The Forest Lord (9 page)

"May I know whom to thank for this service?" she asked.

"Hartley.
Hartley Shaw," he said. His voice was musical, deep, compelling. Still she had not seen his face, but his simple homespun clothing and sturdy frame suggested that he was an itinerant laborer or local farmhand. His hair was thick, the color of rich loam. His shoulders filled his cotton shirt well as those of any Corinthian.

"Shaw,"
Eden said, collecting herself, "since you have already done so much for us, will you secure Atlas and look after Dalziel while I go to the house for assistance? I shall be happy to speak with you later." She moved sideways, Donal in tow, to catch a glimpse of Shaw's face.

Shaw did not look at her. Instead, he moved so that Atlas blocked her view completely.

"As you wish, my lady," he said.

Eden
was not used to being avoided or ignored, least of all by a mere laborer. But there was far more at stake than her pride or curiosity. She bit back unreasonable annoyance and knelt awkwardly beside the stricken groom. She had not so much as a handkerchief to dab at his cut.

"Dalziel," she said, "I shall bring men to carry you down to the house, and see that a doctor is sent for straightaway."

Dalziel's face was red, and
Eden had enough experience of men to know that he was holding a long string of oaths in check. The cut on his shoulder did not look deep, but the arm was set at a peculiar angle, and his discomfort was clear. She felt foolish and helpless and very much responsible. That was part and parcel of living at Hartsmere and becoming its mistress, but it was a not a sensation she particularly relished.

"Mrs. Byrne will make up a bed for you so that you may rest comfortably until the doctor arrives," she said.

He nodded stiffly. "I'll… be fine, my lady."

She looked impatiently for Shaw. He had secured a much calmer Atlas to a post and was standing directly behind her. She had not even heard him approach.

With a brisk nod of acknowledgment, she took Donal's hand and started for the house. Every step only increased her untoward curiosity about the sudden appearance of Shaw and his remarkable success with Atlas. He certainly showed little enough deference to his betters, but that didn't surprise her. His behavior was not unusual among the
Lakeland folk.

What she did find unusual was the compelling timbre of his voice and his quality of confident strength. He hadn't spoken like a common dalesman. His words were surprisingly cultivated and lacked the broad northwestern accent.

Perhaps he had received some education that had encouraged pride above his station.
Eden found herself balanced between the inclination to reward and dismiss him immediately, and an overwhelming desire to see his face.

My son
.
Hern leaned his head against the sweaty withers of the stallion and breathed in the homely, mortal scents of hay and dung, not daring to loose his shock and anger.

My son is here.
With her.

They had lied to him. Lord Bradwell, his daughter, the aunt who had so disliked him, all their servants—five years ago they had deceived him when they said the child was dead.
When they had buried him beneath their lifeless stone.
And he, a lord of the Fane, had believed.

The night of the storm, when
Eden had fled from the inn, Lord Bradwell had found his daughter and taken her home. The earl had implored Hern to stay away from Hartsmere after he had pursued them there. "She is very ill," Bradwell had warned him. "She may lose the child."

And she refused to see the man she'd known as Cornelius Fleming. She screamed, Lord Bradwell said, whenever his name was mentioned.

So he'd stayed away. If
Eden rejected him, so be it. He would claim the child and consider the bargain fulfilled. But even that was denied him.

"Gone," Lord Bradwell had said with feigned sadness when Hern had returned from his nine-month exile in the forest. "The child is dead. I beg you to leave my daughter to recover. I beg you…"

Stricken by unfamiliar grief, Hern had watched them lay the child to rest. Whatever the mortals had buried, with their pious and hypocritical
ceremony,
had fooled even him. He had smelled and sensed something of himself given to the earth.

But his senses had deluded him. Perhaps he had been so long in mortal lands, surrounded by the taint of mortal
emotion, that
he had lost the powers he once took for granted.

For the child had survived. He was with his mother, who had returned to Hartsmere with no apparent fear of encountering the boy's father. Had Lord Bradwell told her that the horned creature she so despised had abandoned mortal lands forever?

Warm, soft equine lips brushed his hand where the halter's buckles had burned his flesh. He had grown unused to cold iron while he slept, and now he must develop his ability to withstand its poison all over again.

"Aye, my brother," he said, stroking the great flat cheek. "You know well enough of mortal hypocrisy."

Atlas tossed his head.

"They've called us masters of intrigue, in their legends and stories. But they were adepts of the game from the moment the first of their kind walked this world."

Like Lady Eden Fleming.

He had almost not known her. His memory, like that of all Fane, was nearly perfect, his senses keener than any beast of field or forest. He could remember every tree he had seen grow from sapling to grandfather, each animal that had ever come to his call, and every man or woman he had met in his long life.

How could he have forgotten so much of his mortal bride?

She had changed, as mortals did. Her face was no longer that of a willful child: starry-eyed, ingenuous, and naively certain of what she wanted. Now it bore subtle marks of experience and shrewdness. Lines born of laughter creased the corners of her eyes. Not that her beauty was marred in any way. It had merely been enhanced by the passage of the years.

He was sure that she did not recognize
him
. He had altered something of the appearance he'd assumed as Cornelius Fleming, roughening his features as befitted a servant or commoner, deepening the pitch of his voice. It did not occur to Lady Eden to look for her former lover in a mere laborer, or an inhuman creature in an ordinary man. She, like all mortals, was blind. And that made the situation so much easier for him. Hartley Shaw, as he must be while he remained in the mortal world, was of no possible consequence to so great a lady.

Or to her son.

Our son
.
He had his father's eyes and hair, but the mouth was
Eden's. Hartley didn't know what else he had received from his mother's mortal heritage, or what magical gifts he possessed.

But he was of the Fane. He was the fulfillment of Lord Bradwell's bargain. It was time for all debts to be paid.

"Tod," he whispered, and the menace in his voice caused Atlas to flinch under his hand. He soothed the beast with a touch. "Tod knew. He found it amusing to hide this from me, but he shall atone for his deception."

"Did you… speak?"

Dalziel's voice, rough with pain, intruded upon his dark musings.
The mortal remained where he had fallen, half supported on his good arm as he endured the wait for assistance.

Hartley left Atlas and went to Dalziel's side. "I spoke only to myself," he said. "Are you in pain?"

Dalziel laughed.
"Aye.
But I thank
ye
for saving Master Donal."

For stepping in to protect his own son.
Donal
.
It was a good name. Hartley smiled when he remembered the boy's fearlessness in the presence of an angry stallion. Yes, the Fane gift was there. A magical bond had already begun to grow between them.

Hartley knelt and touched Dalziel's damaged shoulder. The man flinched and gasped.

"Be still," Hartley commanded, "or you will suffer more."

Dalziel froze. Hartley turned a small part of his attention to the injury and drew his hand over the bloodied skin and torn shirt. Dalziel released a long breath of relief and amazement.

"The pain… it's all but gone," he said, staring at Hartley in amazement.

Hartley got to his feet.
" 'Tis
but an easing. The arm is back in place, but only time will heal it."

Dalziel stuttered questions and thanks, but Hartley did not answer. He untied Atlas and led him into the stable, took a brush from a rack on the wall, and began to groom the stallion with long, sweeping strokes.

Healing Dalziel, though the effect had somewhat weakened him, proved that his Fane magic had not waned after five years of sleep. The forest remained the source of his power. Even man's Iron, all around him in this place, was an irritant he could endure. He could enchant Donal and whisk him away before
Eden realized he was gone.

But where was the challenge in that? Where was the sweet victory over mortals who thought that they could defy a lord of the Fane and go about their lives unscathed?

No. Let his last days on earth purge him of all mortal desires. He'd beat Eden and her father at their own game.

Atlas snorted for emphasis as Hartley picked up his near hoof to examine it for stones. If he was to play mortal again, he must get used to such humble tasks. He would work his way into
Eden's life as he'd done before. And when he had taken what he wanted, he would leave her as she had left him.

Alone.
Utterly alone.

Eden
found Mrs. Byrne in the sitting room. Donal had
run ahead, and he and the housekeeper were chattering away in an almost incomprehensible Irish dialect.

"My lady?"
Mrs. Byrne nodded and touched Donal's shoulder. "The boy has told me what happened. Is Dalziel hurt so badly, then?"

"I believe so. He cannot move his arm. The doctor must be sent for immediately."

"The nearest doctor is five miles away, in Ambleside. I'll send Armstrong on our fastest horse, but Dr. Huddleston may not be at home. And with these roads—well, it may take half the day or more."

"Let us hope not. In the meantime, I require men to bring Dalziel down to the house where he may rest comfortably."

"Aye.
I've a notion where Hindle and Grubb may be." Mrs. Byrne pulled the bell cord. Armstrong appeared, and she gave him the instructions. Then she summoned Hester and sent her to find the outdoor servants.

Donal came to
Eden's side and took her fingers in his small but surprisingly strong hand. "Mo—Lady Eden, will the doctor fix Dalziel?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, he will." She kissed the top of his head, savoring the smell and texture of his thick, clean hair. "You did very well, Donal. I'm proud of you."

"May I go back to the stable and see Hartley Shaw again?"

"Perhaps your ladyship should sit down," Mrs. Byrne said. "You look flushed. Shall I bring you a tisane?"

Eden
felt her cheek self-consciously. "I must return to Dalziel."

"Wisht, Dalziel should have sold that brute Atlas long ago, but I understand that Lord Bradwell bought him as a colt and had great hopes for him. You knew Dalziel, my lady?"

"He was with my father six years ago."

"If he's badly hurt, he will not be able to look after the horses."

"One of the men—Grubb perhaps—can take Dalziel's place until he is recovered."

"Grubb is afraid of horses, and Armstrong hasn't the strength, though he can ride well enough. Hindle knows nothing of the beasts."

"Then we shall simply have to hire another groom."

"Aye, my lady."
Mrs. Byrne's expression was both sympathetic and guarded, as if she were about to say something she knew her mistress would not like. "It might not be so easy. So many have left the
dale,
and fewer still would be glad to work at Hartsmere."

"Ah, yes.
The local superstitions.
I had hoped that the poor condition of the countryside would make the dalesmen glad of steady employment."

"It has been harder to find work and keep the farms since the war ended, to be sure. Less and less of the young folk want to stay in the country."

Mrs. Byrne was dodging
Eden's veiled inquiries quite deliberately.
Eden's head pounded, and she sincerely wished that she could leave all these decisions to Aunt Claudia.

But that was not to be. Shaw had already proven his skill with horses. If he were in need of work, the immediate problem would be solved. Yet
a certain
unease attended the thought. Why?