Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

He did not bolt, but stood his ground. Awed, she did the same. She fought to keep her breathing steady, to make no sudden movements. How curious, that after all the cautionary tales of a cursed man-beast—“Werestag,” she heard Portia correcting in her mind—Cecily was concerned about frightening him.

With a soft snort, the animal gave her his handsome profile and regarded her with one large, dark, intelligent eye. His creamy hide bunched shaggy and soft on the underside of his throat, then stretched taut over his backbone and haunches. One of his rear hooves stamped the ground, as though the power coiled in those haunches wanted to spring free.

Feeling a little bit silly—and why should she, she talked to horses and dogs all the time—she addressed him. “Can you understand me? My speech, I mean?” When he gave no response, she added, “If you can understand me, nod your head twice. Or tap your hoof, perhaps.”

His neck lengthened a fraction, so that his regal crown of antlers struck an even more impressive silhouette. I am not one of your horses or dogs, his proud bearing told her. I do not nod or tap on command.

Oh, yes. He understood her. Or rather, they understood one another.

A sense of affinity passed between them, a moment of mutual admiration and respect. Cecily’s fingers itched to stroke the felty thatch beneath his ear, to judge if it was really as soft as it looked. But she sensed it would offend him, to be petted in such a manner.

Then off he darted again, and she stared after him, entranced by the power and grace in his easy, bounding gait. The creature halted on a distant rise, his sleek form just an iridescent glimmer in the distance.

Twice more they played this dash-and-follow game, until she was certain they must be well into Corbinsdale land. The distance didn’t concern Cecily. The path was always there, to lead her back.

But then the path grew fainter. Until she wasn’t even sure she was following a trail anymore, but perhaps only tracing a dried-up rill. She could hear the stream gurgling in the distance. That same stream emerged from the woods into Denny’s south meadows, where they sometimes picnicked on pleasant afternoons.

A rancid odor filled the small depression where she’d halted—as though something were rotting nearby. A little shiver of nerves swept her, but she bade herself to stay calm and survey her surroundings.

She pivoted slowly. A copse of alder crowded her view, and the stag’s shining form had disappeared. But she was not lost. If she had no other alternative, she could follow the stream to those familiar meadows, then return to Swinford Manor from there. It would make for a long walk home, and a muddy one, but she had several hours of good moonlight left, and a warm cloak. There was no cause for alarm. She was in no danger of wandering aimlessly in the woods until she died of thirst or starvation.

A harsh grunt made her jump.

No, she was in danger of perishing in this very spot.

Cecily turned toward the ominous snuffling noise. There, in the underbrush, lurked a boar. She’d never seen a boar, but she knew this must be one—else it was the largest, hairiest, most foul-smelling and predatory pig she’d ever encountered.

“Denny?” she called. Then, louder: “Portia? Mr. Brooke?”

The malodorous thing shuffled closer. It was drooling. Slobbering and snorting. The beast’s rubbery lips quivered and curled, revealing a pair of sharp, menacing tusks to complement the smaller, hooked set bracketing his snout.

“Go away,” she told it. “Shoo.”

No response.

A cloud moved across the moon, painting the forest a darker shade of greenish-gray.

“Denny! Help!”

As the beast lowered its head and began to charge, thoughts rioted in Cecily’s brain. Regrets, mostly. Of all the disgusting, miserable, lonely ways to die, she would end like this? And though she knew she had no one to blame but herself for this predicament, she felt an unreasoned surge of anger toward Luke. If he cared for her the slightest bit, she wouldn’t be here at all.

That irrational stab of fury broke her silence. She had already stood up to one brute this evening. She would not go quietly now.

“Arrogant, insufferable cad!” she screamed at the boar, grabbing up a fallen branch and raising it high above her head. Widening her stance, she braced for the impact, forcing herself to be patient…wait… She would only have one chance, one swing.

A benevolent gust of wind whipped the hair out of her face. She focused her gaze on one flattened, bristled ear and tightened her grip.

Almost…almost…

Now.

Just as she swung, some unseen force tackled Cecily from the side. She felt herself lifted effortlessly, then hurled to the ground. The stick clattered from her grasp. Loamy soil clotted against her cheek, and her fingernails scrabbled in moss and decaying leaves.

She struggled to rise, but a heavy weight held her pinned against the ground. Was it the boar? It couldn’t be. She felt no bristles against her flesh, and it didn’t smell nearly bad enough. She tried to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth.

A hand. Yes. Fingers, palm, thumb. Human.

“Be still,” a deep voice growled.