Linda Barlow Read Online Free

been playing there since childhood, and nothing unpleasant had ever happened to her; nothing, at least, that could not be traced to human agency. The worst fright she'd had there had occurred when the Trevor boys tied her to a tree at nightfall and left her to the mercy of a horrible shape that crept up on her, howling and shrieking. The demon had turned out to be Roger, clad in one of his mother's fur-lined cloaks, and for once he had succeeded in making her cry.
    But there was something ominous about the way the forest stretched out a shaggy arm, encroaching on the road at the one spot where wayfarers were hidden from the lookout tower of Whitcombe Castle. "This is where Will's horse took fright and threw him," she explained, pausing underneath a huge oak and pointing to a ditch on the side of the road. "It still seems so difficult to believe. He was an excellent horseman. But he was apparently riding very fast that night, and the physician said that he had been drinking."
    Roger also stopped, looking at her rather than at the ditch, giving her another of his deep, unnerving stares. He had a habit of focusing directly into her eyes, as if he wished to discern the thoughts behind her words. "Did he drink excessively?"
    "No. I can't recall ever seeing him the worse for drink."
    Roger went to peer into the ditch. The road curved sharply just before it.
    "There was an old stump in the ditch. Will struck his head on it. He died of a brain fever."
    Roger jumped down into the ditch and looked around. He poked around a bit in the damp ground—the ditch had once been a stream, and the earth was muddy there—then climbed out and scraped clay off his boots. "It’s a gloomy spot, isn’t it?"
    "Aye, and a perfect place for an ambush." No sooner had she spoken these words than Alexandra frowned, wishing she had more control of her wayward tongue.
    "What an uncomfortable thing to say." Roger spoke in a lazy drawl, but his eyes had narrowed ominously. "I trust nobody had a grudge against Will?"
    He had expressed the fear that had been haunting her ever since the night Will had been carried up to Whitcombe Castle, his body hanging limp, his hair dark with blood. She was not the only one who thought the accident strange. She had heard that the baron had been asking questions in the village.
    "Nobody that I can think of."
    Her voice must have betrayed her doubts, for he touched her arm. "But?"
    "But it's peculiar the way it happened, that's all."
    Roger turned and looked into the woods. The masses of dark green plants were threatening to overgrow the path. "Someone could have hidden there on the edge of the forest and frightened Will's horse at the critical moment. But it would have required precise timing, and besides..." He stopped, his body coming alert. He stared into the thick trees just across from where they stood, and one hand flew to the weapon strapped to his hip.
    "What is it?"
    She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder as Roger flung her aside and dived into the undergrowth, his blade drawn and flashing. It was not a long sword, she noted, but a shorter curved blade, like a scimitar. There was a scrambling sound as someone tried to run. Alexandra recovered her balance and leapt after him in time to see Roger tackle the figure who had been lurking here.
    With his blade to the fellow's throat, Roger dragged his quarry out into the open. He was an ungainly youth with straggling hair and bad teeth. He lay on his back quivering beneath Roger's weapon, his eyes rolling. Sounds of alarm were squeaking out of his throat.
    Alexandra dropped to her knees in the dirt beside them, unmindful of the consequences to her skirts. "It's only poor Mad Ned from the village." She placed a restraining hand on Roger's sword arm. "Have a care. You'll cut him with that thing." To the youth she said, "We mean you no harm, Ned. You startled us, that's all."
    "Mad Ned?" Roger did not release him.
    "He's the village half-wit. He can't talk, and it's not clear