Heather Graham by Bride of the Wind

Author:Bride of the Wind
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter XI

WITH GEOFFREY HARD ON his heels, Pierce rode for Huntington Manor. It was a solid hour’s ride, but for once in his life, he gave Beowulf no thought, nearly riding the fine stallion into the ground.

When they reached the outer walls of the manor, there was no one about. Pierce could see a light in the gatehouse, but no one answered his call when he beat against the gate. He looked at Geoffrey worriedly, realizing that a growing sense of disaster had followed him all the way here. He surveyed the walls of the estate. They were brick, but ancient, and there were handholds he could use to scale over the top.

Letting Geoffrey hold the horses, he did so, nearly slipping once, gritting his teeth to find a hold on a chipped brick. By the time he reached the top, his fingers were torn and bleeding. He ignored them.

When he jumped to the ground below the wall, he saw that the manor house was strangely quiet. He unbolted the gate, pushing it open for Geoffrey to ride through. “The house!” he told Geoffrey anxiously. He turned and started to walk toward the door. Then he walked faster, a great unease stealing over his heart.

He started to run.

He came to great, heavy oak doors and lifted a hand to pound upon them. He didn’t need to do so. The doors swung open the moment that he touched them. He entered into a silent foyer, then saw the marble entry with the grand stairway far at its rear.

He had been in such a hurry. Now he didn’t want to go any further. There was no one within the house, it seemed. No one came to challenge them. There was nothing but silence.

He drew his sword, and carefully started down the entry, motioning to Geoffrey to wait. Slowly, with near silent treads, he made toward the stairway.

There, his sword fell heavily to his side as all strength deserted his arm, his body, his soul. His breath caught in horror, and he stared unmoving at the couple entwined on the floor.

No! The word was silent, but it screamed and screeched in his heart and mind. No … this could not be.

“Sweet Jesus!” he cried out then, finding motion at last. He sheathed his sword and nearly flew the few steps to Jamison and Anne where they lay on the marble. Frantically he pulled Jamison’s body off Anne’s, half expecting the man with the bloodied back to come to life, again.

But Jamison fell to the floor, his pale, sightless eyes staring to the ceiling. There was no doubt here, no trickery. Jamison Bryant was dead.

As was Anne.

Beautiful Anne, sweet Anne, gentle Anne. He took her into his arms, mindless that her dried blood stained his cloak. He smoothed back her golden hair, touched her lifeless cheeks. Then a rage filled his heart and he held her close, encompassing her against him. “My God, my God!” he whispered to her. “What have they done, Anne? What have they done?”

Vaguely he was aware of hurried footsteps coming toward him.

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