Page 48

“Conall saw something or someone. He’s chasing them.”

I hate the way her face pales, hate her fear, but the only thing I can do right now is protect her. But I also have to protect Conall. She’s already becoming attached to him. If something happened, it would shatter her. Drawing my hunting knife from my belt, I walk toward the door.

“Stay in the cottage and bar the door, Little Red. I think Conall might need help. I’ll be back soon, but you can’t let anyone in.”

She bites her lip but nods as she makes her way over to the door behind me. Before I open it, I lean over and kiss her. “Stay inside and stay safe,” I command.

“I will,” she replies.

After I’m outside, I wait until I hear the bar drop behind the door before I say, “Only open the door for me or Conall.”

“Yes, Hunter.”

Satisfied she’ll be safe, I take off, bounding down the steps and vaulting over the garden gate. I sprint headlong through the trees in the direction I saw Conall run.

Now, if he would just howl again so I could pinpoint his location.

I pause, listening for running feet, growling, any sounds that might tell me where they went.

A faint sound comes from behind me, like a footfall on soft dirt. Before I can turn, I’m hit in the back of the head. My vision goes fuzzy, and my legs weaken. As I fall, I try to turn to see who attacked me, but my eyes won’t focus. Instead, I hit the hard ground with a grunt.

Then my vision is no longer hazy, the world becomes completely black.

My last thought before my mind goes blank is of Scarlett.

Chapter Twenty-One

Scarlett

My hands shake as I try to put the stoppers in the bottles of tincture and potions.

I bobble one, nearly dropping it right on top of the collection in front of me. With a heavy sigh, I get the cork firmly in place and set the bottle aside. I don’t trust myself to try and seal the bottles with warm wax yet. The uncontrollable trembling in my fingers would make it impossible to dip the bottles properly.

Sealing will have to wait until I’m calmer or Hunter and Conall have returned. Unable to continue my work, I do the next best thing. I pace the floor, rubbing my hands together. I haven’t heard Conall howl again, but I tell myself it’s not a bad sign. Silence may be necessary for whatever he’s doing now.

My feet halt when a sound catches my attention. Holding perfectly still, I tilt my head and listen. I don’t hear anything else, but my instincts are screaming that something is wrong.

Tiptoeing over to the window, I press my back against the wall and lean over slightly to peek out. The garden is empty. No sign of Conall or Hunter.

No sign of anyone at all.

Chills still raise goose bumps on my flesh as I walk back to the table. I need to do something or I’m going to lose my mind. Just as I reach the workstation I set up, a rough hand fists my hair tightly and yanks my head back.

A breathless cry escapes my mouth from the pain, but I manage to throw back an elbow, catching my captor in the gut. A deep grunt escapes as my elbow lands, and I realize the person holding my hair in a tight grip is a man.

Using his hold on my hair, he yanks me back against him, pinning the back of my head to his shoulder even as he grasps my hair harder.

“You thought you could go spreading your legs for that filthy animal and useless woodsman and I wouldn’t find out?” he hisses.

The voice is familiar, but I can’t quite place it. My hand scrabbles over the tabletop until it settles on the bowl holding my herbal scraps. The mixture smells disgusting, and I know at least one of them will burn like hell.

Scooping up a handful, I stomp on the man’s foot and throw back another elbow, this one aimed at his nose. Then, turning my face away, I toss the herb scraps over my shoulder and right into his eyes. With a yell, he releases me and lifts both hands to his face, sneezing and hacking as he tries to swipe the herbs out of his face.

Taking advantage of his weakness, I skirt around the table and grab the sharp knife I was using to chop the herbs earlier. When he lowers his hands and blinks his bright red, rapidly swelling eyes, I see it’s Victor Woodward.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in complete shock.

He snorts and yanks a handkerchief from his pocket, then wets it with water from a bowl on the tabletop and begins wiping his face and eyes.