Rosalind squeaked, “Hector?”
“Leather-headed fool. Caught me in the woods digging up my trinket box and knife, and followed me back here. Oaf just stood there, asking if I had his wife and blabbering that he’d see me hanging by my neck. I just gutted him. The look of surprise was delicious. But unfortunately that means I have to leave, so I went to gather my things and now…now I have you.” He came nearer, a hard gleam in his eye.
“Why me?”
Slowly he inched the knife up, using it to move her fallen hair, the cold blade caressing the side of her cheek. “Saw you with that major on the horse.” A look of disgust overcame his pretty features. “Fawning all over him, you whorish Eve. And he went to your bedchamber last night, that’s what sealed it.”
“You’ve been watching me, you vile sneak.”
“The major actually. Nearly killed him when he was nosing around the woods, but he was saved by God for some reason. And then I knew. I had to save him fromyou. I always kill three. Three for the Trinity, see.”
“Doesn’t Hector count?” she asked, and then thought that maybe now was not the time to split hairs.
“Well, that was just for me, trollop.”
Rosalind was rather sick of being called absurd names, and although frightened, she was also livid. The boy was revolting; she’d cooed over the loss of his betrothed and soothed his hurt brow.
“You white-livered, foul-mouthed frigging jackanapes. You kill defenceless women and then say it was the will of God? No, you’re a cohort of the black spy and a putrid hell-born babe,” she yelled.
His mouth gaped slightly, and Rosalind took the opportunity to punch hard, her fist clenched tight. She aimed it at the soft skin of his throat, just as Mrs Tadlow had taught her –fight dirty, my girl.
The knife slipped, clattering to the floor, and he reeled back, winded, clutching his gasping throat. “Bitch,” he squawked.
But Rosalind was already at the door. She fumbled with the latch and managed to fling it open, stumbling through.
She knew she could never outrun him so turned to the horse, standing docile and unaware, scuffing the snow at the side of the hut. Running to it, she heard a strangled curse from behind, but her boot caught and she tripped, falling to the hard ground. Scrambling back, she saw an outstretched arm leading to the surprised face of Sir Hector, his expression exactly the same as the stag in Benedict’s study. Blood spilled about the body staining the white snow, and Rosalind’s stomach heaved at the metallic smell that polluted the pure, cold air.
“There’s nowhere to go, whore.”
Rosalind tried to stand, her feet slipping and struggling to gain purchase in the ice, but as she straightened, the curate flung himself at her. She kicked out with her half-boots causing him to grunt in pain, but a sudden sting in her calf brought her crashing to the ground again. She felt a trickle of liquid seep down her leg but gave it no more than a breath’s thought as vicious fingers grabbed at her waist.
The kicking and scratching was to no avail, and she screamed as he straddled her body, pulling at her hair savagely to gain her compliance.
“You little bitch, you deserve to die for hurting me. It’s God’s will.”
“No!” she screamed. “It’s all in your head, you putrid cur.” But his hands caught in her hair, yanked her head up, and bashed it to the frozen floor. Pain clattered through her skull, and for a brief moment darkness veiled her vision. Hands surrounded her throat, tight and rigid, and he leaned down, his mouth almost caressing her cheek in a lover’s touch.
“You are going to die, and I shall feel it. The power and the supremacy. He tightened his hold. It hurt, and she clamped her hands over his, desperate to pry them away. Despite his small frame, he was strong and realising she had no chance against his grip, she searched the ground about her instead. Fingers scrabbled for a branch or stone, anything with which to hit him, but all she felt was the cold icy earth, unable to give anything.
A fire burned in her lungs, a sour taste invaded her mouth and shadows crept behind her eyes. He only laughed, eyes transfixed on his hands as he slowly reduced her airflow with ferocious delight. He shifted further up her body in order to grip her throat tighter but in doing so, slightly loosened his hold. She cried out as air raced to her lungs but it was croaky and pained.
Knife…her flick knife that he’d tucked in his left boot. Could she reach it? Her vision was filling with black again and the burning sensation had moved to her eyes. His boot was now at her hip, and she scrabbled at the top, desperately searching for the weapon before she lost consciousness. There was something, something there, smooth and curved. The darkness was swallowing her so with a last thrust, she strained her fingers.
Fear and panic tore through Lucas’s veins like liquor to an abstinent man. He tried to retain his military mien. For God’s sake, he’d fought on foot with bayonet, been tortured for secrets with a burning iron until he’d fallen into a black miasma of pain. None of it, none of it had felt as bad as this. This pure terror made his hands shake and his heart thunder as though it would explode.
A pull on the reins slowed the horse. He had to focus. If he couldn’t think clearly, he was useless to Rosalind and the other murdered women that deserved justice.
Stone and his men were on the main road, and Ridges, Billy and the other grooms were headed to the east boundary. Lucas had taken the west, which included the cottage that Daphne had been kept in. Maybe the curate had gone there.
His breath panted out before him in white wisps as he trotted the horse, listening for something…anything.
Goliath cocked his head, snorting and skittering in the path, so Lucas halted the animal and listened. He’d often found that a horse had more sense than a human – they could smell an apple a mile away…or blood. The woods held their breath: no noise or movement penetrated the thick boughs, just snow drifting from the branches in the slight breeze.
A cry broke the silence and Goliath whinnied in response – a bird? It had been a high sound but faint, as though carried by the air just for their ears. He scanned the sky but could see nothing in flight; indeed, the whole forest felt silent and hushed. Lightly tapping the horse’s flanks with his heels, he headed slowly in the direction of the cottage, listening and keeping his senses alert. If he let the horse have its head and gallop, he would never hear anything.
Lucas’s steady demeanour was shattered by another cry. This was shrill, pained and female – and in completely the wrong direction. He snapped the reins hard to get the horse’s attention but there was no need, as already Goliath had spun, and they took off at full gallop. Reaching the summer bridleway, he let Goliath take the lead, hooves thundering over the snow, not hesitant but assured and powerful.
Another cry, but closer. The woodcutter’s cottage. He snapped on the left rein and they careered off the path, tearing through the woods, directly towards it.
