Линси Сэндс - Meant to Be Immortal [calibre]

“Think you she knows?” he asked.

Hugh gave a start at the question. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might. He considered the possibility now, his gaze fixed on the hovel. “Nay,” he said at last. “How could she?”

“Aye,” Lucan agreed with less confidence as they dismounted. “How could she?”

The old woman was fussing over the fire when they entered the shack. It gave the two men an opportunity to survey their surroundings.

In contrast with the filthy and dilapidated state of the outside of the cottage, the inside was clean and quite homey. Flowers sat in a wooden bowl in the center of a rough-hewn table at one end of the room, while a narrow cot was pressed up against the wall opposite. A fire was built into the wall across from the door, and it was here the woman stood stoking the flames. Once satisfied, she moved back to the table and collapsed upon one of the three chairs, then waved Hugh and Lucan to the others.

After a barely noticeable hesitation, Hugh took the seat opposite the woman, placing his back to the door. Lucan took the seat adjacent to her, leaving him a clear view of the door, should anyone enter. They then waited expectantly for the woman to ask their reason for coming. Instead, she took the wine flask from the center of the table and poured two mugs full. Ignoring Lucan, she pushed one to Hugh, then lifted the other to her mouth.

For want of anything better to do, Hugh drank. He was immediately sorry. The wine was bitter, scraping across his tongue. Doing his best not to show his distaste, he set the almost full tankard back on the table’s worn surface. Hugh returned his gaze to the witch, still expecting questions regarding his presence, or at least his identity. The crone merely eyed him over the lip of her own mug, waiting. When the silence had grown long and tense, he finally spoke. “I am Hugh Dulonget.”

“The fifth earl of Hillcrest.”

He gave a start as she finished the introduction for him. “You know of my uncle’s—?”

“Dead. Heart.”

“I beg your pardon?” He stared at her, nonplused.

“I said he’s dead. His heart gave out on him,” she repeated impatiently. “Ye’ll succeed to his title and holdings.”

“Aye. I am his nephew. His only heir.”

“The only one, hmm?” Her tone was dry and had him shifting uncomfortably.

“Well . . . aye,” he lied, squirming under her all-knowing gaze. He said, “Nay. Uncle Richard left a bequest for—”

“A bequest?” She seemed to look right through him.

Hugh picked up the wine, drinking from it almost desperately despite its bitter taste. Slamming the tankard down once it was empty, he straightened his shoulders and scowled. “Of course, you shall continue to receive coin for her care.”

“Her?”

“The girl. This Willa person my uncle was so concerned with.” He did not bother to hide his distaste for the matter.

“Coin for her care, hmm?”

Hugh swallowed and felt his discomfort increase. Her steady stare was disconcerting. He could almost believe that she was looking into his soul. If so, he suspected the flaws to be found were many. He doubted if there were many graces to be seen at the moment. After all, he was lying through his teeth.

“Do ye not mean she’ll be well cared for once she marries you?”

Hugh went still. He could feel the blood rush into his face with reawakened rage. That same rage had consumed him on first hearing this news from his uncle’s solicitor. He’d inherited it all. The earldom, the money, the servants and estates . . . as well as his uncle’s bastard daughter to wed. In effect, he’d been willed a wife. Nothing more than a village bastard, raised by an old crone who had once served in the castle. It was one of the most asinine situations Hugh had ever imagined himself being forced into. He, a lord, the son of a great knight, and now the heir to an earldom, to marry some village brat! Not even a titled lady, but a bastard village brat with no more training than how to milk cows or whatever it was they trained village brats to do. Impossible. Inconceivable. But true. Now, as he had that morning, he felt his body cramp with fury. His hands clenched on the tabletop, aching to fit themselves around the crone’s throat. That was when he heard the singing. It was a woman’s voice, high and clear and as sweet as a tankard of mead on the hottest afternoon.

Everything seemed to slow; his anger, his thoughts, his very heartbeat all stilled in anticipation, even the room around him became motionless. Lucan and the hag sat unmoving. A fly he had absently noticed buzzing around his tankard landed on its lip and remained there as if listening to the voice as it drew nearer.

The door behind him opened, bathing the dim interior of the cottage in afternoon light, then something moved to block that light. The singing abruptly halted.

“Oh! We have guests.”

Hugh heard Lucan’s gasp. Wondering over it, he turned inexorably toward the source of the lovely voice. He felt his jaw slacken in shock.

An angel. Surely, that was what she was. Only an angel would glow golden, Hugh thought as he stared at the radiant outline of the female form. Then she stepped away from the door. She moved to the old woman’s side and he saw that the golden glow had merely been the sunlight reflecting off her hair. And what a glory that was! Full, thick strands of pure gold.

Nay, not pure gold, he decided. Those tresses were brighter than gold and there were strands of red shot through them. Her hair was woven sunlight set afire. It blazed down over her shoulders and trailed past her hips to her knees. Hugh had never before beheld such a vision and was sure he never would again. At first, he was so transfixed by the sight, he noticed neither her face nor figure as she bent to press an affectionate kiss on the cheek of the old hag. Then she straightened. Her limpid gray eyes turned to him and his attention shifted, taking in their pale color and bold expression. His gaze dropped to the smile on her luscious lips and he found himself swallowing.

“You must be my betrothed.”

Those words stopped Hugh cold. His admiration of her beauty became instead a grim perusal of the plain and patched gown she wore. The garment hung on her like a sack. She looked like a village girl, a pretty village girl perhaps, but a village girl just the same, whereas he was a lord, above being bound to a simple female of such uncertain parentage. Marrying her was out of the question, though she would make a fetching mistress.

“Gold is gold whether buried deep in the mud or adorning a king’s crown,” the crone said.

Hugh frowned at the comment, annoyed at the suggestion that she’d known what he was thinking. He was even more annoyed at the meaning of her words, since he was positive they didn’t apply here.

When he remained silent, the witch tilted her head to the side, considering him. She then reached up to clasp the hand at her shoulder, drawing the girl’s attention. “We will need more garlic, child. For the trip.”

Nodding, the chit collected a basket and left the cottage without making a sound.

“Ye’ll marry her.” It was a simple statement of fact.

Hugh turned sharply on the witch, but froze, eyes widening when he saw that she now held his empty mug. She was squinting at the dregs that had been left behind when he’d finished the drink. That knowledge sent a frisson of something akin to fear arcing up his spine. This woman was said to see the future in those dregs. In these uncertain times, Hugh did not think he wished to know what was yet to be. But whether he wished it or not, the woman read on.

“Ye’ll marry her for yer people, but she’ll quickly come to claim yer heart.”

He sneered at this possibility, but the woman paid him little heed as she continued to stare into the tankard. “The future holds much joy, happiness and children aplenty . . . if ye solve the riddle.”