Hunting Season by Liz Carlyle

Author:Liz Carlyle
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star

Chapter Eight

A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.

—Bacon

Christian had no memory of bounding down the steps of the folly; no clue as to how he found his way through the maze. It seemed to take hours; it must have been mere seconds. The voice kept shrieking, rising to a hysterical pitch now. Christian did not stop to see if Elise was behind him. He bolted from the maze and turned the corner, running down the path toward the Dutch Garden. Toward the ornamental canal which encircled it.

Water came into view around the next corner, sheened with gold in the fading light. Belinda squatted awkwardly in a flat-bottomed rowboat. One hand was pressed to her mouth, the other was holding an oar, poking at something floating in the water. Something—someone—wearing pale yellow muslin.

“Her head!” wailed Belinda. “She struck her head!”

Christian did not pause to think. He had no need to. Instead, he hit the canal at a run. But the water was not deep; he struck bottom almost instantly, surfacing only yards from Henriette. By now she was flailing wildly. Her head went under, her arms wheeling in the water. “Oh! Oh!” sobbed Belinda, kneeling in the boat now, her knuckles white against the wood.

But Christian had his arms around the child. In one swift jerk, he forced her head to the surface. She came up wild and sputtering, water weeds clinging to her hair. Christian fought for purchase on the slimy bottom, Henriette gagging as he dragged her backward. His boots were like lead weights in the water. He reached the stone wall of the canal, slapping his free hand up on the ledge to anchor them. And then Elise was there, screaming and clawing at the child, her face a mask of terror.

“Henriette! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Her hands shook as she forcibly dragged the child, sodden skirts and all, onto the graveled path. Her face was bloodless; her entire body trembled.

Christian planted both palms on the ledge, and somehow hefted himself out. He went at once to the child, squatting down beside Elise, trying to restrain her. She was hysterical with fear, clutching and clawing like a madwoman at the child. Christian seized her hands, forcing them into her lap. “Get back, Elise, you are making things worse,” he demanded.

“My baby, my baby!” Elise was crying now, tears pouring down her face as she reached again for Henriette, trying with all her might to drag the child onto her lap. “Oh, give her to me! Oh, God, give her to me!”

Christian pushed her away. “Calm down, Elise!” he roared. “Don’t drag her upright! She must retch up this water.”

Still shaking uncontrollably, Elise fell back onto her heels, her eyes wild, her fingers digging into the gravel as if it might anchor her. Tenderly, Christian turned the child on her side and began to pound between her shoulder blades. Suddenly, a spasm wracked her slender body, and Henriette began retching up green water. Three times.

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