CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Isobel burst into Meggie’s room. Her sister was preening before the mirror in a new gown while Aileen pinned the hem.
Isobel leaned on the door, panting. “Gilly’s not in her room.”
Her sisters looked at her in surprise.
Aileen set the pincushion down slowly. “And John Erly?”
“Hunting?” Isobel made it a question.
Aileen looked at Meggie. “D’you think she’s eloped?”
Meggie frowned. “A month ago I wouldn’t have imagined our Gilly had the courage to do any of the things she’s managed to do of late. Now, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything. John has lost one, and quite possibly two of the contests. The MacKenzies are saying John’s cheating somehow, that he couldn’t possibly be that good.”
“Perhaps love makes a man stronger, more determined,” Isobel said.
Meggie carefully stepped out of the dress without disturbing the pins. “Gilly can’t have eloped—she promised to abide by the rules and Papa’s decision. So did English John. And herefusedto cheat.”
Aileen gaped at her. “You asked him to?”
Meggie blushed. “I said we’d be willing to—assist him—if necessary, for Gillian’s sake. He wouldn’t even consider it. He wants to win her fairly, by his own merit.”
“How romantic!” Isobel said.
Meggie pulled on a workaday woolen gown. “Yes, but Papa won’t be so understanding if he finds out Gilly’s slipped out and disappeared. He’ll kill John.”
Aileen crossed to a drawer, put away the pins, and took out her dirk. She slipped it into her sleeve. “I think we’d better go and find Gilly before there’s trouble we can’t fix.”
Meggie smiled at her sister. “Isthere trouble we can’t fix?”
Aileen sighed. “I think we’re about to find out.”
* * *
John smelled the boar before he saw it. It was a huge, rank creature, rooting at the edge of a meadow, tearing up tender plants with its fearsome tusks, and devouring them with yellow fangs.
John crept as close as he dared and watched the beast for a few minutes, wondering if there were others nearby, a mother with piglets perhaps. When the wind shifted, the creature raised its head, scanning the trees with weak eyes for the hunter he scented, working out the precise location of his foe.
John nocked his bow. One shot wouldn’t kill the beast, but it would draw it back into the wood where John was ready for it. His heart pounded as he waited, counting on the shrubs and undergrowth to hide him.
He knew the moment the creature spotted him. John drew the bowstring back as the mammoth animal growled and charged toward him, churning up clods of earth under sharp, cloven hooves. Stinging sweat trickled into John’s eyes, made him blink, but he drew a breath and waited until the boar was close, very close, and fired.
The creature squealed as the arrow hit it, but it was a glancing blow on the tough hide of the shoulder. It drew blood, but the boar raced on, infuriated now. John turned and darted through the trees with the boar nearly on his heels. If he tripped or slipped on the damp moss, he was done for. He saw his goal, a perch he’d built a dozen feet up a tree. He’d cut a spear from a sapling, sharpened the point, and left it there. But he had to reach the tree, climb, and plunge the pike into the creature’s neck.
He dug his fingers into the rough bark, breathless from running, and began to climb. Inches below his foot, the beast slammed into the trunk. John swore as he slipped. He curled his hand over a sturdy branch and hauled himself up as the next blow came. The tree shuddered—the whole forest shuddered. He scrabbled for safer hand and foot holds and held on.
If he fell . . . He couldn’t think of that now. In minutes, it had turned from a hunt for prey to a battle for survival, and he wasn’t sure which of them was winning. He swung the spear awkwardly, stabbed at the creature, and grazed it again. The boar roared in pain and fury, bleeding from two wounds now. It shook the tree harder, determined to dislodge its tormentor. On the next rattling blow, John dropped several feet before he managed to find a foothold. He was so close to the boar that he could see himself reflected in the beast’s black eyes and smell the animal’s fetid breath as it swiped at his dangling leg. The animal’s razor sharp tusk caught his boot, and it sank its teeth into the thick deerskin and began to pull him down. John thrust the spear again.
This time, his aim was true, and he felt the sharpened point bite deep into the creature’s flesh. It let go of him long enough to roar in pain, then came at him again, snorting and squealing. Blood streamed over its heaving sides. Once more, it rammed the tree.
This time, John fell.
He landed on his back and scrambled for the dirk in his belt as the creature turned to charge him. He raised the weapon in both hands, hoped it would be enough. He had one chance . . .
He aimed low, pointed the weapon at the broad breast, hoped the blade was long enough to pierce the beast’s heart, stop it, before the tusks tore into him. He tightened his grip on the knife as the boar hurtled toward him. His hands were slick with sweat and shaking.
The beast ran onto the long thin blade of the knife. John felt the coarse fur against his hand as the blade sheathed itself in the boar’s breast.
