Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 50898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 254(@200wpm)___ 204(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
“You cannot have her.”
He stopped.
A figure emerged from the shadows beneath the pines, her cloak dark as midnight, her pale face framed by strands of white hair… the witch. She stood as though she had stepped straight from memory, her presence unsettling the very air around her.
Rhodes’s mouth curved in a dangerous smile. “I wondered when you might come slithering from the shadows.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “She is not meant for you. Your cursed wish binds you apart from her. Walk away, Rhodes of Clan MacBrair, before you destroy more than yourself.”
A laugh rumbled low in his chest. “You forget, witch, how powerful you made me. No man dares cross me. None disobey. My name alone inspires fear. That will not change, no matter what threats you whisper.”
“I can end it,” she said, her voice like a whispered hiss, “end the wish, end the curse, strip you of the power you begged for.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound harsh in the icy air. “End it? My power is already rooted, and my reputation carved into stone. Take your curse back, witch, and it changes nothing. You? You matter not.” He stepped closer, towering over her, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. “And Fawn? She will be mine. Whether you forbid it or not.”
Snow shifted from the branches with the gust of wind that followed his words. The witch’s lips pressed thin, but she spoke no more.
Rhodes brushed past her without a backward glance, laughter low in his chest. Not curse nor witch nor heaven itself would stop him from taking Fawn as his wife.
CHAPTER 4
Fawn pushed open the crooked wooden door of her cottage, a swirl of cold air following her inside before she gave it a lift and nudged it closed with her hip. The kitten wiggled in her arms, eager to leap free, and scampered across the rushes to curl in the cloth-filled basket by the hearth she had fashioned for him.
The room was small but warm, the fire glowing steadily, its smoke curling up through the stone chimney. Shelves crowded with bundles of dried herbs lined one wall, their scents mingling with the sharper tang of pine resin. A tangle of wild things made the place their own; an owl perched contentedly on the beam above, a wounded fox dozed on a blanket in the corner, and a pair of doves cooed softly in the rafters.
She shed her cloak, brushing the snow from it, and let out a long breath. Her hands still trembled, though whether from cold or from the infuriating exchange with Rhodes in the woods she could not tell.
“Arrogant fool,” she muttered, stirring the fire with a stick. Sparks leapt high, like her temper. “Thinking he can declare me his wife as though I were a lamb in his fold. I’ll see him choke on that word before I ever agree.”
The fox stirred at her raised voice, its sharp eyes glinting in the firelight before it settled again.
“Never,” she whispered to the fox. “Not him. Not ever.”
Yet the memory of Rhodes would not leave her… the breadth of him, the weight of his gaze, the strange heat that lingered long after he’d walked away. She pressed her lips together firmly, as though that alone could banish the unwelcome thought.
With a sharp shake of her head, she turned to the table, where herbs waited to be ground and salves to be mixed. Work was the best cure for such thoughts. Work, and the company of creatures who asked nothing of her but care.
Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters, and she hoped for snow, enough that would keep Rhodes from darkening her doorstep. Though Fawn told herself she wanted no part of lairds or clans or men like Rhodes, a restless unease whispered in her chest all the same.
Two days passed, and though no snow fell there had been no sign of Rhodes. The relief loosened the knot in her chest, and with it came the small luxury of tending to herself for once. She had heated water over the hearth, filling a wooden bucket and bathing until the steam wrapped her like a warm cloak. She rinsed her hair with the sweet-scented wash she mixed from herbs, and when her curls dried, they shone like copper flame, tumbling in wild coils about her shoulders. Her skin glowed from the warmth, and her cheeks were kissed with a rosy color from the heat and cold alike.
Now she knelt by the hearth, a wounded raven in her hands, found outside not far from her door when she went to empty the bucket. Its wing was bent awkwardly, fluttering against her tender touch. On the table beside her sat a small basket lined with soft cloths, ready for the bird’s rest. The kitten perched on the table’s edge, tail twitching, while the fox watched lazily from its blanket.