Page 2 of Dhampira

Duncan beamed at her. “Morning, Mistress Addington! I’ll be around in a bit for fresh loaves. And Ma asked about a cake. Do you have anything with preserves? Ma favors preserves.”

“I’ll see what I have,” Mistress Addington said. With a nod at me, she popped back into the bakery.

Duncan’s brow furrowed as he scratched at his chin. “I sure hope she finds those preserves.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” I said, swinging away and starting down the street.

“And you’ll consider what I said?” he called after me.

I waved without turning around, and I walked faster as more shutters swung open around me. The fewer people who saw me with Duncan, the better. Although it was too late to stop gossip from spreading. Mistress Addington wasn’t one to keep news to herself. By noon, every tongue in town would be wagging about me speaking with Duncan.

And all of Derryton would wonder why I continued to turn down Duncan’s offer. He was rich and handsome, and he’d been the talk of every unmarried female in town since he first flashed those dimples. No one could figure out why I declined to marry him, and the townsfolk seemed to take my refusal personally. Just about everyone in Derryton had been born and raised in the village. But Mama was an outsider. The gossips agreed I should be grateful for the opportunity to wed one of Derryton’s most eligible bachelors.

More shutters opened.

I reached the edge of town and continued down the road. My cheeks burned as I imagined the whispered conversations that followed in my wake.

An odd girl.

She should thank her lucky stars for the Bagley boy’s attention.

Twenty-five in a few months. Most girls are married with a brood of children by her age.

Who does she think she is?

A dreamer.

The buckets swung wildly, water slopping over the sides. There was nothing wrong with dreaming. But I was far more than a dreamer, and I could never, under any circumstances, marry Duncan Bagley. Never mind that I’d rather wed Tess the cow than spend one minute as Mistress Bagley’s daughter-in-law.

With a glance over my shoulder, I straightened my back and slowed to a normal pace. The road narrowed, ruts and potholes threatening to twist my ankles. I sidestepped them easily and kept going. The wind picked up, stirring the leaves on the trees. Birds chirped. Deep in the forest, an animal scurried among dry leaves. The first rays of morning sunlight crept over the road.

And a man’s muttered curses floated around the bend ahead.

I stopped, straining to hear more. The road between Derryton and the cottage was usually safe, but a highwayman had robbed the blacksmith a few years ago. And every once in a while, a creature crossed the Feyline…

My heart thumped faster. A bead of sweat streaked down my back.

The man’s voice rang out. “You, there, in the road! I’m armed and not afraid to kill!”

Relief swamped me. The fear in his voice sounded real enough. Still, it was wise to be cautious, so I stooped and freed myself from the yoke. Unburdened, I walked forward. “Hello? Are you hurt?”

The scuffling of boots. Then a squat, balding man in a bright red tunic and equally bright yellow trousers rounded the bend. His face was almost the same shade as his tunic. Sweat beaded his brow and stained his neckline. Dirt streaked his cheek. He looked me up and down, then propped his hands on his hips.

“Am I hurt? That depends entirely on your perspective, Miss…?”

“Corinthe,” I said, striding forward. A large wooden cart came into view. My heart sped up, but not from fear. Because the cart wasn’t like the ordinary, serviceable conveyances the farmers of Derryton used. No, this was a peddler’s cart. A golden silk canopy stretched over a frame. Within it, rows of hooks and shelves held an assortment of goods. Shiny cookware, sparkling jewelry, and bolts of colorful fabric occupied every available space. As I drew closer, a dark, spicy scent teased my nostrils.

The man eyed me as he mopped his brow with a square of silk the same shade as the canopy. “Corinthe, eh? Do you have a family name?” His chest rose and fell rapidly, and a fat vein in his neck kept time with it.

An ache blossomed in my gums. Suddenly, his heartbeat filled my ears.

“Corinthe will do,” I said, tearing my gaze from his neck. Focusing on the cart, I curled my hand into a fist and dug my nails into my palm. The ache faded, and the sounds of the forest returned.

The peddler stuffed the silk in his trouser pocket. “Corinthe Willdoo. That’s a mouthful. Forgive me if I don’t attempt to spell it. You must not be native to Ghedda.”

I looked at the peddler, and he smiled, displaying a prominent gap between his front teeth. His eyebrows were thick and dark, as if they tried to make up for the lack of hair on his head. His eyes were an odd shade, like gold that had been heated and then beaten into something new. Emerald studs winked in his ears. A golden amulet the size of a saucer hung from his neck, and emeralds and other gemstones formed a dragon in the center of the disk. His clothes were a great deal finer than Duncan’s, although nothing like the gowns in Horace Alderson’s shop. I’d wished for something extraordinary. Nothing about the peddler was ordinary.

He waited, his golden gaze steady under my perusal. The hair on my nape lifted as a tingling awareness spread through me. The Feyline was only a day’s ride from Derryton. I had nothing to fear from men. But if the peddler had crossed the line…