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IT WAS A good thing I wasn’t a tour guide.
I strolled back from visiting Jake after fixing the gate because the client’s key fob battery had died. I’d bribed Jake to wipe the camera feed of Sophie seducing me with a pack chocolate covered pretzels and was feeling confident in my people skills.
But, mission complete, I’d made my way through the thickening mist. Think so thick and white it obscured everything beyond my nose. It was the same kind of mist Salisbury had been shot in and my heartrate was well above “help me” level. Hayefield might have been better than the police for my stress levels but not for my heart.
Of course, to add to the mist, it got dark because I’d been detoured by Jake and his gorgeous dog called Fred for well over an hour and now I was somewhere on the estate with gravel under my feet but no actual solar light posts.
I couldn’t even see lights but I could hear lapping sounds so I must be near the lake. Great. Sense of direction: nil point, yet again.
If I kept to the gravel and the lake was to my left, I’d hit the guardhouse at some point but if I was going east and the lake was on my right then I’d find the forest and I was going nowhere near the scary dark forest in thick mist. I don’t care if you call me a baby, I’d been bludgeoned enough for one lifetime, thank you.
I wanted to ring Sophie and ask for help but part of me said that if she was a serial killer who shot people and sliced them with swords then telling her I was wandering by myself in thick mist didn’t seem like the brightest idea.
So what did I do? Any ideas? None? Me neither. Fat lot of use you are.
I pulled out my torch, hoping that I could see something, only I could make out grass on both sides and the lapping sounded like it was on my right. I didn’t really want to wander to the right to check because lakes, mist, and possible way to commit murders wasn’t working for me.
I decided to pick up gravel and throw it in the vague direction of the lapping—I hadn’t been a detective for my looks alone—and heard . . . nothing. I threw gravel the other way and heard . . . nothing. So where was I and where was the lake?
A shiver ran up my spine. My heart thudded that extra bit harder. Felt like I was being watched again. I shone my torch around as if that would help do something other than paint a target on my position. But I wasn’t turning it off because then I’d be in darkness, in thick mist, hyperventilating.
“Calm . . . just calm. Think.” I took slow, slow, slow breaths. Still hyperventilating. Now the memories of axes coming at me flashed through my mind.
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Arm bleeding. Gushing. Wood gripping onto it.
“There’s too much blood,” she whispered. “I need to cut the circulation.”
Shock planted me there, shaking, watching my own blood drip off my hands onto the floor as the guy laughed at me.
“Shut up!” Wood screamed at him. She ripped my belt off me as I slumped to the floor. “I have to cut off the circulation.”
I nodded. Vision was blurring. Guy was laughing.
She yanked the belt tight around my shoulder. Above it oozed more blood. I stared at it. The guy laughed harder.
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I shook my head, slapped my thigh with the torch, and yelled “stop.” According to the psychologist, that was meant to block it. It worked, normally. It wasn’t working now.
My heart pounded in my ears and I winced as my arm ached. Then I realised I was gripping the torch so hard, my fingers were white.
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“Shut up!” Wood screamed at him. She ripped my belt off me as I slumped to the floor. “I have to cut off the circulation.”
I nodded. Vision was blurring. Guy was laughing.
She yanked the belt tight around my shoulder. Above it oozed more blood. I stared at it. The guy laughed harder.
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My breathing came out in sobs. I cradled my head, trying to calm myself. I was about to have a freak out, a full on panic attack. “Calm . . . calm . . . just breathe out . . . breathe out . . .”
“Morgan?” Sophie’s voice called to me from somewhere beyond the bank of mist. “Morgan, is that you?”
“Help.” Breathing wasn’t working. Breathing wasn’t easy. “Help!”
“I’m here.” Sophie hurried from a wall of mist, looking more ethereal than ever but I didn’t care. She didn’t have a sword or a gun just a concerned look on her face.
“You’re home . . . are you?” Was I imagining it? Was she there?
“You look wounded,” she said, mist swirling around her. “Has someone attacked you?”
“Yes.” I lifted up my arm and tears blurted free. I’d never been so thrilled to see another person in my life. “I’m having a panic attack.”
She moved closer but cautiously as if not worry me. She eased onto one hip, her stature, her presence: reassuring. “Yes, you are. This mist does things to anyone who dares linger in it for too long.” She held out her hand. “Come, I will take you back to the manor, get you something warm.”
“I can’t move.” Just like then, just like when my arm was bleeding, I was rooted there. I could almost feel the blood again. “I can’t breathe.”
Sophie strolled to stand beside me and motioned to my right. “I nearly drowned here in a mist like this once. I understand, at least from my own experiences, how you might feel.”
“You nearly drowned?” How did she cope with it so well then? “That’s so horrible.”
“Not as bad as suffocating on the moors in the thick mud.” Her tone was calm but her eyes flickered with resignation. “My grandfather came to my rescue . . . always did.”
“Always?” I managed to turn and face her, the space between us closing. “How often were you hurt?”
“Constantly. You’ve seen my scars.” Sophie tapped her finger to her head. “You’ve seen the implants.” She shrugged. “I nearly lost my spleen, twice; nearly bled to death in the forest; needed several operations for the wound to my chest . . . cracked my spine falling from horseback . . . was stabbed countless times including my stomach as Fiona mentioned.” She sighed. “And somewhere along the way, I lost my ability to carry a child.”
Shock gave way to concern. My breathing slowed.
“What were you doing?” I wrapped my arms around her waist, nestled into her hip, under her arm.
“A Haye’s . . . a De Breton’s childhood is less about nurture and more about survival.” Sophie pulled me close and kissed my forehead. “My brother and I were rivals from birth, and we fought from then on.” She threaded her hand through my hair and stroked the cusp between my head and neck, easing me more firmly to her lips. “He always won.”
“There’s fighting and then there’s fighting.” I scowled. Now I was angry, which flattened my fear. “He was older than you, wasn’t he?”
And Bunion’s book had said how kind and caring Henry Haye was. Hah.
“We were taught to be that way.” Sophie massaged deeper. “He once shot me in the forest in the thigh. Jake took one bullet before that.”
“You what?” I tried to push back to meet her eyes but the massaging was relaxing me.
“Yes, so my grandfather shot him for being imprudent.” Sophie smiled, working her way to my ear. “As you may imagine, my mother despaired.”
“Who could blame her?”
Sophie trailed her hand up and down the back of my neck. “Henry hated me because I bore the correct resemblance to our lineage.” She cupped my neck and tilted me up to look into amused eyes. “He was shorter and lost his hair. My grandfather was disgusted.”
“I can’t believe no one did something about Henry.” I hugged her, soaking up her comfort and wanting so much for her to feel me sending it back.
“My grandfather always versed me that I was the true De Breton heir and that duty had to come first. Henry’s illusion of being the heir gave my grandfather a more covert route to preparing me for taking my place as steward. He never trusted my father to do anything.” She laughed but it was laced with sadness. “All I wanted was to leave.”
Something potent rippled across Sophie’s eyes. It shot desire right through me until I whimpered.
“Here?” I whispered.
“Here.” Sophie grazed teeth over my windpipe then cupped my face with both hands. “The best way to beat this fear is for me to show you how pleasant the mist can be.” She dropped one hand to my shirt. “I did warn you that I would be in search of your company.”
I fumbled with my buttons and pulled the shirt from my waistband. “I remember arguing about that.”
Sophie nodded and tugged free my bra. “Yes. You seem intent on rebuffing me.”
I placed my palm to Sophie’s breastbone, her buttons. “What do you do if you have no heir?”
Sophie took my left hand and kissed the tips of my fingers. “If I don’t provide an heir, the estate, after nearly a thousand years, returns back to the crown.” She flicked her tongue over each tip. “Which is why I had my eggs frozen.”
“You did? So you can have heirs?” I really didn’t want the estate going anywhere.
“Yes.” Sophie let go of my fingers but I was not letting her stop nibbling at them. “Perhaps I have already.” She dropped her hands to my belt and tugged it free. “Perhaps I may embroil you in making things doubly sure.” She undid the button, slid down the zip. “Perhaps I may offer you a compelling reason to comply?”
As if Sophie looking at me, let alone touching me, wasn’t compelling enough. “If you want me to help, I will . . . help . . .” Pull my own trousers down? Panic attack was officially forgotten right now. “But fire away.”
Sophie lifted me up, forced me to wrap my legs around her slender waist, and walked us from the path. “Why are you so loyal?”
“I told you, I’m in love with you.” I shivered as the damp leaves of the Willow-Blossom brushed over my bare back, shoulders, neck. “I know where we are now.”
The damp, rough bark scraped against my skin, my bum. The buckle on Sophie’s belt was cold as she pressed me to the trunk.
“Yes, I told you I wasn’t done with you.” Sophie grazed teeth over the side of my neck. “Do not think your compliance spares you my attentions.”
I lay my head back as she pressed my hands to the damp bark. I didn’t know how she’d got me from the mess on the path to the wanton heap of woman against a tree but I’d take it. I groaned into her kiss and enjoyed the feel of the damp mist against my skin. I could get used to mist, really used to it.