An Immortal Descent by Kari Edgren
Chapter One
Frost Nip England, November 1730
A gust of cold wind snapped at the folds of my woolen cape. Shifting the reins to one hand, I grabbed at the hood to keep it in place despite Mother Nature’s repeated attempts to snatch it from my head. Rain wetted my cheeks, seeped through the multiple layers of cloth to the skin below. A thin forest of nearly bare trees lined the muddy road that ran from London to the seaport of Bristol. Or so James Roth assured me with a confidence that belied further question. He rode two horse lengths ahead, his tricorn hat pulled low as he fought a similar battle against the elements. At least he had the advantage of riding astride in breeches and knee boots rather than sidesaddle and in skirts that seemed to invite the wind beneath.
Though the sun had risen hours before, a dark gloom persisted from the thick layer of gray clouds. I pulled my cape closer when the short hairs prickled over my nape.
For about the hundredth time since leaving, I glanced over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling that we were being followed. Squinting against the rain, I focused hard on the last bend in the road, knowing it was only a matter of time before more riders appeared.
Catria and Tiarnach.
My great-grandparents would be hard on my heels by now, but I refused to stay in London as instructed while my dearest friend, Nora Goodwin, remained in the clutches of a murderous lunatic. Deri. Death’s daughter. The name coiled like a snake in my stomach.
Nothing stirred behind me, other than skeletal branches and a handful of determined leaves. Slowly, I turned back around to resume the mind-numbing stare at James’s back.
Long minutes passed and the sway of his black greatcoat took on a hypnotic quality. After traveling for nigh on eight hours with only a single break in between, I was bone-tired, but unwilling to stop unless absolutely necessary. By James’s estimation, we could cover the miles from London to Bristol in three days’ time, or perhaps two and a half if we didn’t spare the horses. With extra good luck, we would be on our way to Wexford by evening next, depending on the tides and available ships. Nora, Deri and Henry might be hours and miles ahead, but with dogged determination, James and I would erase the distance between us. If everything went well, this whole mess could be resolved in a week’s time. Then the wretch would be dead, Nora returned to safety, and Henry and I finally wed.
Framed in such a way, it all sounded so easy, three mere checks to perfection—three mere checks that were larger than Ireland and England put together, and could very well lead to the death of everyone involved.
I gave my head a violent shake. Stop that, Selah Kilbrid. There was no sense in jinxing the whole journey with such thoughts, regardless of the possibilities. Mumbling a quick prayer, I started to cross myself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy—”
The remaining word came out in a gasp as my horse stumbled through a mud-filled rut. James turned in time to see the mare regain her footing. I readjusted my seat, surprised that he’d heard anything over the gusting wind. Another dozen steps and his eyes narrowed on the horse’s front hooves.
He reined and waited for me to come alongside him. “I fear your mount has thrown a shoe, Miss Kilbrid.” With a grim look, he swung down from the saddle into several inches of mud. I stayed put, hoping to spare my boots while he studied the horse’s right foreleg.
Straightening, James shook his head in a gesture of exasperated disbelief. In a matter of seconds, his expression had turned from grim to darker than the storm filled sky.
Surely he can’t think this is my fault. Like people, horses sometimes stumbled and tread on their own hooves. It was an inconvenient fact of life, as was the awful condition of the roads from so much rain. Did he intend to blame me for that, too? If so, I had more power than I ever imagined.
A rebuttal stood at the ready when he put his back to me and stared in stony silence at the woods and empty road. A full minute passed. Then another before the fragment of a curse drifted to my ears. Turning, he raised his hands to help me down. I accepted, nose wrinkled at the inevitable muddy squelch when my feet settled instead on a sodden patch of grass.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, puzzled by the unexpected show of gallantry from a man who despised me.