Read Online Breaking the Rules by Sandra Heath - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandra Heath
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swirled around her, sometimes cloaking everything, sometimes thinning so that she could see almost clearly.
The edge of the woods loomed before her, fringed with the creamy white of hawthorn blossom, which filled the dawn with perfume. She entered slowly, for the well-remembered trees seemed menacing, and it was impossible not to remember that May Eve—Beltane—was imminent, when witches took to the air to do their wickedness. She thought she heard odd little sounds; the squirrels maybe, for she sensed them nearby, and once or twice she glanced up to see one leaping from branch to branch overhead. There was no birdsong, she noticed, for usually the dawn chorus would be getting under way at this hour.
Voices sounded again. They were singing. No, chanting or reciting something. She felt she should recognize what they were saying, for there was something familiar about the rhythm. The woods folded over her, and the scent of hawthorn gave way to the more subtle fragrance of the bluebells that lay in drift upon moon-silvered drift all around. Wreaths of mist curled and uncurled, but always the path remained visible, leading her on toward Hazel Pool in the heart of the woods.
The gentle babble of water told of the little stream that overflowed from the pool and made its way down toward Inchmead and Nailsworth. Its water was clear up here near the head of the valley, but the mill just outside Inchmead would stain it with blue dye. Flowers bloomed close to the water—violets, golden kingcups, and forget-me-nots, which in daylight would be bright splashes of color, but in the mist and moonlight they were as silver as the bluebells.
A squirrel bounded across her path, and Ursula began to wonder if she should turn back. She hesitated, but all was quiet now, no rustlings, no birds, no voices, just the burble of the brook. The scent of the bluebells was almost intoxicating, as if the dew had freed it tenfold, and suddenly she realized what the voices had been chanting—an ancient ring game.
In and out the dusky bluebells,
In and out the dusky bluebells,
In and out the dusky bluebells,
I am your master.
Tipper-ipper-apper — on your shoulder,
Tipper-ipper-apper — on your shoulder,
Tipper-ipper-apper — on your shoulder,
I am your Master ...
She had watched the village children laughing as they played it, but here, now, the words seemed threatening.
A twig snapped somewhere ahead, and she halted with a sharp intake of breath. Something moved. A man was walking along the path toward her—a gentleman by his fashionable silhouette. She shrank back in alarm, for he must be able to see her as clearly as she could see him, at least ... She could see through him. He wasn’t really there at all. He held his hand out to her. There was something in it—a ribbon. Her ribbon! For a split second she saw his face in the moonlight; it was the fair-haired man she had seen in the London carriage! Who was he? What was he doing here? And why did she know she loved him so ... ? As she stared, he vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared, leaving just the path through the bluebell glades.
Ursula’s heart lurched sickeningly. She was seeing things! Was she ill? Was she losing her mind? Rufus Almore came to mind, and then the echo of Taynton’s words to Vera. “Remember, wench, I am your master!”
But even as the thought struck, a hand suddenly clamped forcefully upon Ursula’s shoulder, and she screamed in utter terror.
‘Don’t be afraid, Miss Elcester, it’s only me,” said Taynton’s soft voice.
She wrenched herself free and whirled about, not knowing whether to be relieved or still be frightened. “How dare you creep up on me like that!” she cried, taking refuge in attack.
He gave an apologetic smile. “I didn’t creep, Miss Elcester. Indeed I spoke to you several times, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”
Spoke? He hadn’t said a word! “Why are you here in the woods?” she demanded,
“I might ask the same of
The edge of the woods loomed before her, fringed with the creamy white of hawthorn blossom, which filled the dawn with perfume. She entered slowly, for the well-remembered trees seemed menacing, and it was impossible not to remember that May Eve—Beltane—was imminent, when witches took to the air to do their wickedness. She thought she heard odd little sounds; the squirrels maybe, for she sensed them nearby, and once or twice she glanced up to see one leaping from branch to branch overhead. There was no birdsong, she noticed, for usually the dawn chorus would be getting under way at this hour.
Voices sounded again. They were singing. No, chanting or reciting something. She felt she should recognize what they were saying, for there was something familiar about the rhythm. The woods folded over her, and the scent of hawthorn gave way to the more subtle fragrance of the bluebells that lay in drift upon moon-silvered drift all around. Wreaths of mist curled and uncurled, but always the path remained visible, leading her on toward Hazel Pool in the heart of the woods.
The gentle babble of water told of the little stream that overflowed from the pool and made its way down toward Inchmead and Nailsworth. Its water was clear up here near the head of the valley, but the mill just outside Inchmead would stain it with blue dye. Flowers bloomed close to the water—violets, golden kingcups, and forget-me-nots, which in daylight would be bright splashes of color, but in the mist and moonlight they were as silver as the bluebells.
A squirrel bounded across her path, and Ursula began to wonder if she should turn back. She hesitated, but all was quiet now, no rustlings, no birds, no voices, just the burble of the brook. The scent of the bluebells was almost intoxicating, as if the dew had freed it tenfold, and suddenly she realized what the voices had been chanting—an ancient ring game.
In and out the dusky bluebells,
In and out the dusky bluebells,
In and out the dusky bluebells,
I am your master.
Tipper-ipper-apper — on your shoulder,
Tipper-ipper-apper — on your shoulder,
Tipper-ipper-apper — on your shoulder,
I am your Master ...
She had watched the village children laughing as they played it, but here, now, the words seemed threatening.
A twig snapped somewhere ahead, and she halted with a sharp intake of breath. Something moved. A man was walking along the path toward her—a gentleman by his fashionable silhouette. She shrank back in alarm, for he must be able to see her as clearly as she could see him, at least ... She could see through him. He wasn’t really there at all. He held his hand out to her. There was something in it—a ribbon. Her ribbon! For a split second she saw his face in the moonlight; it was the fair-haired man she had seen in the London carriage! Who was he? What was he doing here? And why did she know she loved him so ... ? As she stared, he vanished as suddenly as he’d appeared, leaving just the path through the bluebell glades.
Ursula’s heart lurched sickeningly. She was seeing things! Was she ill? Was she losing her mind? Rufus Almore came to mind, and then the echo of Taynton’s words to Vera. “Remember, wench, I am your master!”
But even as the thought struck, a hand suddenly clamped forcefully upon Ursula’s shoulder, and she screamed in utter terror.
‘Don’t be afraid, Miss Elcester, it’s only me,” said Taynton’s soft voice.
She wrenched herself free and whirled about, not knowing whether to be relieved or still be frightened. “How dare you creep up on me like that!” she cried, taking refuge in attack.
He gave an apologetic smile. “I didn’t creep, Miss Elcester. Indeed I spoke to you several times, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”
Spoke? He hadn’t said a word! “Why are you here in the woods?” she demanded,
“I might ask the same of
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