Through a Dark Mist by Marsha Canham Read Free Book Online Page B

able to see some humour in the world around us.”
    “Humour, sirrah? In murder and kidnapping? Pray, you will forgive me if I do not share your amusement.”
    “You say the word murder as if we were the only ones guilty of it.”
    “I saw none of your men lying dead on the road, victims of a cold-blooded ambush.”
    “Ambushes are rarely warm affairs, nor do they lend themselves to a fanfare of trumpets.”
    “You mock me, sir,” she said coldly.
    “I mock your ignorance, madam. I mock your inability to see past the tip of your nose … although it is held so high, I should not wonder at the difficulty.”
    Servanne felt the redness creeping up to her brow. “I am not distressed. Your own nose, wolf’s head, has been sniffing up dung heaps so long it cannot distinguish fair from foul.”
    Intrigued despite himself, the Wolf studied the square set to the young widow’s jaw and pondered how the pearly row of small, even teeth had remained intact all these years. His own hands tingled with the urge to curl about her throat and rattle a few loose.
    “Methinks I have been away from England too long,” he mused, the slanted grin barely moving around the words. “Too long for such haughtiness and greed as I see in some to be the cause of such misery as I see in others … or are you blind as well to the starvation, the cruelty, the beatings, cripplings, and degradations to be found in every town and village throughout the kingdom?”
    “If a man starves, it is because he is too lazy to work the fields. If he is punished, it is because he has committed some offense against the crown. As for the haughtiness and greed of which you speak, I suggest the worst offender is the cur of the forest who aspires to gain his wealth and recognition through thievery and murder … or do your own eyes suffer some difficulty in seeing the irony of your piousness?”
    Her quickness of wit and tongue was beginning to make an impression on his men and the Wolf could sense that part of their amusement was a result of his inability to bring her under his thumb. She possessed far more spirit than was healthy or wise. Spirit bred contempt and contempt fostered rebellion—something he had neither the time nor the inclination to tolerate.
    Conversely, fear bred caution, and both were qualities he would sorely prefer to see shading the vibrant blue of the widow’s eyes.
    “Robert … take the men on ahead and see that everything has been made ready for our guests.”
    “Aye. Shall I take this un for ye as well?” A thumb the size of a small anvil crooked in Servanne’s direction.
    “No,” said the Wolf, his grin a misty suggestion about the lips. “I will bring her along myself.”
    He took up Undine’s reins again and murmured a comforting “whoa” to the mare as the foresters and their burdened rouncies filed past. Servanne held Biddy’s worried gaze until the last glimpse of her luffing wimple had disappeared behind the wall of green, then she had no choice but to look down at the outlaw … which she did with the vaguest stirrings of unease.
    The Wolf was bareheaded under the blazing glare of the sun and his hair shone with red and gold threads tangled among the chestnut waves. He looked somehow bigger and broader, more powerful and far more dangerous on his own than he had surrounded by his men. And, as Servanne found herself earning the full brunt of his stare, she could not help but feel the heat of a threat behind it, a promise which coiled down her spine in a fiery ribbon and pooled hotly in her loins.
    “I believe I gave you a promise that no harm would befall either you or your waiting-woman,” he said in a calm, detached monotone. “But madam, as you are undoubtedly already aware, you present a worthy—nay, almost an impossible test for a man’s patience.”
    Servanne moistened her lips and fought to keep her voice equally cool and steady. “On the contrary, sirrah. When I am treated with respect and courtesy, most