Page 352 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Chapter Twelve

The voices edged closer.

With a violent flick of the reins, Victoria dug her heels deeper into the belly of her horse. Strong and sure, the incessant beating of his hooves against moist ground came as a welcome accompaniment to the wild rhythm of her heart. She pushed harder and leaned forward against her companion. Despite the gray distance they left behind, the whispers gained in slow measure.

Two trees appeared in their path. Victoria yanked back on the reins, and the horse gave a cry that pierced the constant pulse of the murmurings.

“Cherry trees.” The girl who rode astride in front of Victoria breathed. They neared the tree. “Trouble goes before us.” Her attention shifted toward thunder that rumbled in the distance.

Victoria followed her gaze toward the darkening clouds.

“Look.” Her companion pointed heavenward. “A raven. Morrigan has been sent from the heavens to do battle with us.”

The voices intruded upon them. They grew louder, and Victoria turned their horse in a circle, seeking any form of sanctuary. But the barren land offered none, save that of the two trees. Panic rose. Even the delicate flowers rustling in the wind held a terror well beyond that of the phantom voices.

“Why do you still search?” the girl asked. “You have already found refuge.”

Victoria urged her steed forward. “Not I, but you.”

“Me?” the girl repeated as if the thought were as foreign as the countryside around them. “Mayhap,” she sighed, “for a time. But ’tis you who need look no more.”

Victoria started to deny the possibility, but instead, headed for the hill now visible in the distance. As they drew nearer, men crested the rise. She started to turn away, but slowed when she observed the figure at the head of the band. A man, dark of hair and skin, with eyes that were a reflection of the dark countenance.

Still, his was not a darkness that instilled fear, but one that held mysteries that called to her as surely as the sirens lured passing ships. To their deaths. Victoria shivered, yet knew destruction wasn’t what she recognized in him, but grief. The din of voices lowered, and a single voice spoke above the rest.

“Oh, as I begin the lament of my great distress, what mourning shall I strive to utter? Or what Muse shall I approach with tears or songs of death or woe? Sirens, may you come to my mourning with Libyan flute and pipe or lyre, tears to match my plaintive woes.”

“Ride on,” her companion whispered against the wind of voices. “Do not delay.”

All is lost, all is lost. Victoria shook her head as her own voice sang the familiar song in her head.

The struggle seemed greater than it had when they first made this journey—and they had made this journey before. She and the girl had fled those who would have done them both harm—and escaped. Yet, somehow, she had not escaped.

The men started down the hill.

Victoria bolted upright, grasping at thin air where reins should have been in her hands. She looked about in a frenzy, blinking against sunlight that streamed through the window and across her bed. Her erratic heartbeat began to slow at the realization that she was safe and far from the vision of hill and men—or, more accurately, safe from the man.

The trembling subsided as the former sense of mystery and darkness gave way to the more corporeal reality of light and understanding. Still, her legs remained unsteady even as she rose to dress.

At last, Victoria opened the cottage door and stepped out into the brilliant light of the morning sun. Yet even those golden rays didn’t drive away the chill that had worked its way through her in a slow but steady pulse as the voices had in her dream.

* * * *

Jillian already sat upright in bed when Victoria entered the room. Victoria crossed to her, careful not to spill the broth she carried. “Perhaps you can eat just a little?” She smiled with an encouraging lift of the bowl and seated herself next to Jillian.

The girl gave a halfhearted nod and accepted the bowl. Victoria watched the slow progress of the spoon to her swollen lips. Though two spoonfuls were all she took before she lowered the bowl to her lap, Victoria knew fatigue was not the enemy this time. She covered Jillian’s hand with her own.

“You are still worried?” The affirming nod came as no surprise. Victoria was well aware the dark horse that claimed Jillian’s thoughts was the belief that her benefactor’s good graces would be sorely tried by the appearance of her accusers.

May their souls rot in hell, Victoria seethed, not for the first time that morning. Far worse than the bruises were the unseen wounds that would long outlast any physical trauma. Victoria sighed, and Jillian began to cry.

“I am sorry, mistress,” she choked between sobs.

“I did not mean to make you angry.”

“I am not angry,” Victoria soothed, but the girl’s tears showed no signs of abating.

“What is this all about?”