Chapter 13
Perry touched her arm where the bladewas tied. She was alone, and the pale green of her gown offered no disguise and her skirts rucked up were an invitation to a cur. Given the chance, a number of Charley’s so-called gentlemen acquaintances wouldn’t hesitate to pull her off her horse if they didn’t recognize her as Shaldon’s daughter.
How much less restraint could she expect from a rough free trader or a soldier cut loose from the wars, homeless and hungry.
Shoosh, Perry. She was scaring herself needlessly. Shaldon’s daughter could be braver.
The dark spot held perfectly still, probably an animal, probably as startled as herself. She pressed the nervous mare nearer, not too close. With a proper start, Chestnut could outrun a two-legged pursuer, even on this unsteady ground.
“I say. Who is there?” she called.
The brush shivered.
She spotted a bit of brown drab, compact and curled in on itself. Her breath eased.
“Please come out. You’re frightening my horse.”
As if on cue, Chestnut snorted. The brown ball uncurled, crawled out and stood in the middle of the path, trembling, fists clenched, shoulders hunched.
It was a boy of about seven, if she was any judge of age. Light brown hair and pale skin peeked from under his cap.
“Good day to you.” She scanned the moorland. He was alone.
Perry dismounted, and the boy shied away. She pulled out an apple she had taken and held it up to the mare, who eyed the boy, too nervous to take the offering.
She forced a laugh. “This is Chestnut. She is wary of you. Will you come close so she can see you mean her no harm?”
He shook his head.
“You do not speak? Are you a ghost then, wandering the moor all alone?”
His eyes widened and she could see they were a light shade of brown. His skin paled even more under the freckles sprinkling his nose.
She took a step. A soft cry escaped his lips.
“What is it, boy?”
“Y-you b-be the gh-ghost.”
Another laugh bubbled up in her, this one real. “A ghost? Of course, I’m not a ghost. I’m but a lady, out for a ride. My name is…”
She should not give her true name. She did not want the locals to make note of her presence. The Justice of the Peace here, if he was in residence, would likely be an acquaintance of her father’s.
“My name is Felicity.” It was her middle name.
Too late, she remembered, it was also her mother’s name. The presence of a Felicity would be just as suspicious and ghost-invoking.
“But my friends call me…Lizzy, and you may also. What is your name?” She took another step.
He trembled more. She reached into her pocket and his little shoulders rose.
“Naught but another apple. You won’t want the one that Chestnut has lipped.” She dropped that into a different pocket. “Would you like this fresh one?”
He eyed it. Licked his lips. Shook his head. He had a mother or someone who had trained him not to take an apple from the stranger who might be the witch from the fairy tale.
“Truly, I am not a ghost. I’m but a woman. A mere woman, and the apples are good, brought from my brother’s tree.” She took a bite, chewed. Swallowed. “They’re sweet. I have another as well as some biscuits.”
His gaze went to her pocket and then darted back to her face. “They say you be she.”
