Blane Fergusson had just settled into a restless sleep
when the scream ripped through the autumn night air. He shot into a
sitting position, instinctively crossing himself though he knew it to
be a futile gesture.
He could see the forms of his men rising frantically and looking around,
darker against the suddenly ominous night. The horses, hobbled in a
small grove nearby, whinnied and fought their restraints. The camp had
been uneasy even before the scream, the men's minds worried about haints
and other spirits haunting the night and the poor soul they carried
in the wagon. Now he could taste the fear in the crisp air.
The fine hairs at his nape stood on end when he realized the scream
was coming from that very wagon.
The sound ended abruptly and he rose to his feet, along with several
of his braver men. No one made a move to close the distance to the wagon.
No one really wanted to know for certs what had made the noise, he knew.
In the endless time before the next beat of his heart, his eyes adjusted
to the gloom and he could see the wagon more clearly. The oilcloth they'd
tacked over the top to keep the sun off their burden was bucking and
bulging.
The frightened prayers and shocked whispers of his companions echoed
his own sudden fears.
"She's arising from the dead!"
"'Tis the curse! She's come for her revenge!"
"'Tis the Fergusson she's come for!"
Blane had been waiting for this moment most of his life. True, he felt
a moral fear for whatever unnatural thing was fighting its way to him
-- but he also had an intense sense of relief resounding in his breast.
Finally he would look into the face of the curse that had followed at
his heels like the Devil's most loyal hound. Its evil presence had kept
others at bay as effectively as if it growled and bared its teeth. At
last he would know the reason why he'd been chosen to suffer such a
life of isolation.
He welcomed the opportunity to fall to his own curse and know his first
peace in twoscore and five years.
His men came to a tremulous hush as he strode toward the wagon and pulled
his dagger its place at his belt. "Fergusson's here," he announced
to the still-undulating covering, "Do as ye will!"
With one smooth, horizontal thrust, he punctured the oilcloth with his
dirk and tore a large slit to release the demon within.
A feminine cry of pain exploded through the rent in the covering, carried
on the malodorous waves of decay. Despite his resolve, he found himself
taking two steps back as a form rose from the wagon.
The prayers and curses behind him increased in volume as he found himself
staring at a woman - and not the one they planned to bury.
In the darkness of the night her eyes were beacons of light, round and
incandescent with panic. She was gasping, her generous curves shifting
and heaving as she struggled to control her panicked breathing. One
of her hands was clasped to her right forearm. Blood gleamed darkly
between her fingers.
"What manner of beast is it?" called one of the men in the
back in horror.
Blane flicked a look over his shoulder. "'Tis only a woman, Alain.
And a mortal one, at that."
The woman started at his voice, her eyes wondering but wary.
"'Tis nay the Lady Margaret risen to dispense justice?" another
man hesitatingly offered.
"Nay. I've cut her, and I know of neither haint nor corpse that
bleeds."
He addressed her in a lower voice. "What were ye doing in our wagon,
lass?"
"Who - who are ye?" she asked hoarsely. Her words were hesitant
- whether from panic or unfamiliarity with the language, he did not
know. Her words were correct, but strangely accented.
"I'm the owner of the wagon ye be standing in," he responded.
"Again, how did ye come to be in it?"
Her head swiveled as she took in her environment, and he saw her flinch
as she looked down toward her feet still sticking through the oilcloth.
He sighed and thrust his dagger back into his belt. He extended one
hand toward her. "Come," he invited. "Get ye down from
there and take a moment to calm yourself. Ye can answer my questions
then."
After a slight hesitation and one more look at the canvas beneath which
reposed the body, she accepted his offer. She took his hand with her
bloodstained fingers and leaned into him for assistance.
He pulled her forward until he could take her around the waist and lift
her from her perch. He could feel the slight trembling left from her
fright beneath his hands as they encircled her slim waist. While he
found the balance of her weight, he wondered just how long it had been
since he'd touched a woman in any way.
Obviously, too long. She was wearing an odd sark, stretched tightly
- far too tightly - across her bosom. As her plump breasts hovered dangerously
near his face, his body was making it clear it longed for more contact.
Unnecessarily, and without the intention to do so, he found himself
lowering her to the ground slowly, her soft form brushing against him.
The contact stole his breath in one long, breathy sigh. Her eyes caught
with his, their color leached into an opaque silver by the wispy moonlight
available.
He imagined for a moment that he saw a flash of recognition in her eyes
equal to his own. He knew her from somewhere, but when did a woman last
look him directly in the eye?
She seemed as caught up in their bodily contact as he. Her breath was
trapped in her chest, pushing her breasts upward against him, nearly
spilling from the low cut of her clinging bodice. She made no move to
step away or remove her hands from his shoulders, the long curve of
her arms resting against his.
Her lips were slightly parted, and he struggled against the urge to
lower his mouth and see if they were as plump as the night shadows made
them seem. He fought to regain his sensibilities. It was insanity for
him to be feeling such things. He could not doom another woman to the
fate of Lady Margaret, may her soul rest in peace.
But neither could he let go of the figure in his arms. He made no move
to release her when he asked in a whisper of wonderment, "Who are
you?"
Her tongue wet her lips in a lingering swipe before answering. "Bernie,"
she answered.
He barely had time to wonder at the oddity of the name before she cleared
her throat delicately. "Lady Berengaria Cummyn, that is,"
she corrected herself.
His mind and body froze, save for the fingers that tightened around
the woman's waist. He did not realize his grip continued to increase
until her features twisted in pain.
In horror at the thought of his response to her, he pushed her violently
from him. Her hip struck the wagon and she fell into a half-crouch.
He looked into her treacherous face and drew his dirk once more.
"Get thee far from here," he growled. "Or I'll be carting
two bodies to their burial, and nay just the one."
