Chapter Six
Half surprised she’d accompanied him this far, yet feeling equally so at ease with her that he hoped she felt the same about him, Lucian turned off Rotten Row and led them deeper into a lesser-frequented area of Hyde Park. A secluded and thickly wooded corner where, at this early hour, they’d be guaranteed peace and solitude.
He stopped in a clearing shielded by ancient oaks and maples, their leaves deeply red and gold, a scattering of them strewn across the grass. After dismounting, he helped Lady Melissa down from her own horse, then took a plaid from the back of his saddle. He also retrieved a small leather pouch, which he placed on the plaid after spreading it on the cold, autumn ground.
“I wouldn’t sit,” he said, straightening. “The grass is still is damp with dew. But” – he gestured to the pouch – “I wasn’t sure if you’d have breakfast, so I brought along some cold meat and cheese, a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and tea.”
She glanced at the plaid, then back to him, her smile going straight to his heart.
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Because I told you I mean to keep you safe?” He couldn’t stop his own smile. “That includes making sure you dinnae go hungry.”
“Thank you.” She bent to open the pouch, began lifting out the food and arranging it for them. “You are right. I did not eat, but now I am famished.”
“Then please enjoy.” He gestured to the offerings. “Perhaps as we eat, you can tell me about the crone.”
And she did, her account striking him in the same way as her willingness to meet him alone, even accompany him into the loneliest wilds of Hyde Park.
She trusted him.
And though her story was fantastical, he believed every word.
How could he not? He’d been born into a family that lived with their own legends and a curse, accepting suchlike as much a part of their inheritance as Lyongate Hall and the family’s sometimes great, other times dwindling fortune?
He knew strange things existed, occurrences that couldn’t be explained.
For sure, in the Highlands. And perhaps, as well, in London.
Some things simply were.
So after helping himself to a good-sized chunk of bread and a generous serving of cold, sliced beef and cheese, he took a gulp of tea, and prepared to tell her a tale of his own…
“I have no idea who the old woman is, lass,” he said, pacing before the plaid. “But my gut tells me she hails from a time and place more distant than-”
“A time?”
He nodded. “Aye, just that.”
“What do you mean?” She looked at him, her eyes wide. “Are you saying she’s a ghost?”
“No’ at all. But she is something.”
“Something?” she echoed again.
“Sweet lass…” He went over to her and took her gently by the shoulders. “The crone’s appearance goes along with everything my family, and others like us, have always known. Scotland, the Highlands in particular, is a place of myth and legend, deeply entrenched in superstition and belief in the old ways. Ghosts, beasties, magic, call such things what you will.
“By whatever name, such mysteries float about our hills and glens just like our famed Highland mist.” He paused, pleased when she didn’t argue. “We accept that an uncanny, ancient world exists alongside, or just beneath the surface of our own. And sometimes…”
He waited.
“They mesh,” she said, answering as he’d hoped. “The veil between them thins.”
“So we believe.”
She glanced at the trees, then back to him. “You think the old woman comes from such a place?”
He nodded. “I’ve no’ doubt.”
