Hunter's Woman (15 page)

Kale sat up, snatched the fabric from her hands, wadded it in a ball and tossed it across the cottage.  It landed in the hearth and immediately caught flame.  “No!” Aslyn exclaimed, but before she could dash to the hearth to drag it out and stamp the flames out, Kale snatched her up and flung her to the bed. 

Aslyn glared up at him angrily, trying futilely to fight him off while there was still a chance of retrieving the clothing.  “Stop it!  That’s the only thing I have to wear!”

He returned her glare with one of his own.  “I’ll not have my woman wearing something not fit for a beggar.”

“You’ll not have your woman wearing anything at all!” Aslyn snapped angrily.  “For I have nothing else.  The other was lost yesterday.”

Kale grasped her arms, holding them to the bed on either side of her head.  “I brought clothing for you.”

Aslyn went still.  “You what?”

“I brought….”

Aslyn cut him off, her face suffused with color.  “You were that certain I would give myself to you like some … some lowborn slut!”

His eyes narrowed.  “You believe being my woman makes you a slut?”

Aslyn looked away.  “I never agreed to being a kept woman.”

“You gave yourself to me willingly.”

The comment sent a jolt of discomfort through her.  She could deny that she had, but then both of them would know she was lying, so what was the point?  Beyond that, he was right.  Why cavil now at being a kept woman, or for that matter his certainty that she would agree to it?

Her morality had become so ingrained that she took comfort from the appearance of it even when it was a lie?  What possible difference could appearances make to her of all people?

The fight went out of her.  She shook her head.  “Nay, enthusiastically.”

His brows rose in surprise.

She smiled faintly.  “We have an hour.”

* * * *

The gowns he’d brought were completely inappropriate for her trade.  They were beautiful and made of fine fabrics.  Aslyn gazed at them with a mixture of dismay and pleasure when Kale spread them across the bed for her.

“Kale … they are beautiful, but I cannot wear these to treat the sick.”

Kale shrugged.  “You are mine, now.  You’ve no need to.”

She stared at him a long moment.  “I don’t help because I need to.  I help because I want to.  You must understand this about me … I cannot look upon those in need and do nothing.”

He sighed heavily, caressing her cheek with his hand.  “I sensed that about you.  I don’t suppose it weighs with you that I am loath to share your attention with anyone else?”

Aslyn couldn’t prevent a smile.  “You’d tire of my undivided attention soon enough … the very moment you decided to dash off upon a hunt and found that I was baggage you’d as soon not lug along.”

“You are wrong.  I would take you with me to dress the meat,” he murmured, a teasing gleam entering his eyes.

Aslyn gave him a look, but chuckled, then turned to study the gowns once more, trying to decide which looked the simplest of them.  Kale moved behind her, reached around and unfurled a roll of light wool.  Aslyn stared at the gown blankly for several moments then twisted around to hug him tightly.  “You do know me,” she said as she looked up at him.

He smiled faintly.  “In all ways.”

She looked away uncomfortably.  “I should dress.”

“A pity.”

She threw him a doubtful glance, but took the gown and selected a shift to wear under it.  As simple as the gown was, it was still far and away better than anything she’d worn in many years.  She felt pleased with it and at the same time uncomfortable, fearful of ruining it.  Finally, she took a length of linen and tied it about her waist as an apron.

Kale had dressed, as well.  She glanced at him, but she didn’t feel comfortable about asking him where he might be going.  Instead, she asked if she should prepare a noon meal for the two of them.

His face was grim, all business again.  “My men should have arrived by now.  I need to check on them and see what the delay is.”

Aslyn nodded.

He caught her chin.  “You will not leave the cottage while I’m gone?”

It wasn’t a question.  It was an order.  Resentment flickered through her, but she dismissed it.  As urgent as her need to go was, she could not chance being caught by Kale again.  The only way she might have a chance was if she allayed his suspicions, allowed him to believe that she would stay.  “I won’t.”

He studied her a long moment and finally nodded.  “Keep the door bolted.  Don’t open it unless it’s someone you know.”

She nodded.  “You think he’ll come back?”

“I know he will.  It’s only a question of when.”

“Kale…,” she said, halting him as he opened the door.  She had been about to tell him that Lord Algar was a mogi—a shape shifter, but quite suddenly it occurred to her that that was not necessarily true.  He was a killer.  He seemed to believe he had some special powers, but she had not seen anything to indicate that he was anything but a man … a vicious, possibly crazed, killer … but still a man, and, regardless of the tales Kale had told her about the mogi, she wasn’t so certain he believed in them, or would believe her if she claimed Algar was one.  Then, too, whatever Algar was, or was not, she knew without a doubt that she had become one of the mogi.  She didn't particularly want to set Kale’s mind in that direction.  She certainly did not want to tell Kale what had led her to believe Lord Algar was a tolk.  “Take care,” she finished.

He nodded and left.  Jomares Baker arrived so closely upon the heels of Kale’s departure that she had to wonder if he’d waited outside.  Embarrassed as she was that he might have witnessed the intimacy between her and Kale, she was far more ashamed when she discovered the man had a terrible gash that should have been tended promptly.

His wife, he said, had done her best to stop the bleeding, and wrapped it tightly, but it had continued to bleed sluggishly.  One look as she unwrapped the bandage was enough to make her wonder that he’d been able to walk to her door.  It was not a terribly deep gash, nor did it seem any large veins had been ruptured, but it was a long, gaping cut.  She cleaned it carefully and stitched it closed.  “What happened?”

He looked sheepish.  “We went into the forest to track the tolks that had attacked the child.  It had grown dark and we didn’t take torches so we couldn’t see.  Something leapt from the brush.  Someone yelled that it was the tolks and everyone panicked.   I didn’t see who hit me.”

“But you don’t think it was the tolk?”

He shook his head. 

“Did anyone get bitten?  Or clawed?”

Again, he shook his head.  “I don’t think so … except, maybe, Halard, when he fought the tolks off of his boy.  I think they were long gone before we even went into the forest.”

Aslyn nodded, trying to keep the fear from her expression.  “But Halard was bitten?”

Baker scratched his head.  “I don’t know for certain.  He never did say, but he didn’t seem to be hurt bad.  If he had been, wouldn’t he have come to you?”

“I was … gone most of the day yesterday … looking for medicinal plants.  Not an easy thing to find this time of year.”

Baker nodded and rose.  “How much?”

“A couple of loaves of bread?”

He nodded.  “Just come to the bakery when you want them.”

Her shoulders slumped when she’d closed the door behind him. 

Halard had almost certainly been infected.  How long, she wondered, before he changed?

Chapter Twelve

Aslyn paced the floor when Baker had left, wondering what, if anything could be done.  She was strongly tempted to simply go to the Halard cottage and ask after him, but Kale had specifically said she was not to leave the cottage.

Not that she would have, under ordinary circumstances, considered staying only because he had ordered her to do so.  The problem was, she
had
to go, and soon.  Tonight would be the second of the dark of the moon.  She was running out of time and if she failed to convince Kale that he could trust her, then he would not let down his guard enough to allow her to escape before it was too late.  If he came back and found her gone ….

And what if she did go?  What if she saw with her own eyes that Halard bore the marks of the tolken?  It might mean nothing at all.  She suspected Algar was indeed a tolken and the leader of the pack.  But what if it was only tolks?

Even if her suspicions were right, what possible good could it do anyone for her to know it?  She would have to convince the villagers that Halard was a danger.  Who would they be more likely to believe?  Her … a stranger among them?  Or someone they’d known for years?

She finally decided to go.  Kale had not been gone long.  He had seemed to think he would not be back in time for the noon meal.  It would not take long to walk over to the Halard cottage and it seemed likely that Kale would never even know she’d left the cottage.

Seeing Halard might make no difference at all to anyone but her, but it might at least make her easier in her mind if she saw him and spoke to him about the attack.

Taking her cloak, she bundled it closely around her, pulled the hood on and left the cottage, walking quickly.  The Halard’s cottage was on the next road over and she took the cross road that Jomares McCraney had used the day that she’d arrived. 

She faltered when she realized that she would be going into a house of mourning.  She wasn’t certain she could stomach seeing Hoan dressed for burial, most likely displayed for the mourners who came to pay their condolences.    

After several moments’ hesitation, she proceeded as she’d begun.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the cottage.  Neighbors from up and down the street were congregated in tight little knots out front.  Many glanced at her as she made her way to the door and uneasiness washed over her.  

Had it begun already—the suspicions?  Or, was it merely her imagination that their looks were accusing?  She had worried after Hoan’s attack that they might begin to consider her to blame because the last two victims had been to see her shortly before they were attacked.  When people were gripped with fear it took no more than that, and sometimes considerably less, for them to begin to choose a victim of their own to blame for their misfortune.

Now she knew the attacks were her fault.  Algar had tracked her here.  Perhaps the attacks on Hoan and Will were even more directly her fault than that.  Perhaps Algar had singled them out because they bore her scent upon them.

Was it her own sense of guilt that made her feel their stares were accusing? 

Shaking the sense of uneasiness, Aslyn tapped on the heavy oak panel door.  Ana Halard opened the door.  “What are ye doin’ here?”

Taken aback, Aslyn stared at her blankly for several moments.  “I came to pay my respects and to see if Mr. Halard had injuries that needed attention.”

Ana’s lips tightened.  “He don’t need no help from the likes of you.”

The uneasiness returned tenfold.  Aslyn was tempted to simply turn around and leave.  As strong as the cowardly prompt was to turn tail and run, though, she had to know just how deeply the resentment was running against her, and what she’d been condemned for.  “I don’t understand.”

“There weren’t no trouble ‘round here till ye came.  Ye brought it with ye an’ I don’t want ye ‘round my family no more,” Ana Halard said through gritted teeth. 

Aslyn took a step back.  “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said stiffly, then turned and retraced her steps with as much dignity as she could muster.  The looks she encountered on the way out were even more pointed and angry than before.  It took an effort to pretend she didn’t notice, and even more effort to hold her pace to a walk when her instincts urged her to run.  That would be the worst thing she could do, though.  People tended to revert to simple animals when they were frightened, losing their thin veneer of civilization with amazing speed, and, like any other predatory animal, chasing what ran. 

She was clammy with fear by the time she reached the cottage once more, further unnerved by the fact that there seemed an uncommon number of people on the road before the cottage, all turning to look at her as she passed.

She was shaking when she at last bolted her door behind her, but she felt little relief, knowing she was now trapped in the cottage.  The day passed in nerve wracking suspense.  She could not even see outside without opening the door to peer out, since the cottage possessed not one single window—and peering out could be interpreted as a sense of guilt far too easily.  She nerved herself a couple of times to go out to the necessary behind the cottage, partly out of need, partly because she knew it was necessary to appear as if she was going about her daily routine, and partly so that she could see what was going on.  Each time she went out she saw knots of villagers up and down the road, talking, often glancing toward her cottage. 

Kale returned late in the afternoon, near dusk, his face grim, drawn from weariness and some other emotion Aslyn couldn’t decipher.  She was not left long to wonder over it, however.

Kale poured himself a tumbler of mead and collapsed in one of the chairs before the hearth, staring into the flames broodingly.  Despite her uneasiness over the situation in the village throughout the day, Aslyn was immediately aware that something was very wrong.