Chasing her again, and she ran, blind and heedless.
Cackles crowed from the overhead branches and she choked as her throat tightened, yanking skirts to her knees, boots stumbling.
He was near.
He would catch her and–
“Hebe! Stop.”
Arms encircled her waist from behind and her breath caught, mouth wide in silent terror and her legs became so heavy.
“I have you, Hebe!” Fingers clutched.
No. No more, and she found her voice…
Screamed and screamed at those words.
But unlike those of her nightmares, these were not screams of fright but of anger and ire – searing fury engulfing her.
For she’d found such peace in this place: the beauty of the horses, intoxicating kisses and the perfect swans.
And she was so damn tired of being scared, of being chased through her nightmares, of the dark haunting her footsteps, and she spun, repelling and lashing out at her pursuer.
She pounded his chest as her assailant fell and she followed him to the ground.
“Leave me be,” she screamed, hurtling fists and booted feet. “No more. No more will I run.”
ERNEST LAY SUPINE AND SPRAWLED,glasses awry.
Allowed Hebe to vent her fear and fury upon him.
Allowed her to expel whatever darkness haunted her.
He held her not, arms splayed on the leafy bed, but he let her slender body rage above him, fists thumping, until cautiously, he raised a hand and smoothed it down her back, to her waist.
“My beautiful swan,” he whispered over and over, her terror paining his breath, loathing whoever had placed it there.
Little by little, the pounding fists abated, her harsh sobs lessened and her forehead met his chest – exhausted and trembling.
As fierce and brave as a Cotswold Lion, as gentle as their lambs.
With care, he wrapped the other arm around her and just lay…
Motionless.
So thankful he’d found her.
“Green hellebores and cowslips dot this place,” Ernest began softly, “when that leaf canopy is not so heavy. Dog’s mercury and violets grow beneath the beech, and deer wander, hidden from poachers.”
Her head shifted. “I…I didn’t think anything could grow here.” She sniffed. “It’s s-so dark.”
“Nature waits for the right moment. But then it spreads its beauty like an artist with watercolour.” He smoothed her hair. It had come loose and tangled and he weaved his fingers within it. “I used to stay out all night in a hollowed oak tree and watch the badgers amble hither and thither.”
This part of the forest was ancient, a deer park in Tudor times but it had been abandoned to nature in later years and nature had not been kind.
“Did the dark not scare you?”
“No. And I thought ghosts rather exciting as a boy.”
