On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

She didn't have to go far to find Luc. He was standing on the path outside the east wing, looking up at the window high above from which Portia and Penelope hung, yelling and gesticulating toward the rose garden and the wood.

They saw Anne, and shrieked, "There she is!"

Luc swung around, then he was beside her, hugging her, holding her. "Are you all right?"

Anne nodded. "Amelia…"

Luc felt his heart plummet. "Where is she?"

He held Anne away from him and looked into her face.

She coughed, then hoarsely enunciated, "In the woods — she said to tell you she wasn't going to try and catch him, just keep him in sight until you came…"

He smothered a curse — an expression of sheer horror Anne didn't need to hear. Amelia might not intend to catch the man, but he might catch her. He pushed Anne toward the house. "Go inside — tell the others."

His mind was already with Amelia. Turning, he raced for the wood.

Amelia slipped along beneath the trees, increasingly cautious. While the wood at first had felt, if not comfortable, then at least familiar, the trees had grown progressively denser, older, the paths beneath their gnarled branches more dark, the air more weighted with age. Ahead, she could hear the regular thud of the man's boots; he wasn't trying to skulk but was steadily tramping on. A quick mental survey had suggested he intended keeping to the wood to where it ended on the rise above Lyddington.

He was clever enough to recognize the unwisdom of rushing — one trip over a tree root could incapacitate him and leave him waiting for his pursuers to rescue him. Also clever enough to take the least exposed route to see him safe home, assuming he was staying somewhere about Lyddington.

The more she thought of how clever he was proving, the more uneasy, the more wary she became. But the thought of the Cynster necklace, the notion of following him to his lair, and then waiting to point the way to Luc and the others who she was sure must be close on her heels kept her putting one foot in front of the other.

Then the ground started to rise. She glimpsed the man ahead and above; she craned her head, trying to fix his direction — her foot hit an exposed root. She stumbled. Swallowing a curse, she fetched up against a nearby bole — and snapped off a dry twig.

The sound cut through the heavy air like a pistol shot.

She froze.

About her, the forest seemed to stir, menacingly breathe. She waited — only then remembered that her gown, the walking gown she'd changed into, was primrose yellow. If she was visible from where he was…

Then his footfalls started again. The same steady rhythm, in the same direction.

She drew breath, waited for her pulse to slow, then went on, even more cautiously than before.

He was following a rough track that led up a short rise, then dipped into a heavily wooded dell. She was deep in the trees before she realized she'd lost the repetitive tramp of his footsteps. She stopped. Strained her ears, but heard nothing beyond the usual woodland night sounds. A distant hoot here, a furtive rustling there, the creak of branches rubbing high above. Nothing that signified man.

Yet… she couldn't see how she'd lost him.

Ahead, the track widened; stepping even more warily, she went on. The track opened into a small natural clearing closely ringed by trees.

Again she paused and listened; hearing nothing, she walked forward, her slippers whispering on the soft leaves.

She was almost across the clearing when sensation swept her spine.

She glanced back.

Gasped.

Whirled to face the man she'd been following.

His bulk blocked the path between her

and the Chase. He was tall and wide, with close-cropped dark hair… her mouth dropped open as she recognized the man she and Portia had met near the kennels.

He smiled — evilly. "Well, well — how helpful."

Her heart thumped, but she snapped her lips shut and lifted her chin. "Don't be daft! I have no intention whatever of helping you in any way."