The Legend of the Werestag (4 page)

She turned left anyhow.

He waited for her.

There was no other possible explanation. The stag must have waited for her, patiently gleaming in the moonlight, while she followed the serpentine path through the woods. For after following the trail for just a few minutes, Cecily rounded a tight thicket of brambles to nearly collide with the beast.

He did not bolt, but stood his ground. Awed, she did the same. She fought to keep her breathing steady, to make no sudden movements. How curious, that after all the cautionary tales of a cursed man-beast—“Werestag,” she heard Portia correcting in her mind—Cecily was concerned about frightening
him
.

With a soft snort, the animal gave her his handsome profile and regarded her with one large, dark, intelligent eye. His creamy hide bunched shaggy and soft on the underside of his throat, then stretched taut over his backbone and haunches. One of his rear hooves stamped the ground, as though the power coiled in those haunches wanted to spring free.

Feeling a little bit silly—and why should she, she talked to horses and dogs all the time—she addressed him. “Can you understand me? My speech, I mean?” When he gave no response, she added, “If you can understand me, nod your head twice. Or tap your hoof, perhaps.” His neck lengthened a fraction, so that his regal crown of antlers struck an even more impressive silhouette.
I am not one of your horses or dogs
, his proud bearing told her.
I do not nod or tap on
command
.

Oh, yes. He understood her. Or rather, they understood one another.

A sense of affinity passed between them, a moment of mutual admiration and respect. Cecily’s fingers itched to stroke the felty thatch beneath his ear, to judge if it was really as soft as it looked. But she sensed it would offend him, to be petted in such a manner.

Then off he darted again, and she stared after him, entranced by the power and grace in his easy, bounding gait. The creature halted on a distant rise, his sleek form just an iridescent glimmer in the distance.

Twice more they played this dash-and-follow game, until she was certain they must be well into Corbinsdale land. The distance didn’t concern Cecily. The path was always there, to lead her back.

But then the path grew fainter. Until she wasn’t even sure she was following a trail anymore, but perhaps only tracing a dried-up rill. She could hear the stream gurgling in the distance. That same stream emerged from the woods into Denny’s south meadows, where they sometimes picnicked on pleasant afternoons.

A rancid odor filled the small depression where she’d halted—as though something were rotting nearby.

A little shiver of nerves swept her, but she bade herself to stay calm and survey her surroundings.

She pivoted slowly. A copse of alder crowded her view, and the stag’s shining form had disappeared.

But she was not lost. If she had no other alternative, she could follow the stream to those familiar meadows, then return to Swinford Manor from there. It would make for a long walk home, and a muddy one, but she had several hours of good moonlight left, and a warm cloak. There was no cause for alarm.

She was in no danger of wandering aimlessly in the woods until she died of thirst or starvation.

A harsh grunt made her jump.

No, she was in danger of perishing in this very spot.

Cecily turned toward the ominous snuffling noise. There, in the underbrush, lurked a boar. She’d never seen a boar, but she knew this must be one—else it was the largest, hairiest, most foul-smelling and predatory pig she’d ever encountered.

“Denny?” she called. Then, louder: “Portia? Mr. Brooke?”

The malodorous thing shuffled closer. It was drooling. Slobbering and snorting. The beast’s rubbery lips quivered and curled, revealing a pair of sharp, menacing tusks to complement the smaller, hooked set bracketing his snout.

“Go away,” she told it. “Shoo.”

No response.

A cloud moved across the moon, painting the forest a darker shade of greenish-gray.

“
Denny! Help!
”

As the beast lowered its head and began to charge, thoughts rioted in Cecily’s brain. Regrets, mostly. Of all the disgusting, miserable, lonely ways to die, she would end like this? And though she knew she had no one to blame but herself for this predicament, she felt an unreasoned surge of anger toward Luke. If he cared for her the slightest bit, she wouldn’t be here at all.

That irrational stab of fury broke her silence. She had already stood up to one brute this evening. She would not go quietly now.

“Arrogant, insufferable
cad
!” she screamed at the boar, grabbing up a fallen branch and raising it high above her head. Widening her stance, she braced for the impact, forcing herself to be patient…wait…

She would only have one chance, one swing.

A benevolent gust of wind whipped the hair out of her face. She focused her gaze on one flattened, bristled ear and tightened her grip.

Almost…almost…

Now
.

Just as she swung, some unseen force tackled Cecily from the side. She felt herself lifted effortlessly, then hurled to the ground. The stick clattered from her grasp. Loamy soil clotted against her cheek, and her fingernails scrabbled in moss and decaying leaves.

She struggled to rise, but a heavy weight held her pinned against the ground. Was it the boar? It couldn’t be. She felt no bristles against her flesh, and it didn’t smell nearly bad enough. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.

A hand.
Yes. Fingers, palm, thumb. Human.

“Be still,” a deep voice growled.

And then the boar was upon them both.

Cecily’s face slammed against the turf again as the beast’s second charge hit home. Despite the jolt, she was aware of the stranger’s frame surrounding her body, absorbing the worst of the blow. When the boar eased off, presumably to charge again, the stranger released Cecily’s mouth, grabbed the tree branch she had dropped, and rolled over swinging. Even with her face still pressed into the dirt, she heard a dull crack and a porcine squeal of pain that told her the club had hit its mark.

The man’s weight was gone from her now, and she rolled onto her back, propping herself up on one elbow. A few paces away, the stranger—her protector—staggered to his feet and squared off against the angry boar. With the crosshatch of branches overhead and the clouds obscuring the moon, Cecily could barely make out the forms of man and beast as they circled one another, much less make out the stranger’s face.

“Denny?” she asked tentatively. His build appeared different from Denny’s, but then it was dark and difficult to see. “Denny, is that you?”

The man gave no response. Really, how could he, with the boar charging him again?

Survival first
, she chided herself.
Introductions later
.

The stranger dodged right and swung, clouting the beast on the ear with his club. Amidst the boar’s angry squeals, Cecily registered the sound of ripping fabric and a masculine grunt of pain.

“Oh! Are you hurt?” She stepped forward, keeping her eyes focused on the writhing heap of hoary animal between them.

“Get back.” The command was delivered in a savage, almost inhuman voice.

The great boar struggled to regain its feet, and the man rushed forward to kick it in the head. The beast rooted and snapped with its snout and jaws, trying to bite the man’s foot. One tusk fishhooked on boot leather, pulling the man off balance and sending him crashing to the ground. The two were locked together now, boar’s jaw to man’s boot, and the stranger used the position to his advantage. Bracing himself on hands and elbows, he stomped and kicked with his free leg, landing vicious blows to the boar’s throat, crown, jaw. The boar backed away, dragging the man with him, but the animal couldn’t free its tusk. Again and again, the man kicked, until the boar’s squeals became choked gurgles. The scent of fresh blood, metallic and sharp, mingled with the beast’s own stench.

Cecily backed away, nauseated by the sounds and smells of violence. She tripped over a tree root and stumbled back, coming to rest on her elbows. She stayed like that, staring up at a slice of cloudy sky visible through the branches, until the pummeling blows stopped and the boar wheezed its last rattling breath. Then she slumped back further, laying supine in the leaves. Her heart throbbed against her breastbone.

“Thank you,” she whispered to her unknown rescuer. If he hadn’t intervened, she would have certainly perished. He must be one of Denny’s footmen, she reasoned. Or perhaps a gamekeeper from Swinford or Corbinsdale.

But then, he had no hounds, no gun. Strange.

Feeling sufficiently recovered to risk a look at him, she rolled onto her side.

She saw no one.

A hand clamped around her ankle, and Cecily shrieked. She attempted to rise, but could do no more than scrabble sideways with her leg pinned thus. Her rescuer, now turned attacker, crouched at her feet and began shoving her skirts to her waist. Horrified, she kicked at him the way he’d kicked at the boar, but before her boot could connect with his face, he’d captured it in his other hand. His head disappeared from view, and she felt him burrowing under her petticoats.

Oh, God. What cruel work of Fate was this? This man had preserved her life, only to ravage her body?

Temporarily pinning her left leg with his knee, he unlaced and removed her boot. Vise-like fingers gripped the bared arch of her foot.

She shoved at his shoulders through the folds of her skirts, beat on his back with her fists. “No,” she sobbed. “No, please.”

“Shhh.” A rush of hot breath warmed her inner thigh. “Be still,” came the rough voice muffled by fabric.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Cecily felt a swift tug at her ribbon garter—and since his hands were occupied restraining her ankles, she knew he had to be using his mouth. She shuddered as the ribbon fell slack and a neat row of teeth closed around the edge of her sensible woolen stocking. Slowly, tenderly, with a lover’s finesse, he drew the stocking down her leg. A desperate sensation built within her as the wool scraped over her thigh, her knee, the sensitive slope of her calf. Her senses buzzed with an exquisite blend of heightened awareness and fear. She trembled.

He slid the stocking over her foot, then released both her legs. “Forgive me,” he murmured.

Cecily heard him rise to his feet and stride away. She fought to sit up, batting away the folds of cloak and petticoat blocking her view. When she finally managed to get upright, she spied the man retreating into the shadows. His face was impossible to make out. What moonlight remained lit only the pale, tattered remnants of one shirtsleeve and the mud-streaked, sinewy arm beneath. Around his forearm, he had wound her stocking.

A bandage. He had taken her stocking to dress his wound. And it must have been a serious injury, for Cecily could already discern a dark stain of blood seeping through the ivory wool.

“You’re wounded.” She finally managed to get standing all of a piece, balancing her weight on her right leg as her bare left toes squished in mud. “You need help.” He ignored her, striding away at a purposeful speed. There was no way she could keep pace with him, not missing one boot.

“Stop, please!” she called. “Come back. I know who you are.” And then, the far-off call: “Cecily?”

It was Denny’s voice. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and caught the bobbing glow of torches in the distance.

“Cecily?” he called again. “Is that you? Are you all right?” She whipped her neck back around to look for the man, but he’d already disappeared. Squinting hard, she scanned the thick curtain of forest, flattening the brown and green shadows into one shapeless mass and hoping for just one stray flash of—

Of quicksilver. There it was. A bolt of mercury, bounding through the trees.

“Cecily!” Denny’s voice was now joined by Portia’s. “Cecily, where are you?”

“Here,” she called. “I’m over here.”

The torches moved toward her, and Cecily melted with relief. She’d had enough imprudent adventure for one evening, thank you.

“Cecily. Thank God.” Pushing his way into the stand of alder, Denny hurried to her side. He put an arm about her shoulders, and she gratefully leaned into his embrace.

“Where have you been?” Portia scolded. “Why on earth did you leave the group? We’ve been—” When a piercing shriek ended her friend’s harangue, Cecily knew the torchlight must have illumined the bloody remains of the boar. Not wanting to look, she buried her face in Denny’s coat.

“Good Lord,” said Brooke. “What’s happened here?”

Cecily lifted her face and looked round at the group. Denny, Brooke, all four footmen. It couldn’t have been any of them. Her suspicions were confirmed. Dare she tell them the truth?

She swallowed hard. “I’ve just met the werestag.”

“Well, then.” Luke took his seat at the breakfast table. He was last to arrive, as was his habit, and he addressed his general greetings to the table. “How was your hunting excursion last night? Did you catch a glimpse of your man-beast, Mrs. Yardley?”

“No,” Portia replied with a coy smile. “But Cecily did.”

He swung his gaze to the other side of the table, where Cecily sat, calmly nipping sugar into her teacup.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, it is,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, not looking up from her tea.

“She caught more than a glimpse of him,” Denny said. “And
he
took her boot.”

“He did not take my boot. I mean, he took off my boot, but he gave it back. It was my stocking he kept.”

“Oh, naturally,” Luke muttered.

Cecily gave him a sharp look, clearly annoyed with his flippant response. But really, how
should
he respond to the notion of Cecily disrobing in the woods and distributing items of personal attire to mythical beasts? A servant approached, offering him a plate heaped with eggs and kippers and a ridiculous number of buttered rolls. Rubbing his temples, he waved it away. “Just coffee.” Surely this would all make more sense after coffee. “Would someone care to begin this tale at the beginning?” Cecily looked to Portia. “You’re the writer.”