Page 12 of The Witching Hour
Their courtship, the white sprigged day gown with the pink sash she’d worn the first day he’d called on her, the long, lazy afternoons they’d spent in the meadow together, his head in her lap—
The meadow. Yes! She had to be at the meadow, or close by it. They’d spent nearly every day there during their courtship. There was no place that meant as much to them as the meadow did. He ran through the bedchamber door, down the stairs, and through the doors that led out onto the terrace—yes, this was the quickest way to the meadow.
The peaceful night had given way to a violent storm, but he hardly noticed the rain lashing at him, tearing at his clothing as he left the stone terrace behind and plunged into the meadow, the sodden grass dragging at his feet, slowing him down, and turning every step into a battle.
He heard the rushing of the creek before he saw it, his mouth dropping open in horror when he was close enough to understand what he was seeing.
It wasn’t a creek any long, but a violent river, with caps of foaming white cresting the waves. Never, in all the time he’d lived at the castle had heeverseen the creek as it was now, swollen and furious, as if the hand of God itself had whipped it into a surging frenzy. It was a mere gasp away from bursting its banks, but it wasn’t that awful sight that made his heart vault into his heaving chest.
It was Sylvie.
She stood frozen in the center of the footbridge, her soaked nightdress plastered to her thin frame, her mouth open on a gasp of terror as the wind and rushing water under her feet threatened to send her toppling into the churning depths below.
If she fell, she was certain to be knocked senseless against the sharp rocks hiding underneath the water, and then she’d sink, and be lost to him forever.
“Sylvie!” The wind snatched his hoarse cry and sent it whirling into the vortex, but it didn’t matter, because he was already running for her, his lungs battering against his ribs, closer, every step an eternity until at last he reached the footbridge, the wooden slats tipping dangerously under his weight, the icy water flooding his boots, his gaze on her white face instead of on his feet, closer—dear God, he was so close, yet somehow still an eternity away—
“Sylvie!”
The shrieking wind tried to make off with his shout a second time, but this time she heard him, and her head jerked toward him and her eyes widening. “James!”
“Stay where you are, love, and hold on! I’m coming for you!”
And she did hold on, his strong, brave wife—she held on with all her might, her gaze never leaving his as he inched closer, one agonizing step at a time, terrified he’d lose her with every surge of water against the footbridge, but impossibly, she held on, just as he’d begged her too, until at last he caught her shivering body in his arms.
“James,” she gasped. “How did you know I was here? How did you find me?”
“I’llalwaysfind you, Sylvie. I will always come for you.” He caught her against him, pressing her fiercely against his chest. “Always, love. I promise it.”
“And I’ll always wait for you, James.” She pressed her face against his neck. “Always. I promise it.”
James was never certain, later, if the wind truly did calm then, the creek receding as the rain slackened in its furious assault, but it seemed that way as he scooped Sylvie into his arms and carried her across the footbridge to the safety of the meadow.
Once they were there, he collapsed to his knees.
“Sylvie.” He clasped her face in his hands, his lips finding hers in a desperate kiss. He took her mouth greedily, unable to stop himself from tasting her deeply, his tongue slick against the seam of her lips, a groan rumbling in his chest as she opened eagerly for him, and twined her arms around his neck.
And there, in their meadow, with a gentle rain falling upon them, they lost themselves in a kiss.
CHAPTER5
Sylvie woke to the scent of flowers. Or, perhaps woke wasn’t quite the right word.
She drifted from a cool, white unconsciousness into a warm, sunlit awareness without knowing precisely how the transition happened, or of anything at all but the scent of flowers tickling her nose. That, and the sense that something momentous had taken place, only…
She couldn’t quite recall what. She’d been in her bed, and James had been there too. She’d kissed him, and then she’d left him sleeping in her bedchamber, and…something had happened, and the next thing she knew she’d woken up here, only…where washere? And where had all the lovely flowers come from?
Surely, she hadn’t returned to a state of sentience only to experience her own wake?
But no, it wasn’t the scent of lilies that had woken her, and there were none of the wails of lamentation one might expect at one’s wake. Instead, she heard only…birds chirping?
No, that couldn’t be right—not unless Ada had doves brought in to send her off to the afterlife in style, a ridiculous extravagance that would have been utterly out of character for Ada. Besides, this was a chirping, not a cooing, and soft fingers of morning sunlight were playing over her face. In the distance, she could just make out the gentle ripple of water over rock and the hushed rustle of tree branches stirring in the breeze.
So, she opened her eyes.
There were no lilies, no casket, no silk-lined pillow, and not a soggy lace-edged handkerchief to be seen. Thank goodness, it wasn’t her wake, then!
But it wasn’t her bedchamber, either. It was a place of birdsong, dappled sunlight filtering through the spreading branches of a tree above her, wildflowers surrounding her, and the sunlight picking out the shades of russet in the thick brown hair of the man beside her, lighting it up like a halo around his head.
