The most secret parts of her body were throbbing with a need grown almost intolerable. She had felt it before, with Braden, but never so strongly. It was a kind of change in herself that was tied to the Change Braden wanted her to discover. The two belonged together. She hadn’t known the words to explain what seemed so simple; she didn’t think she’d ever find the right way to say it.
She’d been so near to showing Braden, but he hadn’t given her the chance. If he had, how would it have ended? Her mind didn’t know, but her body did. Her body would have done everything right.
A chill penetrated Cassidy’s happiness. Only three years ago, Braden’s wife had died. When he held Cassidy in his arms, was he thinking of Milena? Was her memory too unbearable, the ideal she set so much higher than anything Cassidy could ever hope to match?
If she could only Change. She had to make Braden proud of her, so he wouldn’t think of Milena. If he still grieved for her, Cassidy would find a way to help him.
Strangely weary, she lay beside the burn in the woods and let the pulse of the earths heartbeat lull her into sleep. She roused at the snapping of a twig and sat up before she was fully awake.
She knew immediately that the intruder wasn’t Braden, or Quentin, or any of the people at Greyburn she had met. He stepped out of the shadows, and at last she recognized him: the young man who had been initiated at last night’s ceremony. Then he’d been afraid, wild-eyed, shaking; she’d felt sorry for him, and for the maid who shared his ordeal.
He didn’t look afraid anymore. She could see that he was only a little older than she was, his new footman’s livery already stained, his gait unsteady as he started toward her.
“Wha’s this?” he said. “A fairy maid?”
Cassidy became aware of several things all at once: that her dress was still in a heap several feet away, that the new footman’s expression was anything but friendly, and that he stank like the stuff Quentin had offered her during their brief picnic. A half-empty bottle was clenched in his fist.
He was drunk, and she was quite naked. She scrambled for her clothes just as the footman staggered forward again.
“Lov’ly,” he muttered. “Jus’ what I need.”
Cassidy knew she wasn’t in any danger. She could outrun him easily. But there was a hostility in his eyes that belied his drawl, and she felt dirty when he looked at her. Braden made her feel beautiful; the footman’s gaze branded her as an object, not a person. An object for which he had some malignant purpose.
“You’re the new footman,” she said, reaching for her dress. “I don’t know why you’re in the woods, but I think you should go back to Greyburn, before—”
“C’mon, hinnie,” the footman drawled. “Le’s have some fun.”
Cassidy scooped her dress in front other chest. “I don’t think the earl would like it,” she said pointedly. “I won’t tell him, if you go back.”
“Go back?” He laughed. “Aye… they wan’ me to go back… to serve them…” He made a frantic gesture with his bottle, and his eyes narrowed on her. “But ye’re waitin’ here for me. All nice ‘n ready ‘n hot, wi’ yer pretty tits…”
Cassidy stepped back with the dress in her arms. Her foot splashed into the burn, she lost her balance, and the footman lunged at her.
Instinct replaced thought. Cassidy struck out with both hands, shoving the footman violently. He fell sideways and tumbled to the ground, his head striking a stone. The bottle went flying.
When the footman pushed himself up again, blood flowed freely from a cut above one eyebrow. He felt his forehead and his mouth drew up in a misshapen snarl of rage.
“Ye bitch,” he said. “Ye’re like the others—the devil’s whore, a hound o’ Satan. Ye and yer kind ha’ cursed the land. But I… I ken the truth. All the rest ha’ fallen to the evil one.” Blood streaked his face like a gory mask. “I’ll tell—I’ll stop ye all—” He clutched his head between his hands as if in torment.