Witch Hunt (Witch Finder 2) (22 page)

‘You’re right, I should.’

There was silence again while she finished his throat and then neatened the two short sideburns by his ears. He lifted his head gingerly and then turned to face her.

‘Will I do?’

She smiled. He was soapy and gritty with shaved stubble, but his face was smooth again.

‘You’ll do.’

‘I’ll go down to the pump and wash it off. And while I do, you can take that off.’

‘Take it . . . off?’ For a minute she found her voice faltering and then she realized what he meant. The bandage. ‘All right. You can fill up the ewer while you’re down there, and I’ll wash it in clean water when you come back.’

After he’d gone out she began to pick at the tightly tied bandage. It was hard at first to get a purchase and at last, in frustration, she slipped the razor under the topmost fold and snicked it loose. It unravelled and she shut her eyes, almost afraid of what would be under there.

When she looked, it was very strange. It was her finger – small and white and a little wrinkled and sweaty from so many days under bandages. But it was not her finger. Just a short stump that ended just before the knuckle. The skin had healed, though the stitches remained. They would have to be removed. Before she could think better of it, she picked up the razor, pulled at the knotted end and nicked the thread. It hurt coming out – but not unbearably. Just a stinging pull.

And then there it was. Her new finger. The mark of Sebastian’s pursuit, of her desperation to get away. He had put his mark on her, as surely as the Malleus had branded Luke.

As if she had summoned him with her thoughts, he spoke from the doorway.

‘Is it all right?’

‘It . . .’ She found her voice shook a little. ‘It looks strange. I don’t think people will . . . I think they’ll be afraid, perhaps. Disgusted.’

‘Let me see.’

He came close, crouched at her feet and took her hand in his, cradling it gently between his larger ones. She turned her face away, not wanting to see his expression, but when he spoke his voice was warm and steady.

‘I’m not afraid. And I’m not disgusted. Rosa . . .’

He stopped and she found her heart was beating fast. They were quite still in the circle of candlelight, her hand caught in his. She could have reached out and touched the bare skin of his shoulder with her other. But she did not. She only sat, waiting, her heart beating hard and painful in her chest.

‘Yes?’

‘What I said earlier—’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she broke in.

‘It does – it does matter!’ He let her hand drop and got to his feet as if he could not bear to be still, as if his feelings were too much for him to contain. He paced the small room. ‘Rose, I can’t talk like other fellows. I can’t say what I mean, I don’t know how, but you mustn’t think . . .’

He stopped and put his hands over his face, so that she couldn’t see his expression in the shadows beyond the candle, but she knew from his voice that whatever it was, he was close to tears. At last he let them drop and she saw his face, shadowed and full of a kind of desperation.

‘I gave up everything for you,’ he said. ‘The Malleus, William, revenge for my parents – I gave it all up. I said it wasn’t love between us, but that was only because, love – it’s . . . Oh God, Rose, how can I make you understand? Love’s too small a word. It’s not enough for what you are to me.’

‘Luke . . .’ She tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She could only stare at his face, stricken, full of everything he wanted to say and could not. ‘Luke . . .’ she tried again.

And then, with a sigh, the candle flared up and went out, the wick collapsing into a puddle of melted wax where it glowed red for a moment and then died.

In the silence that followed Rosa could hear nothing but the beating of her heart and Luke’s ragged breathing. Then she stood and groped her way across the room, her hands outstretched. Somewhere in the darkness her blind fingers met warm skin and muscle, and she gasped, and felt his arms come around her, and his lips seeking hers, clumsily, kissing at her cheek and her jaw, and then finally finding her mouth and kissing, kissing as if he would never stop.

Together they found the bed, tumbling backwards into it, with their limbs locked and their lips finding and seeking and missing and finding again in the darkness. His fingers were at her bodice, and she was pulling at the laces of her corset, wriggling off her stockings, and he was yanking at his belt and his britches and kicking free of his boots.

And then at last there was nothing between them but the darkness and their own skin, and his hands on her waist and her breasts, and her hands on him, feeling the smoothness of muscle and the hardness of bone and the soft, rough prickle of his hair beneath her palms and lips.

‘We should not do this,’ he whispered with a kind of agony in his voice. ‘It’s a mortal sin. We could . . . You might . . . Oh, God, Rose – I’ve wanted you so . . .’

She could find no words to argue with him, tell him that this was no sin; that what Sebastian had wanted, love without consent – that was sin. But this . . . But his hands on her skin seemed to have robbed her of all her words, save one: ‘
Yes
 . . .’

And then nothing – even that last word was taken, and there was silence in the small room, silence except for their catching breaths and the wind that moaned in the chimney.

R
osa came down the stairs outside the forge and stood for a moment in the little windswept yard. She hugged her arms around herself, feeling the strangeness and the difference in her body. Everything was the same – and yet utterly changed in some indefinable way.

There were small icicles hanging from the eaves above the forge, and she thought that perhaps she was like the water in those icicles, melting from snow into something quite different and new.

Through the window of the forge she could see Luke bent over the hearth, hammering something in the heat of the fire. His movements were quick and sure, their purpose a mystery to her, but she could see the skill in the way he heated and twisted the metal, checking it each time, and the sureness of the blows of his hammer. The sound rang through the yard and the snowflakes scudded and gusted across the cobbles. From the stable she heard Brimstone, contentedly blowing down his nose as he chewed his hay.

‘He’s a good lad, your man.’

Rosa jumped and turned to find the smith standing behind her, his arms crossed.

‘I’m James McCready, blacksmith. Ye must be Luke’s wife, Rosa.’

‘Yes.’ She felt a great stupid blush rise from her breast up her throat, setting her cheeks ablaze. They had given the lie often enough – why was it only now that the intimacy of the word made her flush scarlet?

‘Been married long?’

‘N-not long.’ Her hand went to her throat, searching for the locket, and then dropped. It was a long time since she’d done that, she realized with a pang. She was learning to remember that it was not there. Instead she put her hand to her pocket, feeling the soft, frayed shape of the portrait beneath her fingers.

‘Come fra’ Gretna, aye?’ He smiled, misunderstanding her blush ‘Don’ worry yersel, pet. You’re no the first lassie to ha a Border handfastin and ye’ll no be the last.’ But then, seeing her confusion, he kindly changed the topic. ‘Aye, an like I said, he’s a good lad, your man. A sight too good fr’an apprentice, if truth be told, but I’ll tek his help and thank him for it.’

He patted her shoulder and then strode forward to throw open the door of the forge.

‘How’re ye doin’, lad? Tek a break, make yer wife a cup o’ tea now.’

Luke looked up from his hammering. He was frowning, wiping the sweat out of his eyes, and then he saw Rosa and a huge smile spread across his face, so that the deep dimple came and went and came again in his cheek.

‘Hello.’ He put down his hammer. It was impossible to tell if he was blushing; his face was hot and sweating already. But Rosa felt her own face flush with blood again at the sight of his hands and his lips, and the memories of last night came crowding in. She wanted to touch him, reassure herself that he was really there, that it had really happened.

‘Hello,’ she whispered. They stood, smiling foolishly at each other, saying nothing, not knowing what to do, and the smith rolled his eyes.

‘Young love! Get away wi’ ye both. You’re due a break, lad. Tek the kettle upstairs wi ye. There’s tea in the caddy and ye can bring me a brew when you’re done.’

Luke carried the heavy kettle carefully up the ice-dusted steps to the attic and set it on the little bare table, and they both stood, awkward and strange, in the quiet of the little room.

‘You were asleep when I woke,’ Luke said at last. ‘I thought I’d just go down and start, not disturb you.’

‘That’s all right.’ She found herself smiling again and, to busy her hands, she got out the cups and the tea. There was even a little battered strainer inside the caddy.

‘Last night—’ Luke said at the same time as she said:

‘There’s no—’

They both laughed, shakily, and Luke came around the table and took her in his arms and kissed her cheek, and her lips, and the soft skin at the curve of her jaw. She did not speak, but she made a sound like a whimper or a sigh, and she felt his arms tighten around her, as if he were afraid to let her go.

‘Last night . . .’ he said again, his voice soft against her ear, and she hugged him harder and pressed her lips against the warm skin of his throat, above his collar, and said:

‘I know.’

‘I never knew . . . I never thought . . .’ His voice shook.

His closeness made her shiver with a strange faintness; she could feel his long hard body pressing against her through her dress, and she remembered the feel of him against her skin last night, and the feel of his hands on, around, inside . . .

She shut her eyes.

Then she pulled away, smoothing down her skirt.

‘Come on. Tea. Mr McCready won’t wait for ever.’

‘Damn, McCready.’ He caught at her waist as she poured, running his hands up her bodice to the thin sliver of skin that showed above the high neckline, and she felt a shiver of wanting run through her and laughed, a strange tremulous laugh that didn’t sound like her own.

‘There’s no sugar.’ Her voice was a gasp and her hand shook when she picked up the cup. ‘That’s what I was going to say, before.’

He let go of her waist and took the cup, but his hazel eyes remained on hers as they drank. She watched the dimple come and go above the cup as he smiled, and the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

At last it was drained and he set down the cup on the table and came across to put his lips to her throat one more time.

‘Go!’ she said, laughing, pushing him away even while her lips sought his. ‘No, wait, here’s Mr McCready’s tea. And the kettle. Go on, back downstairs. We
need
this job.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know. I might walk into Langholm, buy something for supper.’

‘We’ve only pennies left.’ He fished in his pocket and put the last of their money on the table. ‘Want me to ask McCready if he’ll let me have my wages early?’

‘No . . .’ She counted the pennies and farthings. ‘No, it’ll be enough if I’m careful.’

‘Good. Do that. Be careful.’

She followed him down the icy steps and into the yard, her shawl huddled around her, and at the door of the forge she kissed him, once, quick and chaste, the kiss of a sister or a good wife setting off to market.

He smiled and she walked off into the speckling snow.

All through supper they looked, but did not touch. It was as if they were afraid, now that the smith had gone home and the place was their own again, afraid of what was to come.

Or not quite afraid, Luke thought. That wasn’t the right word. It was more like Christmas morning when he was a child and had felt the weight of the stocking at the end of his bed; instead of leaping up, he had lain there with his eyes tight shut, almost frightened to open his eyes for fear of it being too lovely to bear.

He watched Rosa as she ate, picking at her kippers and the potatoes they’d roasted at the edge of the forge-hearth. She had coiled her hair low on her neck and in the candlelight it looked almost back to its old flame-like glory. In the dim light, her skin seemed to glow, as if the candle was inside her, not stuck in a saucer between them, and when she looked up, her eyes were dark and shining as they met his.

She licked her fingers, one by one, and he watched, hungrily, watching the soft pink wetness of her lips and tongue as she sucked the last savouriness from her fingers. He swallowed and, looking down at his plate, he realized suddenly that he’d barely even touched his own food and was hungry.

‘I didn’t buy beer,’ she said, her voice low. ‘There wasn’t much money; I thought food was more important.’

‘That’s all right.’ He put a piece of potato in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he was glad or sorry that there was no beer to drink. He could have done with the borrowed courage – but he didn’t need anything to make his head reel more.

The potato crunched in his mouth, half cooked, and he suddenly felt that perhaps he was not hungry after all. His stomach clenched with fluttering nerves.