Claudia appeared, as bundled as the rest of them and equally unrecognizable. “I shall be right behind you every moment, my dear,” she said. She took a steaming tankard from Armstrong, who was to ride at the back of the berline, and offered it to Eden. “Drink this. It will warm you and give you a little extra courage to face what lies ahead.”
The mulled wine was hot enough to burn her tongue, but Eden welcomed the bite. She took a few sips and returned the tankard to Armstrong.
“Now we shall go,” Claudia said. “Have faith. This will soon be over.”
As the post chaise began to move and the berline followed in its wake, Eden tried to see through the endless white to the house and the garden. It might be the last glimpse she would ever have of Hartsmere.
Home, Donal had called it. She realized, now, how much she had begun to think of it as her home as well. Its people her people. Her friends. But as long as things remained as they were, she dared not come here again with her son.
In Mr. Rumbold she had an excellent steward to look after the estate. She would continue to send what funds she could spare to support the dale, and pray that the people continued to prosper.
Pray that Hartley surrendered and returned forever to the unearthly place from which he’d come.
A stab of soul-deep pain struck at her heart. If he left, all her problems would be solved. But if he remained, and the dale suffered because of her as it had when her father betrayed his promise, then she would return and beg him on her knees to have pity. She would give him anything he wanted, except Donal—even herself. She would find a way to appease the monster.
A monster who had helped the dalesmen time and again, taught Donal with patient affection, loved her so tenderly.
Who had bargained for her body, her child, and cursed her father for refusing to carry out that devil’s pact.
Dry-eyed, Eden pulled Donal into her arms and watched Hartsmere disappear behind a sheet of snow. Love was dying in her once more, and she thought this time must be the last.
Let it be the last. Let it not struggle for existence when there was no hope.
The park was like a counterpane of bleached muslin, broken only by the darker upthrust of trees and shrubbery, and the rapidly disappearing drive upon which they traveled. The carriages passed through the gate and down the slope into the heart of the dale.
That was when a figure stepped out from among the trees, directly in the chaise’s path.
Eden’s heart slammed wildly within her ribs as she pushed Donal behind her.
It was not Hartley Shaw who stood before the coach. It was the Forest Lord, with his antlers and his aura of power, larger than life or anything human, his hands raised in a gesture of warning. The green and brown scraps of his ragged clothing floated gently about him, as if the harsh wind did not touch him. He spoke words she could not comprehend.
She did not need to. “Fly!” she cried to the postilions. “Fly!” But the men did not hear her, or could not obey.
“Mother?” Donal whispered. “Is it—”
She muffled his words beneath the blankets, as if she could hide him from eyesight so much keener than hers. The Forest Lord moved toward the side of the coach, every line of his body conveying predatory desire and fierce purpose. He reached for the door handle. Eden searched desperately for a weapon, anything to use against him. A wave of unexpected weakness swept over her.
A sharp, reverberating crack shattered the quiet. It sounded very much like a gunshot, but who would dare hunt here? Donal struggled in her arms. The weakness had grown so intense that she could scarcely hold him. Through dimmed vision she saw that Hartley was no longer trying to enter the chaise.
When next she opened her eyes, the window framed a different face. The door opened. Cold air rushed in, followed by Claudia’s mittened hand.