Edge of Night Read online

  Cassandra ran lightly up the steps and into the interior of the wagon, breathing shallowly because Gretch’s repulsive smell permeated everything he touched. She was glad for this Cameron person...if that was his real name. Working quickly, she dragged the squaw’s dress over her head and donned her dress, sweater, and jacket. Gretch had taken her boots, substituting the cheap leather clogs covering her feet. She considered leaving them, but didn’t want to go barefoot.

  No matter what happened next, it could hardly be worse than Gretch, with his stink and the lasciviousness, which was bound to do her in sooner or later. He wanted her, and hated himself for what he saw as weakness. She felt his loathing, mixed with lust, whenever he looked at her. A volatile combination that had to explode sooner or later. She’d been in bad situations before, but Gretch was just about as disgusting a person as she’d ever had to put up with.

  Maybe Demeter heard her prayers at the river today—

  “You’re not going nowhere. You ain’t got no husband. That’s nothing but a damned lie.” Gretch’s voice, pitched low so the people outside wouldn’t hear him, raked across her nerves.

  He’d crept silently up the steps while she was lost in thought and stood blocking the wagon’s only door as she tried to shoulder past him. “You put on a smile, get on out there, and tell some more fortunes. We need money.”

  “If you don’t let me leave, I’ll scream. That ought to bring someone in here to see what’s going on.” Freedom was so close. Desperation swept through her, and she contemplated pushing Gretch over backward down the steps. Her power was recovered to some extent. It might be enough—

  “Something amiss, Louisa?” The stranger had walked around to the stairs and stood just below Gretch, smiling up at her.

  “No, nothing. I’m ready, dear.” She dropped the coin from the pregnant woman onto a small table bolted to the side of the wagon. “There you go,” she told Gretch. “The coin should be mine since I earned it with my prophecy, but I’ll leave it for you as a sign of good faith.”

  Will he let me go? Will he?

  What will Cameron do if Gretch wants to fight?

  “You’ve not seen the last of me,” Gretch hissed, spraying her with tobacco-flecked saliva, before turning to stomp down the rickety steps. He pushed Cameron out of the way. Muttering imprecations, he melted into the crowd.

  Disgusted, she wiped the spittle off her face.

  “Come along,” Cameron repeated, holding out a hand to guide her down the stairs. “I only have one horse, but you can ride. I’ll lead him. There’s a town not too far up the way. We’ll stop at the inn for what’s left of tonight.”

  She followed him to the other side of the rutted track where he’d left a bay gelding tied to a convenient branch. Vaulting smartly onto the animal’s back, she nodded to him as she handed down the reins. He grabbed them and led the animal along the dark lane.

  Time slid past. When she was sure they were well away from Gretch and his wagon, she asked softly, “Who are you, really?”

  “Why does that matter?”

  Cassandra thought about it. “Perhaps a more pertinent question, sir, might be why you took it upon yourself to rescue me.”

  He chuckled, a soft sound that caressed her in the darkness. “You needed rescuing.”

  “Yes, but how could you tell?”

  “Why does that matter?” He repeated his earlier question.

  Ach, back to where we were five minutes ago.

  “You do know I’m not your long lost wife,” she persisted.

  “I don’t have a wife. Not yet, anyway.” Despite the darkness, and his face being turned away from her, she was nearly certain he was smiling.

  “Is Cameron your real name?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Why do you answer all my questions with others of your own?” She felt frustrated. In spite of that, though, she was sure she wasn’t in any immediate danger.

  How would I know?

  My gifts are useless around him. They didn’t help much when I let Gretch get hold of me, either. Or the ones before him.

  “The inn is just around this next bend. I plan to ask for a single room in case Smythe comes snooping after us. I heard him threaten you there on the stairs. Don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  She hadn’t been worried...about that anyway. Cameron was undeniably appealing. He exuded an unconscious sensuality, the like of which she hadn’t seen since the Roman Empire fell.

  Christianity tolled the death knell for sex. All their foolish rules about who could couple with whom were enough to make your head fall off. What earthly difference would it make if a maid fucked her second cousin? Yet that turned into a hanging offense—at least for the maid—as the Church became stronger and stronger. Clerics were practically the only ones who could read and write, which gave them an absurd advantage over everyone else. The goddess-forsaken black robes just wrote things down, presented their drivel as god’s word, and that was that.

  She made a small clucking noise, lost in the distant reaches of the past.

  Misunderstanding her, he spoke hesitantly. “If it bothers you that much, I suppose I could get two rooms. Until we’re out of this region, though, I believe it best if we at least look married since I announced it in front of so many people. Gretch won’t be the only one gossiping about the Oracle whose husband finally caught up with her.”

  “The room is fine. I was thinking of...other things.”

  * * *

  They barely arrived at the public house in time. The innkeeper was in the process of locking his doors for the night as they rounded the corner and could see the place. Dashing ahead, Cameron did something—likely a silver piece or two—and the proprietor found them a room.

  “Kitchen’s closed for the evening,” the plump man in the stained apron cautioned. I can get you a loaf and a couple tankards though, to take up to your lodgings.”

  “That would be nice. Thank you.” Cassandra smiled at the innkeeper. “Thanks too for finding space for us for tonight.”

  “You’re most welcome, ma’am.” The man looked sharply at her, and she wondered if word of the amnestic oracle preceded their arrival, though she didn’t see how it was possible since no one had passed them on the road.

  “You’re in the last room on the right, up those stairs there.” The innkeeper gestured. “I’ll put beer and bread out presently.”

  “Why don’t you go on up, love,” Cameron murmured. “I know how tired you must be. I’ll be along with our food and drink.” He sat at one of the long, trestle tables lining the common room. Crossing his long legs, he propped his head on a closed fist.

  “Thanks, dear. I will.”

  Cassandra mounted the stairs, the risers uneven enough to demand her attention. She located their room easily since there were only four—two on each side of a central hall—and pushed the door open. Spying a candle stub stuck into what was likely a nail on a wooden board, she looked for matches. There didn’t seem to be any.

  Should I?

  Probably not.

  Any magic—even something so small as bringing fire—wasn’t a very good idea. Witch-hunters were everywhere. Generally humans with a small amount of their own power, they were sensitive to the feel of expended magic—and driven by the generous bounty on witches.

  Returning to the common room, she scooped a few matches off the top of the hearth, blew an airy kiss at Cameron, and returned to their quarters.

  Candle lit, she took in the small, neat space tucked under the eaves of the two-story building. A bed, barely big enough for one, was shoved against one wall. From long habit, she sniffed the mattress pleased the straw was reasonably fresh. A small table with two cane-back chairs sat under the room’s one window.

  She toed off her boots and stockings, wriggling her toes, and padded barefoot to the window where she unhooked the shutter. A refreshingly chill breeze wafted in, and a nearly-full moon was just cresting the horizon. She sent a prayer to Dia
na, wondering if Apollo’s twin still watched over the moon. After a bit, she heard a gentle tap at the door. Casandra opened it and moved aside so Cameron could enter.

  “Not bad,” he murmured, looking around the small space as he set the beer and bread on the table. “The proprietor took pity on us and put some butter and cheese in with the bread.”

  “Hungry.” She scrabbled in the basket for the buttered bread, folding a slice over a thick slab of cheese. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had enough to eat.”

  Maybe she should wait for Cameron, but she was too starved for manners. Chewing and swallowing, she sighed with pleasure. After a few bites, she picked up a tankard and chased the food with a long swallow of beer. The mildly alcoholic beverage hadn’t aged long enough, but it tasted wonderful, and she swiped at her mouth to get rid of the foamy residue.

  “Other than beating you and starving you, did that bastard do anything else?” Cameron’s words were quiet, but they held a deadly edge.

  Cassandra stared at him, shocked. How could he have known?

  She set her beer down. “I told you he didn’t feed me enough, but I never said anything else. Why would you think he hurt me?”

  “Because he had the look of a man who’d do such things,” Cameron replied, sipping at his own beer. “Those bruises circling both wrists didn’t happen by themselves.” Raising a hand to forestall further questions, he added, “Finish your bread and drink your beer. It’s past time for sleep. We should be up and gone early.”

  “They usually serve breakfast at places like this—” she began, hoping for more food.

  “We’ll be gone long before then,” he broke in. “We’ll need another horse, though. I’m hoping there’ll be a stable near here where I can buy one.”

  “If we wait for the stable to open, we can wait for breakfast. I’ve missed as many meals as I plan to.”

  He laughed softly again and ate more of his dinner.

  His laughter reminded her of springtime in warmer climes, redolent of newly sprung plants and delicate flowers. “Do I amuse you?” Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be. “I’m tired of being hungry. That’s all.”

  “I understand better than you might think. I’ve been hungry myself. Would you like me to beg more bread from the kitchen?”

  She shook her head. “No. No point in drawing attention to ourselves.”

  Cassandra got to her feet and latched the window. She moved the candle to the table and said, “Blow it out when you’re done. Sleep was a good idea. I’m exhausted.” Kissing him lightly on one cheek, she whispered, “Thank you. You’ve done me a great kindness, sir.”

  * * *

  Cameron wrapped his cloak tighter around him to ward off the chill of the evening and watched Cassandra from his seat at the table. She’d fallen asleep almost immediately, which told him she didn’t view him as a threat.

  Her classically sculpted face, with its high cheekbones and lush, red lips, held something both youthful and timeless. Abundant coppery hair, released from its pins, fanned over the thin pillow, a few strands falling onto the floor.

  What got into me? She wasn’t part of the plan.

  Stopping at that ludicrous medicine show hadn’t been part of the plan, either. He’d ridden right by it and then been drawn back by something. In truth, he was a good half mile beyond Smythe’s wagon before a voice inside his head hammered mercilessly, insisting he retrace his steps.

  He couldn’t recall when a sending had been quite so pervasive, so he followed its command.

  His gaze strayed to the rise and fall of unbound breasts, and his cock stirred. She really was lovely, this Cassandra. Was she really the Cassandra from Greek mythology? Could she possibly be after all this time? Most of the gods and goddesses had long since gone to ground. The modern world didn’t believe in them anymore, and their response was to leave mankind to rot in its own excesses.

  Cameron narrowed his eyes, still replaying the night’s events. Once he returned to Smyth’s wagon, he’d watched from the shadows as the pregnant woman sought Cassandra’s counsel, then denied its accuracy. More than anything, that spurred him to step forward, claiming to be her husband.

  Destined to tell the truth, yet never be believed. It was Cassandra’s gift. And her curse as well.

  Cameron was a creature of spirit. Forged by Sidhe magic in the old country, he held magic, but nothing so powerful as hers. He risked a small flicker of enchantment, shielding it well. Displays of power were hazardous because witch-hunters were always about, drawn by rich bounties offered by the Church.

  His magic foundered against a wall, and he shuttered it. Even in sleep, she protected herself, but he didn’t blame her. Her wards added to his suspicion that she had to be the original Cassandra.

  It must be why he’d felt enormous pressure to rescue her. His sending hadn’t come from her, but from the gods. For a moment, he felt hopeful. Maybe they hadn’t totally deserted mankind after all. In his mind’s eye, he visualized empty altars all through the Scottish highlands and the Irish hills. Painfully deserted places, where people once brought offerings, grateful for what their gods could do.

  Sadness displaced hope. Perhaps the gods wanted him to rescue Cassandra, but they’d washed their hands of mankind.

  Cameron railed against the Christian god and swore softly. “Herne take the bloody Church.” Even as he said the words, he realized the futility of his despair. Over time Christianity insidiously and systematically replaced once-living gods with their dead one. The Middle Ages were such a wretched time that people—smallfolk and lords alike—grasped greedily at salvation promised by the new religion.

  Never mind that deliverance from misery wasn’t supposed to come until the afterlife.

  Rewards in this life for gullibility ran the gamut, from hangings and confiscated property, to maiden daughters fucked by priests before—and after—being tossed into nunneries. He shuddered, reliving his anguish as an image of Leda, his own sweet Leda burned at the stake, blasted him with misery.

  He’d known for hundreds of years that the dead god was just that...dead. The black-robed nightmares who passed for priests created the rules—enforcing them with brutal efficiency. Priests touted their rules as the indisputable word of a god no one had ever seen, but who couldn’t be denied if you wanted to protect your immortal soul.

  Horse crap!

  Anger turned his guts to a writhing, burning mass of pain. He had to calm down or he’d never sleep. Gazing at the woman helped. He focused on her beauty, wondered how her silken hair would feel twined tight in his hands, and his tight muscles relaxed.

  Cassandra stirred, murmuring in her sleep. Perhaps she sensed his torment.

  He blew out the candle and shut his eyes. He could doze sitting up. He’d done it lots of times. When they imprisoned him in The Clink in Southwark after Leda’s death in sixteen eighty-three, he’d been chained to a damp, moldy wall for months with only rats for company. He had to do everything sitting then, and he remembered rotting in his own filth. Even after he turned magic to the task, it took more time than he cared to think about for the festering sores on his skin to heal. If there hadn’t been a prison uprising, he would’ve swung along with all the other heretics...

  Damn the sodding Church of England and the Catholics, too.

  He didn’t recall falling asleep, but the gray light of dawn woke him. He glanced at Cassandra. She’d kicked off the covers. All of one leg was visible, lean, muscled, and appealing. The cockstand he always woke with stiffened further, and his breath hitched. Gods, she was so sensual, yet with a beauty that transcended anything he’d come across.

  Without thought, he got to his feet and knelt by her bed. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he rocked her gently. “Time to get up.”

  Her green eyes, clear as fine agates, flew open, and she looked at him, tracing fingertips along the top of his cheekbone.

  “You have dark smudges beneath those fine, gray eyes.” She opened her arms in a silen
t invitation, and he was lost.

  Cameron cradled her face in his hands before he closed his mouth over hers. She threaded her outstretched arms around him, splaying her hands across his back as she opened her mouth to his kiss.

  She tasted of promise, of warmth and love—all the things he’d denied himself since Leda’s death. He’d taken the occasional woman when his balls ached so fiercely he had no choice, but he’d never offered his heart again. Fear drove a stake through lust so primal, it was all he could to so to hold himself back. He wanted to push her skirts up and plunge into her, filling her with everything he had. If he did, he’d never leave her side.

  She thrust her tongue inside his mouth and moaned low in her throat, pulling him into the bed with her. He resisted, but slipped a hand between her legs beneath her skirts. Scorching heat met his fingers, and his cock twitched violently inside his breeks, teetering on the edge of orgasm. He rubbed hard little circles around the seat of her pleasure, and she moved a hand to curve around his erect flesh.

  He felt her push into his mind and didn’t block her. He wanted to feel her hunger, her desire. More, he wanted her to feel his. Her hips bucked, and he moved his fingers inside her in time to feel the rhythmic contractions of her climax. She didn’t even have to stroke him. The heat from her hands through his trousers was all it took for him to spend, jerking and spasming against her touch.

  He broke their kiss and drank her in, enthralled by her beauty. Passion splotches covered her pale skin, and she glowed in the early morning light.

  Cassandra grinned. “Excellent beginning. Take those clothes off, so we can do this properly.”

  Smiling faintly, he shook his head. “I’d love to, but there’s no time—at least not right now. The sun’s up. We need to leave soon.”

  “Breakfast?” Her voice sounded fuzzy. Swallowing, she tried again. “You don’t have that horse yet, do you?”

  He shook his head. After brushing a kiss across her mouth, he got to his feet and unbuttoned his breeks. A corner of her sheets worked fine to clean himself before he set his trousers to rights.