My sense of smell is stronger, whether from the Tears themselves or simply because I cannot see, I do not know, but I find that helps me as well, the sharp pungent scent of the sap guiding me to the next tree, a mere four steps ahead. Good. I am far enough away from Fortuna that she will not accidentally stomp on my head as I sleep.
Keeping the tree at my back, and the heat of the fire in front of me, I lower myself to the ground. With all the grace and precision of a performing bear, I clear away rocks and branches before unrolling the woolen blanket. When that is done, I sit back on my heels. Although the night is cold, perspiration trickles along my body from my efforts.
I am back from the road and hidden enough from view, and there is no moon tonight. Even so, I pray to Mortain, asking Him to let the darkness conceal me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I AWAKEN WITH THE GROUND beneath me rumbling like thunder in the far distance. I glance up at the sky to see if storm clouds have formed, cursing when only black nothingness greets me.
Slowly, I stand up. Fortuna snorts and stomps her foot. Another noise follows the first, the screech of an owl perhaps, or the cry of some small creature whose life has just been cut short.
The thundering grows louder and I hear Fortuna tossing her head and whinnying. That is not thunder, but horses. My heart slams against my ribs—the hunt.
I c**k my ear, straining to hear better. No. Just one horse. A lone traveler, then. Although why anyone would be galloping so hard in the dead of night, I do not know. But if he is in such a hurry, he will likely pass by without seeing my camp. Especially now that the fire is dying.
I wait, poised in the darkness, listening carefully, surprised when the rider does not pass but instead turns off the road and heads in my direction. Quickly, I grope with my right hand until it closes around an arrow, then I snag my bow with my left. Slowly, I rise to my feet, keeping all my senses pinned on the approaching rider.
The hooves grow even louder as they draw near and I cannot help but wonder if it is my fear that makes them seem so loud or simply my hearing compensating for my lack of sight. Either way, I nock an arrow to my bow and wait.
When the horse explodes into the copse, it is all I can do not to release the arrow, but I will have only one shot—I’d best wait until I am certain I can make it count.
With a great blowing of breath and heaving of lungs, the horse barrels to a stop just outside the ring of boulders that surrounds my campsite. I hear the creak of a saddle and the swish of leather as someone dismounts. I consider calling out for him to identify himself, then realize I do not wish to give away my position or the element of surprise.
There is a crunch of heavy boots on the forest floor, and my skin draws tight across my bones as I wait.
His scent reaches me first: the rich clean scent of earth and spring leaves accompanied by the faint whiff of leather and horse. “Balthazaar?” His name comes out part whisper and part prayer.
He does not answer me with so much as a grunt. I have never felt so vulnerable, so wary of where I am to place my feet. It is as if the world itself is now some huge trap I must carefully navigate. Because that so infuriates me, I lift my loaded bow and point it in his direction. His footsteps stop.
“What?” he asks. “What is wrong?”
The sound and timbre of his voice wraps itself around me and I give in to the sweet relief that flows through my limbs.
Do I tell him? No, not until I know why he is here. “I am just surprised to see you. That is all. Why are you here?”
“You said you would return. That you would meet me on the battlements. And instead, you ran away. Again.”
Though his voice thrums with his anger, it does not quite hide the faint note of pain that resides there as well. “And so you hunted me down?”
“No.” He sounds vaguely outraged. “I had business nearby.”
I cannot decide if my heart quickens with joy or apprehension. “You followed me.”
“I do not follow; I hunt.”
The sound of his voice is closer, but as I listen for the rustle of his boots upon the forest floor or the crunch of a twig under his boot heel, there is nothing. The man moves as quietly as a wraith, with no clank of weapon or creak of armor to help me pinpoint his location.
It is hard to pretend to keep my eyes focused on him when he moves so quietly, but I do not wish him to know that I am blind. I feel foolish and silly and would rather keep this secret from him. “I do not understand you. Sometimes I cannot tell if you hate me or wish to devour me.”
“Both,” he whispers, and I can feel the heat of him draw closer.
I open my mouth to tell him he is standing too close, but instead I find myself saying, “I am glad you are here.”
He grasps my arms with his hands—hard—and pulls me even closer so that our bodies touch and I can feel the swish of my skirts as they tangle around his legs.
“What spell have you cast over me that I have no choice but to gallop after you across the countryside like some lovesick hound?”
My heart tumbles excitedly at his words. “I thought you said you were not hunting me?”
“Hunting. Following.” Disgust at himself is thick in his voice. “Either way, I will have none of it.” He gives me a little shake with each word, as if he can throw off the hold he claims that I have over him. And then, without any warning at all, he presses his lips against mine.
As his mouth covers my own, I find myself reeling, as if I have been tipped backward and am falling, falling, so that even the stars in the sky are spinning. His lips are warm and soft, the unrelenting pull of his desire for me as strong as the pull of the waves against the sand.
It is not like practicing with Ismae, or even Sybella. It is not like any of the first kisses I have imagined over the years. It is far, far better and more wondrous, and yet terrifying as well, like one of the raging storms that pound against the convent walls in the winter, threatening to breach its defenses. So too does this kiss threaten something deep within me that I cannot even name.
Then, just as suddenly, he sets me away from him, leaving the entire front of my body cold and bereft and wanting more. There is a faint rustle of his cloak as he steps back from me. I long to put my fingers to my lips. To see if they feel as different on the outside as I do on the inside. Then I remember who—and what—he is. “Will you pay for that?” I ask, recalling the hellequin and their talk of the price of temptation.
“You would charge me for a kiss?”
I long to reach out and smack him—but I would have to be able to see him first. Instead, I turn toward the faint heat of the dying fire and hold my hands out over it. “No, you dolt. I was worried that giving in to temptation would extend your penance.”