Free The Renegade's Heart by Claire Delacroix Page B

could not look away from him,
so greedy was she to learn all his mysteries. Who was he? Where did
he go? How would she go to him – and when – without knowing who he
was or where he might be found?
    After he departed, she felt as if she had
awakened from a long sleep. The messenger was being escorted away
by Anthony and Isabella rose from the board. Elizabeth considered
the ribbons overhead and knew she had to tell Isabella what she had
seen.
     
    * * *
     
    Chapter
Four
     
    Murdoch could not sleep. The forest was alive
with Fae and he did not trust them a whit. The gnarled trunks of
the trees around him shifted to become faces with gaping mouths,
laughing at him. He heard the scamper of small feet under the dried
leaves that covered the forest floor and he knew these were not
small creatures of the woods. It was Fae, dancing, laughing,
dueling with pine needles, swinging from cobwebs.
    And he was so cold. He was chilled to his
marrow, colder than he might have believed it possible for a man to
be. The tips of his fingers were blue and he could scarce feel his
toes. But the worst of it was in his chest. It seemed that there
was a lump of ice within him, one that was slowly and steadily
freezing his entire body.
    He did not have to look to know that the blue
tendril was growing over his skin. He could feel its incremental
progress, and in the darkness of the night, Murdoch was
terrified.
    What would the Elphine Queen do with his
heart?
    How could he survive without it?
    Murdoch lay awake, his hands clenched into
fists, fearful for the fate of the horses, of his companions, of
himself.
    He felt the wind still, as if all the world
was holding its breath. Even the Fae in the shadows ceased to
chatter, though they continued to move. When the sky was fully dark
– an impenetrable black overhead, and one devoid of stars – the
snow began to fall. It cascaded in silence over the forest, as if a
white chemise had been cast over the tops of the trees.
    It seemed that time had stopped.
    Murdoch concentrated on ensuring his heart
did not. He was aware that it labored more heavily than once it
had, and could not purge his mind of the image of his blackening
heart trapped in that crystal orb. He breathed steadily and
regularly, forcing himself to inhale and exhale, all the while
listening for the Elphine Queen.
    The breath of the horses made plumes of steam
in the air and the forest seemed wrought of silver and black. The
surface of the river turned to a dark mirror as ice slowly claimed
its surface. Flakes of snow fluttered through the canopy of trees,
slowly carpeting the branches and the ground. Murdoch guessed it
gathered more quickly on the fields beyond the forest, but he did
not rise to look.
    He feigned sleep, but his palms were damp
with icy sweat. He heard Stewart pacing and clearing his throat on
the first watch. He listened to the vigor with which Hamish snored
and savored these signs of mortal presence.
    Still the cold grew within him, turning his
very bones to ice. He tried to think of hot summer days, of raging
fires, of the golden heat that could be savored before the hearth
at Seton Hall. He tried to remember merry times of companionship
and the feel of a hot meal in his belly.
    But what filled his thoughts was the
remembered sight of Isabella’s hair in the sunlight. When she had
leaned out the window, her hair had been unbound and had flowed
over her shoulders like a copper cloud. Touched by the sun, it was
radiant, brilliant, a sight to fill him with wonder.
    He recalled the heat of her pressed against
him, the taste of her and the softness of her lips beneath his. He
thought of the spark of intellect in her eyes and the admiration he
had glimpsed in her expression, never mind her passion for
justice.
    And to Murdoch’s amazement, the cold
retreated. He seized upon his memories of Isabella – so few as yet,
but he would see that changed – and filled his thoughts with them.
He might have warmed himself fully,