Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(30)

Perhaps it was the wine, or the foolishness of the dance, but Tasia began to enjoy herself. All the women darted in the center of the circle, taking the wreaths from their hair and waving them high in the air. The scent of flowers mingled with sweat and wine, giving the air a peculiar earthy-sweet smell. Tasia circled the Maypole until the world reeled around her, the torch flames dancing like fireflies.

She broke outside the group of dancers and tried to catch her breath. The damp folds of her blouse clung to her, and she pulled at it repeatedly. In spite of the night's coolness, she was flushed and hot, exhilarated. Someone handed her a bottle, and she took a swallow of wine. “Thank you,” she said, wiping a stray drop from the corner of her mouth. As she looked up, she realized the blond boy had given it to her. He took back the bottle and kissed her cheek before she had time to react.

“For luck,” he said, and grinned as he turned back to the Maypole.

Tasia blinked in surprise, raising her hand to her cheek.

“The horse is 'ere!” a man shouted, and the crowd gave an enthusiastic roar.

“The horse, the horse!”

Tasia dissolved into laughter as she saw two lads in a ragged brown horse costume, one of them manfully wielding the great painted mask that served as its face. The horse's neck was encircled with a wreath of flowers, and a skirt swung around the legs beneath. A few showy kicks, and then the beast turned toward the village center, lumbering forward. The crowd followed him, clasping hands to form a long chain. Tasia was caught up in the line as they wound through the village like a giant serpent. The line passed through the first cottage, while the doors were held wide open for them. Rush mats had been spread on the floor to absorb the mud from hundreds of feet.

Emerging from the back of the cottage, Tasia let herself be pulled along. People paused at the side of the street to let the dancers pass, clapping in time to the ancient songs. A group of men stood by the buildings of the corn exchange, some of them openly fondling their female companions. An unseen obstruction caused the parade to slow. The dancers stomped their feet and sang as they waited.

Hearing catcalls, Tasia glanced at the boisterous men nearby. She was stunned to see Lord Stokehurst standing with them, his white teeth flashing as he grinned at their antics. What was he doing here? Tasia's muscles tensed as she prepared to run away before he could see her. But it was too late…In that instant he turned and looked straight at her. His smile faded, and his throat rippled with a forceful swallow. His lips parted with a surprise that seemed to equal her own.

He was very disheveled, his vest open and his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. With the torch light casting golden gleams on his dark hair, he was the living image of a bogadyr, the hero of an old Russian tale. His blue eyes held hers, direct and devilish, as if he were contemplating something indecent.

The line began to move again, but Tasia's feet were leaden. All she could seem to do was stand there in a trance. The man behind her protested. “Come, lass, either pick up yer feet or step to the side!”

“I'm sorry,” she said, hopping out of the way. Immediately her place in line vanished.

Before she could run away, Lord Stokehurst appeared in front of her. His fingers manacled her wrist, closing until her pulse throbbed hard against the pad of his thumb. “Come with me,” he said. Bemused, Tasia followed with no thought of pulling back.

There were whistles from the group of men, and cheers from the dancers as the line glided toward the next house. All sound was muffled by Tasia's frantic heartbeat. Stokehurst's legs covered the ground in long strides, forcing her to match his pace with a hasty trot. He was angry, and with just cause. She shouldn't have made an exhibition of herself. She should have conducted herself with dignity, and stayed at the mansion. Now Stokehurst would tear her to shreds with a few words, and perhaps dismiss her on the spot.

He pulled her away from the well-lit houses, into a grove at the edge of the village green. Stopping in the shadow of a large tree, he released her wrist.

Tasia looked up at him, barely able to see his shadow-crossed face. “I shouldn't have been dancing,” she said meekly.

“Why not? Tonight I gave everyone leave to do as they liked.”

Her chagrin turned to surprise. “You aren't angry?”

He stepped closer, ignoring the question. “You look like a Gypsy, with your hair like that.”

The remark, so unexpectedly personal, filled Tasia with confusion. Something about Stokehurst was very different from usual; some customary restraint had been removed. There was a new menace in his soft voice and his deliberate movements…Suddenly she realized she was being hunted. She retreated in ever-deepening alarm, stumbling on a thick tree root. His hand closed over her shoulder to steady her. Even after she had found her balance, he didn't let go. The heat of his palm sank through her blouse. Stokehurst raised his other arm, and the tip of the steel hook dug into the tree bark, close to her ear. She was trapped. Exquisitely aware of the solid weight of his body, she shrank backward until the tree trunk was solid against her spine.

He was drunk, she thought wildly. He didn't realize what he was doing. “Sir…you're not yourself. You have been drinking.”

“So have you.”

He was close enough for her to smell the sweet wine on his breath. Tasia drew her head back, pressing her skull hard against the tree. Briefly the glow of a distant passing torch cast Stokehurst's face in dull red, and then they were submerged in darkness once more.