The High Sheriff of Huntingdon (23 page)

He turned
a
w
a
y from her,
stripping
off
the
black
shirt and
tossing it
on
t
h
e
table.
She took several silent, b
are
foot
steps toward
her
husband
,
admiring
the
smooth,
muscled
line
of his back,
the
sweep
of shoulder,
the elegant,
wiry
strength
of
him.
Then she
picked
up
the
almost
empty jug of water and slammed it
over
his head.

He went
d
o
w
n
hard.
The
rough crockery was
in
shards
around
him, and
t
h
e
r
e
was blood pouring from
a gash
in
his cheek. His
eyes
were
closed,
and
Elspeth
stood over
him,
wondering
w
h
e
t
h
e
r she’d killed
h
i
m.
Widowhood might
h
a
v
e
a great
deal to offer.

However,
she
didn’t
want
to
have
killed him.
She leaned down, putting
a
careful hand
to
his neck,
feeling
for
a
pulse. Within seconds
h
e
r wrist
was grabbed
as
his hand wrapped around the fragile bones like a
manacle,
hauling
her
d
o
w
n
so that she was sprawled
halfway
across him,
her
face inches
from
his.
“Bitch,”
he said. And he pulled her down so
that her mouth met his.

She kissed him then. Inexpertly,
furiously, with
full
abandon, opening her mouth to his,
pressin
g
her
hands
against his shoulders,
pushing him
down
against
the
bro
ken
crockery
and
s
pill
e
d
water.
When
her tongue
touched his,
the
shock
almost made
her veer
away,
but his hands
were
too
strong,
too
determined,
holding
her
in
place
as
she
felt
the
dampness
seep
i
n
t
o
her
thin
linen
skirts,
fe
lt
the
sharp bite of broken pottery beneath her knee.

She wanted
to sink
d
ow
n
against him, to
drown in
the spille
d
water
and
the
h
ea
t
of
his
mouth.
It
took every last ounce of pride, of
self-preservation,
to
yank herself
a
w
ay from him
before
he
could
pull her
back. And
this
time, when
she
coshed
him
on the
head
with
a
second
pottery
jug, he
stayed down.

She didn’t
dare
check
to
see
if
he
still lived.
The
man
was
incredible—if
she
put
her
hands on him
again,
he’d
probably
have
h
e
r
spread-eagled
beneath
him. She
scrambled
away,
eyeing
h
i
m
warily,
terrified
he
might
once again
surge
forward
a
n
d
capture her
.
But
this
time he
was still,
motionless.

She struggled
to
her
feet
as
new panic
swept
over
her. Her only chance was to
escape
before
anyone
saw
her, before
her
bridegroom returned to h
is
s
e
n
s
e
s
and
d
e
manded
her
blood.
Huntingdon
Keep
was
on
the edge of
Dunstan
Woods
—
surely
on a warm summer night she could
fi
n
d
a
place to
hide. The
woods
were
ancient,
haunted,
inhabited by demons
and
witches and
sylvan
creatures. She’d
have to trust
in
the
God
who seemed to
ha
v
e
deserted
h
e
r
lately to carry
her
safely through
the
dangers of
the woods.

She reached
for
her
discarded
overdress,
then
let
her hand
drop. Pure white
was
not
th
e
best choice
for
some
one
who
was
trying
to be
inconspicuous.
Instead
she
picked up the
sheriff’s rich black cloak
and
draped it
around h
e
r
slender body
.
With
one
l
a
s
t
worrying
glance
at
Alistair’s comatose
body,
she turned
to
slip through
the tower door, only
to
c
om
e
smack up against Helva’s
s
ol
i
d
body.