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At least he could count on her common sense, and scrupulous attention to the Earth’s rotation. She wouldn’t tarry overlong. She’d learned firsthand that cycling in the dark was a perilous proposition. At any moment, she’d appear, spinning toward him, looking sheepish, or perhaps, not sheepish at all—happy. Collecting bag stuffed with kelp. He rode at a walk, to give her time, so he wouldn’t inadvertently pass her turnoff before she’d reemerged. To his left, water rippled, a vast expanse, pale green by the serpentine cliffs, deepest blue at the horizon. To his right, walled fields made a series of rectangles that stretched across the low hills. It was early evening, hazy and warm. Wrens twittered in the hedges. Well, he thought they were wrens.
Annoyed, yes. But worried, no. That’s why he rounded the bend and felt his blood turn all at once to ice.
Muriel’s bicycle lay on the ground, at the base of a tree.
18
Muriel was wedged in the lowest fork of an ancient oak. It wasn’t as big as the Darley Oak, but its gnarled limbs answered to her purpose. She was safe. She repeated it to herself, fingers digging into furrowed bark.
I am safe. I am safe.
She almost believed it. She’d stopped shaking, but her chest was tight, heart giving quick, pinched beats.
I am safe.
A thud below shook loose her gasp. She swung her arm, snapped a dead, spindly branch, and stabbed downward with all her frantic strength. The branch connected.
“Holy God!”
She froze. A second later, the branch tugged from her hand, burning her skin through her glove. Another second, and it began to stab back.
“En garde, you bastard! What have you done with her?”
The husky voice was almost unrecognizable, tight with fury.
Almost unrecognizable.
She leaned forward and took a whack on the shoulder. “Griff?”
Wincing, she pressed back into the tree.
“Muriel?”
She leaned forward again, slowly. Griffith was standing beneath her like a swordsman, chest heaving, stick upraised. Her blow must have knocked off his cap. His hair was wild, and his eyes were wilder. They flashed over her.
“Blast!” He gave a shake and flung the stick away. He scrubbed a hand across his face, and when it came away, his expression teetered between shock and outrage.
“It’s me.” Muriel licked her dry lips and braced herself against the trunk, unbalanced in more ways than she could count. “I haven’t cracked your skull?”
“No.” He probed his head. “No, but it was a bloody good clout.”
“You clouted back.” She brought her bruised shoulder up to her cheek. “Did you think I was the banditti?”
“Yes. In a word.” His laughter had a sharp edge. “First, I thought you’d collided with this tree. But then, yes, I thought bandits—or smugglers, really. It’s Cornwall.”
He stepped back, to look at her without craning his neck. The shadows beneath his cheekbones deepened as he clenched his jaw.
“What happened?” he asked, stance opening, gaze sweeping their surroundings. “Why are you up in a tree?”
“No cause for alarm.” She swallowed. From her perch, she could see farther than he could. Linnets and yellowhammers rustled the hedges. There was a thatched cottage in the distance, a woman passing through an ivy-mantled garden gate.
No bandits. No smugglers. No beasts with blood-flecked maws.
She drew a long breath. “I didn’t meet with any mischief.”
“Something frightened you.” His gaze swept back to her. “I’d have guessed you were simply after a bird’s nest if you hadn’t rained blows at my approach.”
He was pressing for more information. But it would be easier to calm herself, and climb down, if she cleared her mind.
