Page 8 of A Time of Witches

Brixton’s ears went back, and he picked up his pace. The poor little bird was forced to hop up and flutter back several paces before returning to the road once more.

“Be kind,” Sybil chastised.

Brixton immediately stopped and she dismounted, mindful of her skirts, and approached the familiar little bird.

Behind her, Brixton stamped his hoof with impatience, as he was wont to do when she gave her attention to anything but him.

The bird held a fragrant honeysuckle blossom in its beak—a summons from the other women.

They too must be plagued by the threat of danger.

“Anon,” she replied softly.

The little bird dropped the flower and fluttered off.

Brixton grunted out a huff behind her but was too late with his warning.

A steed rounded the corner and she went stiff. The horse’s coat was as black as the robes of his rider, both immediately recognizable. They traveled too quickly to allow Sybil time to sweep onto Brixton’s back and so she remained standing helpless in the road.

She squared her shoulders, invoking the stoicism of the Roman women in Plutarch’s Lives. Women who refused to be intimidated by men. Or even by their own fear.

“Good morrow, Magistrate.” Sybil kept her tone civil, without warmth.

A man like him needed no encouragement.

“A gentlewoman such as you should not be alone, Mrs. Brantham.” His lips curled in an oily smile that made her flesh want to peel away from her body. “Is there something amiss with your steed?”

Sybil tipped her chin with pride for Brixton. “There is not.”

“Then I can assume you stopped for some provincial matter.” He lifted a brow. “Rustic learnings you acquired from your mother, no doubt.”

Ah, he was bringing up her past.

How he would hate if she did likewise. For she recalled the many years when he did not stand a head taller than everyone else, before he acquired that glint of hatred in his eyes. When he was diminutive, and weak, and cowed by the boys who threw mud upon him—and the girls who laughed.

They did not laugh now.

But she would use his excuse to her advantage and approached a silver-green plant rising from the earth like a sharp-petaled rose. “Mullein.” She plucked a few velvety leaves. “A simple salve made of this, and a bit of nettle can do wonders for a sore back.”

The magistrate’s eyes darkened. “It is not my back that is sore.”

Sybil clenched her teeth, willing the rise of bile to ebb.

“I seek a wife, as you are well aware.” His gaze slid down her body, as if penetrating the layers of cloth and linen. As if he could touch her as easily as he could see her.

Panic sliced through her stoic determination, shattering her resolve with memories of the last time she’d been alone with him. “Doubtless there are many women who would be honored for such a role.”

She backed toward Brixton. This far from Brackenmere Manor, there would be no one to hear her scream.

Not that her screams had enlisted help before.

The memory clawed at her throat.

Brixton’s tail flicked.

The magistrate’s cheeks splotched red beneath the black stubble of his beard. “You know I want you.”

She tensed in preparation for a conversation they’d had far too many times. Yet with each rejection, he returned, as if planning to wear her down.