sleep evaded him.
He rubbed his bleary eyes and focused. The fire had long grown dim, and Regalo still slept, his form obscured by shadows. Mistress Corbuc sat next to him, slumbering with her arms sprawled across the table, her chin resting next to a half-eaten bowl of stew and her fingers still clutching a spoon. Her eyes were closed, and thick, pale lashes lay against her fair cheeks. Her golden hair spilled down her shoulders.
She was not much older than his sister, Roselynn, who had been so fair of face she’d captured the attention of a wealthy, landed knight. Sir Walter Highthorn was too old to be her husband, but he was kind and rich and when he offered for her hand in marriage, Roselynn accepted. Like Mistress Corbuc, she’d had the same fiery spirit, and the same sense of pride.
Guy studied the faint freckles scattered across Sybilla’s nose. He denied the impulse to touch her, to run his fingertips across her smooth, white cheeks. Part of her appeal was her dogged independence. So like his sister, who’d been insistent she could take care of herself and her son after Sir Walter died. The old knight’s heart had simply stopped while he slept by the fire one evening.
It wasn’t long thereafter when raiders came, riding in on the cloak of night, hiding in the darkness while they did their murderous work.
At that thought, Guy’s belly burned. He grabbed his gut. He’d brought death to his sister and his beloved nephew as if he’d killed them with his own hands. He’d been too long at war, eight years in France in the service of the king. Morna had begged him not to go…
He should have been at home watching over Baldwin Manor.
His heart heavy, Guy eased up from the table and he let his gaze roam the smoky cottage. An eerie sense of foreboding filled the air and his senses stood on guard.
Morna had predicted this strange little foal would lead him to the killer. He’d stop at nothing to keep the colt alive and in his possession. He hadn’t expected to be so drawn to the horse midwife who assisted with the foal’s birth and refused to let him go. Blessed saints. Why ever had he kissed her? Simon was right. Dangerous women always found him, or rather, he found them.
Regalo stirred, rousing Guy from his thoughts. The colt’s lips parted with a little grunt and he squeaked. Then a second squeak followed the first, the next deeper. Guttural. The colt sat upright, his front legs extended, his hind legs crooked beneath him. His ears pricked forward and he swung his head around to stare at Guy as if to say help me.
Regalo barked. Once. Then again. His eyes rolled back in his head and he lifted his nose, continuing to bark, the eruptions interspersed with dog-like whines that sounded much like howls.
Hell to the devil. The colt was howling and barking like a dog.
Chapter Five
Guy stood unmoving, uncertain what to do. Sybilla bolted from the table, her eyes wide. “Mother Mary! I prayed he wouldn’t do this. If anyone sees this, we’ll be arrested. Me for witchcraft, him as my possessed familiar. I’ve no potion that would stop him—”
“Mayhap Morna does. She’s been known to dabble,” Guy interrupted as he bounded across the cottage, past the goat pen. Like a hawk taking flight, he leapt onto the ladder and climbed to the loft.
He flung aside the piles of fur and damask coverlets. The bed lay empty. Guy hurled his great body from the loft to the floor below. He hit the stones with his booted feet spread apart and his hand reaching for his sword.
He faced Sybilla, grabbed the cloak from the chair beside the fire, and tossed her the garment. “Put this on. We need to leave. Now!”
Simon staggered from his pallet, hopping on one foot while he pulled his boot onto the other. “The devil’s arse. What’s all the ruckus?” He stared open-mouthed at the barking Regalo. “Holy Mother. He thinks he’s a dog.”
Sybilla pulled the cloak around her shoulders. Her voice strained, she cried out to Guy, “Where’s Lady Morna?”
Guy scooped up Regalo and slung the colt across his shoulders. “She’s gone. Simon, get Bacchus and Addy and grab the nanny goat. Let’s be off!”
Simon swore. “Damnation. ’Twas against my better judgment to trust a seer. Guy, you have the devil’s knack for entanglement with problematic women!”
With Regalo on his back, Guy kicked the door open. He strode into the moonlit yard, mindful that Sybilla followed close behind him. Simon led Bacchus, Addy and the goat from the cottage.
In an instant, Guy caught a glimpse of movement in the trees. The sound of a horse’s hooves crunching the snow. A single horse. Not ten. Not twenty.
He swore beneath his breath and glanced at Simon. “Bloody hell, at least she’s come back alone.”
Without another word, Simon lifted a startled Sybilla onto Addy. He hauled himself up on Bacchus and set the bleating goat in his lap.
Guy faced the approaching rider. Her red velvet hood fell back, revealing her full red lips, the dark, moon-shaped scar on her cheek in stark contrast against her pale skin.
“I’m sorry to have left my guests,” she said, dismounting, swinging down from the saddle like a knight just come from battle. “I had urgent business to attend.” She looked pointedly at Guy. “The widow Margery has spread the news about the birth of a colt with four white socks. The village is in a clamor. Lord Hamon wants the colt and has sent out a search party. His men are looking for you and Regalo. I could hear the colt barking a half a league away. Make haste to Baldwin Manor. Hamon’s men will not ride onto your Lord Phillip’s land.”
Guy felt the blood drain from his face. Baldwin Manor. His sister’s home, now his, though he hadn’t set foot on the place since her death. The house was abandoned and in disrepair, but it was the closest refuge, close enough to walk with a newborn foal on your back and soldiers on your tail and still have a chance.
Lady Morna pointed at Guy’s velvet pouch, wet and muddied. “I’m glad you didn’t lose it. I know how important it is to you.” She tucked the bag into the waistband of his breeches.
He looked at Morna. Pity and regret stirred his heart. Her delicate face hadn’t aged since they’d been lovers––years ago, before Hamon took her as his wife, then cast her off, claiming she’d been unfaithful and her gift of prophecy was the devil’s work. Her bitter husband hated that she’d taken lovers, but truth be told, her greatest crime was failing to give him a child. He’d needed a reason to replace her, but one which wouldn’t bring the question of his own infertility to light.
As if she’d read his mind, she laid her palm against his cheek, and stood on her tiptoes. She kissed him softly on the lips. “Adieu, Sir Guy. Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ll not forget the days we lay together in the meadow watching clouds while I tried to teach you French. Now go. Hamon’s men are but an hour’s ride from here. Another ice storm is on the way and the roads will soon be impassable. Get to your manor house while you can.” She held her hand against his cheek, and Guy felt the wetness on the edge of her sleeve, where the color of her deep red gown had turned black with the moisture. Blood.
He sucked in his breath. God’s breath. How she earned her living now, or whom she accepted as a patron was not for him to judge, but if she’d been ill-used by Hamon…
He clenched his fists. He wanted to take her hands in his and tell
