The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (30 page)

He sat down
heavily
on
the
end of the
bed,
not
touching her,
and began
to
strip
off his
tall riding
boots.
She watched
him, wondering
if there
was
any way to distract him from his goal.
When
he’d
pulled
off his boots he
rose and looked
at
her, and
the
moonlight
speared down
through the
h
o
l
e
in the
r
oof
,
hitting
his midnight hair,
giving
the
odd and
totally inappropriate effect of
a h
a
l
o
.

“Why should
I
destroy you?” she asked suddenly, the
first
words
s
h
e
had dared speak.

They halted
him in his steady
advance.
“You
couldn’t,” he said
flatly.

“Then w
hy
are
you afraid of me?”
Not
the
wisest
c
h
oic
e
of
words,
but
Elspeth had
recently
discovered
she
was
very
far from wise. After twenty-two years of practical,
celibate living, during
which she’d viewed
men
as
overbearing
tyrants who were
at
least tolerated,
and
at most
shunned entirely,
she
was suddenly
irrationally
vul
n
er
a
ble to a
man who
s
e
e
m
e
d
to combine all
the
worst
traits of the species.
She
hadn’t
needed Morgana’s love philtre.
S
h
e
’
d
somehow
managed to
imbibe
one
of
her
own.

“I’m not
afraid
of anyone,” he said.
“Of
anything
of
this earth
or
of other dimensions. My mother has seen
to
t
h
a
t
.
It’s part
of my
power.”

“What
about
your father?”

He
l
a
u
g
h
e
d
softly.
“Ah,
yes, my father. The devil
himself.”

“Was he?”

His
smile
was small,
bitter,
but not
without
amuse
ment.
“I
doubt
it.
If
he
w
er
e
,
I wouldn’t
have
had
to
w
o
r
k
so hard
to
get
w
h
e
r
e
I am. I
n
de
e
d,
I
think Morgana
wou
ld
remember
if she’d
m
a
n
a
ged
to
couple
with
the
pr
i
n
c
e
of
darkness himself.
As it
is,
I i
m
a
g
i
n
e
he
was
a
handsome
tinker.
Or
even a
landholder.
Someone
who has no
memory of
what
a
tum
b
l
e
with a w
itch
brought forth.
”

He was
s
t
an
d
i
n
g
very
close to
the
bed.
She
c
o
u
l
d
smell
th
e
herbs, mixed
w
it
h
the
warm summer
b
r
ee
z
e
and
the
wondrous scent of
the
forest. She
could
lie back
a
n
d
stare
at
the
moon
and
try
not
to pay attention
to
what he was
do
i
n
g
.

She
glanced
at
him with a
doubtful
expression.
“
Y
o
u
are
going
to do
it,
aren’t
you?”
s
h
e
asked, wishing
she
could think
of
a better
euphemism
but
failing
entirely.

“To
be
sure.”

“And it’s
g
o
i
n
g
to
be
painful.
I
know
that
full
well. Even
with the tenderest
of
husbands, the
act is
uncomfortable
a
n
d
degrading
for women.
It
was
or
d
a
i
n
e
d that
it
be
so,
so
that
we
should
pay
for the
sins
of
Eve. And
you aren’t,
”
she
a
d
d
e
d
boldly, “th
e
most
tender
of
hus
bands.
I
imagine you’re
planning
to
pay
me
back
for
c
o
s
h
in
g
you on the head with
the water
jug.”