Page 49

At last the shack came into view, crooked and weather-beaten, its boards grey with age and rot. It had been many things over the years: a hiding place for reckless boys, a secret refuge for whispering lovers. But lately it had stood empty whenever she passed on her visits to Agnes.

She stopped, unease coiling inside her.

Instinct drew her behind a tree thick with tangled bushes. The bark pressed rough and damp beneath her palms, cool through her fingers as she steadied herself. If this was some childish trick, she would not stumble blindly into it. And though she doubted anyone would dare harm her, with Gowan being her overprotective brother, caution seemed wiser than pride.

She waited.

A shadow moved in the doorway.

Anne’s breath caught.

A woman stepped into view and laughter followed, bright and careless. Moyra.

The sight of her sent a chill through Anne’s chest. Moyra’s head turned slowly from side to side, eyes sweeping the clearing as though ensuring she was unobserved.

Anne pressed closer to the bark, the scent of damp wood filling her nose as she peered through the leaves. Her fingers tightened around the branches, ignoring the scratches digging into her skin.

Had she been seen?

Moyra showed no sign of it. Instead, she lingered at the threshold, pulling her shawl tightly around herself. She hesitated, then turned inward and spoke to someone inside.

Someone.

Anne retreated another step into deeper cover, heart pounding harder now.

Moments later, Moyra emerged again. Calm and unhurried and walked down the path toward the village. She didnae look back. Didnae seem concerned.

Anne watched until Moyra disappeared.

Confusion twisted inside her. Was this what Effie had meant? Had Effie seen Moyra here? Was someone else inside?

Nothing fit together.

She remained still, scarcely breathing. Her heart thundered so loudly she feared it might give her away. The forest seemed to hold its breath with her, the air heavy against her skin.

Something was wrong. She felt it deep in her bones.

At last she inhaled slowly, tasting damp moss and cold air on her tongue, and listened.

Silence.

The shack appeared abandoned, yet Moyra had spoken to someone.

The thought of who it might be rose unbidden, sharp and nauseating.

No. It could not be.

Anne swallowed, her throat painfully dry, and stepped onto the path. Each movement felt heavy now, deliberate. When a masculine cough drifted from within, she froze, pulse surging in her ears.

Shuffling followed.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she crept closer. The wood of the shack smelled of rot and mildew as she laid her hand against it. The surface felt damp and splintered beneath her fingers, flakes of decay catching against her skin as she rose onto her toes to peer through a gap that might once have been a window.

Her world tilted.

A half-dressed Camden stood inside.

He faced away, bent over as he pulled on his boots beside a narrow cot draped with a blanket. His hair was tangled, his movements unsteady, as though the ground shifted beneath him. When he reached for the second boot, a soft curse escaped him, followed by a frustrated groan.