Mutely, Mara shook her head.
“Good. Then we’re in agreement.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear, the pad of his thumb lingering on the delicate shell before he let his arm fall. “But it won’t be now, and it won’t be here, and it won’t be in these clothes.”
She glanced down. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
A wry grin overtook the duke’s mouth as he buttoned his burgundy tailcoat, shifting the rectangular flaps inward to cover the front panel of his trousers. “It’s notyourclothes I’m worried about. Shall we see if we can summon Cousin Beatrice from her coma?”
Now it was Mara’s lips that twitched. “We likely should, lest she become a permanent fixture in the gardens. And then who would chaperone us?”
“Who indeed?” he asked, a devilish glint in his eye.
Together, they went to rouse Cousin Beatrice from her slumber.
*
Lost in herthoughts of the past, Mara did not pay close attention to where she was walking in the present. Why would she? She had traversed these paths hundreds—no, thousands—of times before.
By herself.
Almost always by herself.
With only her shadow, long and flickering, to keep her company.
There was no shadow tonight. Not with clouds keeping the half-moon under a cloak of darkness. On a shiver, Mara grasped her own cloak and gathered the folds tightly beneath her chin... right before she heard a low, menacing growl coming from a thicket of bramble at the edge of the orchard.
Her first instinct was to run. A child’s instinct, born of learning that if she could run and hide somewhere her father’s hands couldn’t reach, then she’d be safe.
But there were no broom closets out here.
No tables.
No beds.
There was just Mara, the apple trees, and whatever lurked in the thorns.
“Go a-away,” she said loudly, or as loudly as she could with fear wrapping itself around her vocal cords like spindly vines. When she snuck a glance over her shoulder, she realized just how far she’d let herself wander from the main house. The castle was a mere shimmer of faded gold candlelight in a swath of inky obsidian.
She was too far to run.
Too far to yell.
Too far for anyone to save her.
She was completely alone, as she’d so often been.
Another growl, longer and louder than the first. Mara wondered, almost hysterically, if Ambrose would care if she died.
Would he mourn her passing? Or would he be grateful?
Would her death be a burden? Or a relief?
When the vines began to tighten and choke, she fought against them, willing herself to remain calm. Help may not have been arriving on a white steed, but she wasn’t a helpless damsel incapable of rescuing herself.
She was strong, and she was smart, and she had not survived a poor, violent childhood to die a duchess on the grounds of an estate.
“Go away,” she repeated, and this time she did not stutter. Spying a branch on the ground leftover from pruning, she snatched it up and held it as a knight would a sword, swinging it from side to side. Maybe they’d find her body in pieces, but beside the pieces would be this stick, and at least they’d know she had defended herself.
The growls intensified and grew in number, some high-pitched, others low and guttural, filling her head with images of sharp fangs and glinting red eyes and bristling fur.
