but the clouds were thin enough that the moonlight filtered through them as a faint, silver glow. He blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the murky dimness. He stared down at the ground until his boots came into focus, black wedges against the leaf-strewn mud.

His breath was heaving in his chest. Perhaps if he rested another moment, he could gather it enough to call out. But it wasn’t only the exertion that had him gasping for air. Panic seized his lungs like a vise. He hadn’t been out in this part of the forest at night in years.

Twenty-one years.

He’d lost so much to these cursed woods already. And now he’d lost sight of that damn light. The cold wind whipping through the trees felt like death itself, and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t call out. It was all he could do to keep standing.

The faint babble of the stream reached his ears, and he turned instinctively toward the sound. He stumbled forward a few paces, then stopped again to scan for the light. To listen.

A scream rent the air.

Lucy’s shoulder hurt like hell.

But she couldn’t stop to wonder what it was that had struck her, or where the devil it had come from—because at the moment, she was a bit preoccupied trying not to fall headlong into a ravine.

Her other arm—the uninjured one—clutched a tree limb, and there she clung until her slippers found purchase on the rocky outcropping. Even once she had regained her footing, she held on to that tree branch for several deep breaths. Then slowly, cautiously, she released the branch and turned around.

What she saw surprised her so greatly, she reeled anew. “Albert?”

The boy stepped forward, dim moonlight delineating a baffled countenance. “Your highness?”

“What are you doing here?” This they spoke in unison.

Neither rushed to answer.

Lucy took advantage of the mutual silence to size up her attacker. The sling that dangled from his hand told her the source of her pain. What a ninny she’d been. Thinking how fast Aunt Matilda was moving—of course she could never walk so quickly. Those footsteps hadn’t been old lady-sized; they were boy-sized. And it hadn’t been her aunt’s shift Lucy had seen fluttering in the distance; it had been Albert’s oversize, tattered homespun shirt.

He was swimming in it, that shirt. It must have belonged to his father.

His father, transported for … And Lucy realized she didn’t need him to tell her what he was doing here. She already knew.

“You’re poaching!” she accused.

The boy maintained his sullen silence.

Lucy stepped toward him. “So you won’t take Kendall charity, but you’ll steal from your lord as you please?”

“He ain’tmy lord.” Albert turned his head and spat. “Anyway, it’s his fault my father’s in Australia. How else are me and Mary supposed to eat?”

“It’s not Lord Kendall’s fault; it was his father’s. And you’re old enough to work, aren’t you?”

Albert strode boldly forward. He crouched beside her and picked up a small rock. “I do, when there’s work to be had. Planting time. Harvest. But now—there’s no farmer as needs me now.”

She watched him pocket the small stone. The rock that struck her shoulder, she concluded. As he stood, Albert eyed her silk-clad form with an expression that had turned unmistakably adolescent.

“What the devil are you wearing?” he asked.

Lucy chose to ignore the question. She also chose to wrap her arms about her chest and change the subject. “Do you really fell much game that way?” She nodded at the sling and stone he’d pocketed away.