Cinders and Ashes (Cavendish Mysteries 2)

Her mind immediately latched on to the haunting, almost howling noise, created by the ferocious wind howling through the leaves and branches high above.

At least now you know why they call it the haunted woods, Amelia thou

ght with a shiver.

“Great, spook yourself why don’t you!” she snapped aloud, when the cracking of a branch beneath her feet made her squeal in alarm.

With fear nipping at her heels, she broke into a run.

It seemed to take an age before she finally saw the thin road marking the end of her journey.

“Oomph!” The rattling of the lantern hitting the ground was accompanied by her squeal of surprise, as she landed on the ground with a thud.

Stunned, she lay face-down in the dirt for several moments trying to regain her breath. Her heart hammering, she peered through the gloom toward the soft mound her legs were lying on. Whatever it was certainly hadn’t been there at dawn when she had left for work.

Quickly drawing her legs upwards and off the lump, she scanned the trees for signs of anyone who may be lurking.

Desperate to find some security, she began patting the floor in wider circles until she found her precious lantern. She didn’t know why she was so eager to retrieve it now. With the winds being so high it was practically useless, but simply holding it gave her a small degree of comfort. She clutched it tight to her chest as she peered through the driving rain towards the lump. She wished she could see enough to find a stick big enough to protect herself. There was something about the huge mound that rang alarm bells within her.

Giving herself a stern shake, she became aware that with each passing moment she was getting increasingly soaked to the skin. Her fingers were already numb from cold. The rain had long since soaked her thin clothing, drawing the last vestige of warmth from her body. If she remained outside for much longer, she would catch a chill and that would be a dire circumstance indeed.

Get yourself together, Amelia. Stop being such a ninny. Taking a deep breath, Amelia stumbled to her feet and staggered over to the mysterious bulk, giving it a nudge with her foot. Everything within her urged her to turn and run home. To lock and bar the door behind her, and wait until Sir Hubert came to see where she was. Probably sometime tomorrow, if she was lucky.

Common sense held her still. How could she sleep at night knowing that this thing, whatever it was, was out there? Lurking. Well, not exactly lurking, but outside of her cottage nonetheless. It certainly wasn’t a newly fallen branch. It was too big. Besides, there were no leaves on it. Unless she was very much mistaken, it was clothed.

Another nudge. The lump rocked gently against her foot.

With shaking hands, Amelia clutched the lantern tighter, and bent over the mound.

“Hello?” She swore softly when her voice was immediately snatched by the howling winds. She knew there was nothing else she could do but take a look. Reluctantly she shuffled forwards, bending over the clothed mound cautiously. Slowly she tugged it towards her.

A scream locked in her throat, as it flopped over to reveal what she could only describe as a macabre caricature of a man’s face. Battered, bloody and covered in leaves and dirt, the man’s eyes remained closed against the persistent splash of raindrops on his eyelids and face. He showed no outward sign of life.

“Please don’t be dead,” she pleaded, quickly lunging to her feet. It was difficult to see through the inky blackness, but from what she could see up and down the cart track, there was no singular horse or overturned carriage to explain how he had come to be lying in the undergrowth.

A sudden blast of wind buffeted her, and she shuddered as icy fingers snatched at the sodden folds of her cloak. It helped considerably to snap her out of her shock.

She knelt on the sodden floor beside the man, and gently brushed the muddied mass of twigs and leaves from his angular face.

“Hello?” She pushed his thick shoulder and carefully watched him for any sign of acknowledgement. When several moments passed with no response, she reluctantly knelt once again and dipped her head towards his mouth. She almost wept with relief when the slight tickling of air swept across the delicate skin of her ear.

She was no judge of form at the best of times, but she could see through the almost transparent cotton of his shirt to the heavily muscled chest. He was very tall and well built. It was going to be difficult to move him.

The alternative was to leave him there, which she simply couldn’t do. If he didn’t drown from the amount of rain and mud he was lying in, he would almost certainly freeze to death and she couldn’t bear to have that on her conscience.

The night air was already getting considerably colder, rapidly chilling already frozen skin. He would not make the morning if he didn’t get warm. Sir Hubert’s house was too far away, and there was nobody else for miles around whom she could call upon to help.

It was down to her to get him into her cottage, where she could at least light the fire and get him warm.

When another gust of icy wind swept over the folds of her thin cloak, she lunged to her feet. Spurred into action, she was about to push him onto his back when she realised that she hadn’t seen his hands.

“You have to have some,” she muttered. It helped her deal with the situation she was faced with if she talked to him, even though she knew he probably couldn’t hear her. It also stopped her teeth from chattering. Grasping hold of his shoulders, she smoothed her chilled fingers over the corded muscles of his shoulders and down his arms.

“Surely to God-.” Disbelief widened her eyes, as she stared blankly into the darkness of the trees around them. She had found his hands, and the tight bindings that held them together behind his back.

Incredulous, she leant backwards to rest upon her heels and stared at his battered face. Her mind raced with possibilities. Who would do such a thing? Could he be a convict? Amelia didn’t know much about criminals, but had seen one or two as they were being transported to gaol. They had been secured with iron manacles. This man was tied with very tight rope bindings. Who was he, and what had happened to him that meant he deserved to be bound, beaten and left for dead beside a cart track leading to nowhere?

Running around the south-westerly edge of Lord Bestwick’s estates, the small cart track skirted the edge of Bestwick’s grazing lands, before connecting with the main road leading out of the small village of Glendowie. There was certainly very little through traffic.