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Chapter Twelve
After three weeks of camping on the moor, Rhys had learned to enjoy the solitude at night.
In the army, there had always been men about. Even though officers slept in tents, he could always feel the bodies crushed around it, hear the noises of men snoring, coughing, frigging themselves to sleep. Truthfully, it hadn’t bothered him. The alternative was to be left alone with his memories, and those were far less pleasant than any rude sounds created by men or war.
But now he kept vigil with something other than memories of the past: plans for the future. And as such, Rhys didn’t mind being left alone at all.
There were still sounds enough to fill the night. The soft howl of the wind, the screeches of ravens and owls, the strangled hiss of the peat fire. Once asleep, he probably added his own nightmare-induced cries to the chorus, but here was another benefit of isolation: There was no one around to hear.
He and the men had completed two rises on the cottage now. The walls stood two feet thick and five feet high, so far. They formed a solid box with no entrance or window. The holes for doors and window glass would be sawed once the house was complete. After they laid the next rise, Rhys wouldn’t be able to vault in and out of the structure any longer. He’d have to get a ladder, he supposed, or make his bed on the ground nearby.
But for now, he slept inside his house. Tonight he lay face-up on his pallet of blankets, staring at the four earthen walls rising up around him and the empty gray sky overhead. It was one of those strange, misty nights where a thin fog trapped the moonlight close to the earth, but no stars shone through.
To others, he supposed the unfinished cottage might resemble some sort of mausoleum, but Rhys had never felt more alive. He could scarcely sleep at night for the plans tumbling through his mind. Plans for cottage furnishings and plans for the new stables, and some disconnected wonderings about whether the Duke of Morland would sell him a mare suitable for breeding with Osiris. And all sorts of plans for Meredith.
Which parts of her body he’d like to stroke, and which to kiss. Which parts might respond more favorably to a lick …
Just as that pleasant image was carrying him off to sleep, Rhys was startled awake by a loud sound. A new sound.
There it was again. A noise like rocks clacking together, or the scraping of chain. Too clumsy to be the work of any nocturnal creature.
He rose from his pallet and strode over to the corner where he’d left an old crate. Planting one boot on the crate, he grasped the top of the wall with his hands and vaulted up to sit on the packed-earth wall. He scanned the darkness. Nothing caught his eye, but the sound reached his ears again. This time, more like a distant bang. And was that an inhuman howl, or a trick of the wind?
Finally, he turned toward the hillside and looked up to the rise where the ruins of Nethermoor Hall could still be glimpsed, presiding over the gloom. A strange wisp of white light came into view, bobbing briefly on the crest of the hill before it disappeared again.
With a rough grunt, Rhys shoved himself off the wall. His boots punched the ground, and he hit the trail a moment after. Most likely, he’d find nothing but wind and mist, or perhaps some bats making mischief. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he’d investigated.
His long strides ate up the rocky slope, and soon he’d reached the top of the rise. His view of the ruins was unobstructed now—at least, not obstructed by rocks anymore. A frothy mist still swirled about the place, weaving through the arches and spiraling up the lone remaining chimney.
“Hullo!” he called out as he reached the edge of the burnt-out hall. “Someone there?”
No answer. Not that he’d been expecting one.
And there it was again—the light. Darting and dancing in the mist, like a mischievous little piskie. That sight would have been enough to send most moorfolk fleeing for their snug thatched-roof huts. Local legend told of many an unsuspecting fellow being “piskie-led” into danger.
But Rhys didn’t believe in piskies or ghosts. If anything was playing tricks on him, it was just the fog. Or perhaps his memory. A lot of bad memories lived here.
Crouching, he threaded his body through the remains of a window and entered the ruin. Despite the glow of the moonlight, he wished he’d brought a torch. It was darker here, inside the old walls. As though the stones sucked all the moonlight into themselves and devoured it.
Intrigued by another flash of light, he entered a mostly intact corridor. He searched his mind in vain for any memory of this place—it was long and narrow, with no doors opening off it, save the two on either end. Most likely it had connected the main house with the servant quarters. He’d never wandered there, never been friendly with the servants. With the exception of George Lane, he’d spoken to the servants as little as possible, save the occasional churlish word when absolutely necessary. If they didn’t know him, or didn’t like him, his boyhood logic had argued, they wouldn’t ask inconvenient questions or try to interfere.
Suddenly the wind picked up, gusting through the narrow tunnel with an almost human scream. Rhys picked up his pace, spurred by the wind’s icy bite on his neck.
He stumbled a little on a bit of rock, and he swore. Why was he letting this place spook him? After all, wasn’thisthe spirit supposedly haunting the place? He should find nothing here to scare him, not anymore.
But against all reason, his head began to spin. He put a hand against the wall to steady himself, closing his eyes to the dark.
The more the wind blew and echoed through that corridor, the higher his hair raised along his scalp. He heard the echoes of his father’s shouts, his mother’s keening wail, his own startled cries. And those horses … God, the screaming horses. Nausea churned in his gut.
Enough of this. Enough. Mysterious piskie lights be damned.
Rhys turned on his booted heel and started back down the corridor the way he’d come. At some point his determined stride became a jog. He tripped over the same damn stone he’d stumbled over before, this time sprawling to the ground. His knee skidded on gravel, and grit dug under his fingernails.
Stand, the voice inside him said.On your feet, brat.
Just like always, he obeyed, scrambling to his feet and running for the entrance of the corridor. Only when he reached open air did he let himself slow. He stood doubled over, hands braced on his knees, drinking great lungfuls of moorland mist. Why had he ever returned to this cursed place?
A loud clanging behind him made him jump.
