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Authors: Rebecca King
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meal, ignoring his annoyed hiss. H e was seemingly unimpressed with their new guest as well, but at least he was being civil for now and hadn’t attacked the poor man.
Harriett stood before the fire for several moments, absently rubbing her elbow. It was the soft crinkling of the material beneath her fingers that made her gasp with shock. She stared down in horror at her nightgown, flushing with embarrassment as she realised that he had probably seen more of her than her own mother had! She could only hope that delirium had set in and he wouldn’t remember when he woke up. Cheeks flushed, Harriett quickly crept back into her bedroom, gathered up her clothing and left to dress in the safety of the smaller bedroom next to the kitchen.
As she drew her clothes on, she considered the reluctance he had been unable to hide when he had asked her for help. Clearly he had n’t wanted to ask her for anything, but she had no way of knowing if his discomfort was because she was a witch, or a woman. Somehow, she considered it might just be both. It made her more determined to consider him less a handsome man, and more simply a patient. She tried to mentally distance herself from him, taking a huge step back and considering the mess in her kitchen instead.
Eyeing the sodden saddle and the pool of blood beside the door, she shook her head. It seemed that her work had only just begun. With a sigh she hefted the heavy saddle into the empty bedroom and began to make the bed up in the small bedroom for later. She placed his heavy boots beside the fire in the bedroom and picked his wet, dirty shirt off the floor. It would have to be washed and repaired before he could use it again, but at least it gave her something to do besides think about the disturbing presence of the very masculine man now lying in her bed. With his freshly laundered shirt drying next to his boots, she filled a bucket and began to scrub the traces of blood from the walls and floor around her cottage.
The activity helped ease the anxiety that continued to plague her. S he couldn’t settle because of the horrid sense of foreboding that refused to move. Usually when she had these wretched feelings, once the news appeared – or in Hugo’s case, arrived – then the feeling would lift and she would continue with her life. But this time, something was different. It was warning her that the worst was yet to come - only she didn’t know what it would be, or what would happen. The odd sensation was so strong that she had taken a moment earlier to take a peek out of the shutters covering the kitchen window.
A solitary, unfamiliar horse was meandering around the field adjacent to her garden, happily munching the lush grass. Her neatly tended garden remained undisturbed. There were no other signs of life, which should have reassured her, but did not.
As the resident witch, Harriett was about the safest person in Padstow. Nobody really understood that she was a white witch and would never actually hurt anyone. She was more interested in healing people and doing good, but had never managed to dispel the mistaken notion that she could hex a person, or place a curse on anyone who crossed her. Because of the villagers’ ignorance, the possibility of being on the receiving end of one of her casting spells was enough to make sure nobody threatened her in any way, or entered the house uninvited.
But that didn’t help her if anyone from outside the village turned up unannounced. Especially if they were the ruthless wastrel who had shot Hugo, looking for him at Harriett’s house, so they could finish what they started. She knew that, whatever happened, nobody must know that Hugo was with her; for both their sakes.
It was early evening by the time Harriett had a moment to rest. She was aware of the loud growling of her stomach, which sounded very much like Harrold in its ferocity, and realised that she hadn’t had anything to eat since she had gone to bed the previous
Harriett stood before the fire for several moments, absently rubbing her elbow. It was the soft crinkling of the material beneath her fingers that made her gasp with shock. She stared down in horror at her nightgown, flushing with embarrassment as she realised that he had probably seen more of her than her own mother had! She could only hope that delirium had set in and he wouldn’t remember when he woke up. Cheeks flushed, Harriett quickly crept back into her bedroom, gathered up her clothing and left to dress in the safety of the smaller bedroom next to the kitchen.
As she drew her clothes on, she considered the reluctance he had been unable to hide when he had asked her for help. Clearly he had n’t wanted to ask her for anything, but she had no way of knowing if his discomfort was because she was a witch, or a woman. Somehow, she considered it might just be both. It made her more determined to consider him less a handsome man, and more simply a patient. She tried to mentally distance herself from him, taking a huge step back and considering the mess in her kitchen instead.
Eyeing the sodden saddle and the pool of blood beside the door, she shook her head. It seemed that her work had only just begun. With a sigh she hefted the heavy saddle into the empty bedroom and began to make the bed up in the small bedroom for later. She placed his heavy boots beside the fire in the bedroom and picked his wet, dirty shirt off the floor. It would have to be washed and repaired before he could use it again, but at least it gave her something to do besides think about the disturbing presence of the very masculine man now lying in her bed. With his freshly laundered shirt drying next to his boots, she filled a bucket and began to scrub the traces of blood from the walls and floor around her cottage.
The activity helped ease the anxiety that continued to plague her. S he couldn’t settle because of the horrid sense of foreboding that refused to move. Usually when she had these wretched feelings, once the news appeared – or in Hugo’s case, arrived – then the feeling would lift and she would continue with her life. But this time, something was different. It was warning her that the worst was yet to come - only she didn’t know what it would be, or what would happen. The odd sensation was so strong that she had taken a moment earlier to take a peek out of the shutters covering the kitchen window.
A solitary, unfamiliar horse was meandering around the field adjacent to her garden, happily munching the lush grass. Her neatly tended garden remained undisturbed. There were no other signs of life, which should have reassured her, but did not.
As the resident witch, Harriett was about the safest person in Padstow. Nobody really understood that she was a white witch and would never actually hurt anyone. She was more interested in healing people and doing good, but had never managed to dispel the mistaken notion that she could hex a person, or place a curse on anyone who crossed her. Because of the villagers’ ignorance, the possibility of being on the receiving end of one of her casting spells was enough to make sure nobody threatened her in any way, or entered the house uninvited.
But that didn’t help her if anyone from outside the village turned up unannounced. Especially if they were the ruthless wastrel who had shot Hugo, looking for him at Harriett’s house, so they could finish what they started. She knew that, whatever happened, nobody must know that Hugo was with her; for both their sakes.
It was early evening by the time Harriett had a moment to rest. She was aware of the loud growling of her stomach, which sounded very much like Harrold in its ferocity, and realised that she hadn’t had anything to eat since she had gone to bed the previous
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