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“I have never seen such rain!” Violet exclaimed, pushing the hood from her hair as she stepped in behind him. Water poured off them both, pooling to mud on the dirt floor.
He blinked as his eyes adjusted, and he turned in a full circle to take in the surroundings. Holes in the roof allowed water in on one end of the building, but the stone tower close that must have held a water wheel remained dry.
Violet hung her cape to dry on an iron ring in the wall that must have held torches at one time. She had obviously been here before.
“It will be dry upstairs.” She gestured toward the winding staircase at the base of the tower. “I keep some things up there for when I want to escape.”
Finn removed his cloak and hung it on another iron ring at the opposite side of the doorway.
“Escape?” He pulled Violet away from the staircase and tucked her behind him once again. Apparently, she was unaccustomed to being protected.
“From the keep.” She lowered her voice and he sensed an unease on her part. “My father can be unreasonable when his wound pains him.” Winding around the tower stairs, Finn reached another floor that must have been used to access the water wheel. Here, an arrow slit allowed in the occasional flash of lightning that showed him the lay of the chamber easily enough. They were alone. No one hid in the upper chamber. Yet the space was not a crumbling ruin. Far from it.
“You did this?” he asked, peering around from the top stair.
A broom of twigs rested in one corner, tied roughly with a strip that looked like tree vine. And it had been used recently, the plank floor swept clear of debris. A trunk rested in one corner, a rough wool blanket rolled and tied upon it. A bare pallet lay in the opposite corner. The ledge overlooking the water wheel mechanism contained a row of pots filled with plants of various sizes. Some trailed greenery to the floor of the chamber while others were little more than seedlings newly sprouted.
While he looked around, she opened the trunk and withdrew a taper and a piece of flint. A clean rag followed.
“Here.” She placed the worn scrap of linen in his hand. “You can dry off.”
He watched as she struck the flint expertly. With any other woman, he would have taken the task from her and lit the small cluster of twigs on a makeshift stone hearth that she’d assembled near the open ledge. But with Violet, he found it impossible to disrupt this display of skill. Did her father have any idea that his daughter maintained a rudimentary retreat? She must have been allowed to run wild.
“It’s a miracle you have not been molested by some passing thief out here.” He shook his head, confused by her at every turn. Was she the wanton he’d met earlier? The eager-to-please daughter who’d made an appearance at sup? Or the self-sufficient maid he’d seen after midnight? “What woman takes such risks with her person?”
She coaxed a spark to warm the twigs in the circle of stones, then huffed on the pile until a small fire crackled brightly. Fragrant smoke told him the wood was from a fruit tree of some sort.
“I began the rumors that the woods were haunted in order to keep people away. The stories of ghosts and beasties help discourage travelers, and we’ve had fewer thieves and outlaws since we began the tales.” Sitting back on her heels, she tugged off the neck cloth that she hadn’t been able to keep in place in the great hall. “I am not convinced there is a killer in our woods, despite the body. I think people were simply more prone to believe that because of the tales I’d begun. I had the help of the local wise woman. She’s like a mother to me.”
He draped the damp linen over the stones near the fire and did not bother hiding his surprise.
“That’s where you went tonight.” He’d peered in through a window while Violet had been inside the hut. “To see the wise woman.”
“Yes.” Violet gathered her long hair and squeezed the excess water from it. The water hissed as it fell on the makeshift hearthstones. “I wanted to warn her about you. That you might try to drive everyone from the woods in an attempt to find a killer that may not exist.”
“You think I cannot tell the difference between a cold-blooded backstabber and a harmless old woman?”
“That is what Morag said.” Violet eased off her boots, presumably to dry them. “Although, you will recall the body showed now wounds. Perhaps the man was a victim of disease.”
Yet the action—strangely intimate no matter how necessary—reminded him they would be in close proximity for as long as the rain lasted. Did she know what it would do to a man to watch her remove her shoes?
