Kristine stood at the window, staring outside. The day was gloomy, overcast, and perfectly suited to her mood. It was but a few weeks until Christmas, but she had refused to let Mrs. Grainger and the serving girls decorate the house. She wanted no reminders of the season. There was no joy in her heart, only a cold, lonely emptiness.
Moving away from the window, she pulled on her riding boots, donned a thick woolen cloak and hood, and went to the barn.
Brandt met her at the door. “Ye’re not thinking of riding this afternoon, miss?”
“Yes, why?”
“We’ll have rain before nightfall.”
“I won’t be gone long.”
“Very well.” Grumbling under his breath about the danger of riding in her condition, Brandt saddled the mare and helped Kristine mount. “Be careful now,” he warned.
“I will.”
Mindful of her unborn baby, Kristine kept Misty at a sedate walk, even though she yearned to let the mare run. Once, she had found pleasure in the beauty of the land, in the sense of freedom that riding gave her, but no more. She feared she might never be happy again, that nothing would ever make her smile, or laugh.
She shouldn’t be riding at all. Mrs. Grainger and the maids had all tried to dissuade her, but she had refused to listen. Riding did not provide the pleasure it once had and yet, it made her feel closer to Erik to do something they had once enjoyed together.
Reaching into her pocket, she curled her fingers around a mask she had taken from Erik’s room. The material was soft, warm from being in her pocket. It was the only thing that gave her comfort.
Lost in a world of despair, she rode farther afield than she ever had before. Only when the sky turned dark and she heard the rumble of thunder did she realize she was hopelessly lost.
Misty snorted and tossed her head as a gust of wind shook the trees and sent a handful of dead leaves skittering across her path.
Glancing around, Kristine urged the mare in the direction she hoped led home. A sharp crack of lightning rent the clouds, unleashing a torrent of rain. Thunder shook the ground.
Another crack of lightning spooked the mare and she stretched out in a dead run, oblivious to the hand on the reins or Kristine’s voice demanding that she stop. The ground flew by at an alarming rate.
Terrified, Kristine prayed that the mare wouldn’t fall, that she would make her way safely back home.
Misty splashed across a narrow creek that was already beginning to swell and raced up the rocky incline on the opposite bank.
They were going the wrong way. Kristine had no doubt of it now. A forest of dark trees grew at the top of the rise. Wind and rain shook the leaves so that the trees seemed to be alive, swaying to the turbulent music of the storm.
Kristine tugged on the reins in a vain effort to halt Misty’s flight, but the mare had the bit between her teeth and she ran on and on.
Kristine shivered violently, chilled by the rain and the fear spiraling through her. Why hadn’t she listened to Mrs. Grainger and the maids? Even Brandt had tried to dissuade her, but she had foolishly refused to listen.
She tugged on the reins again, but Misty ran steadily onward, almost as if she had a destination in mind.
Please, please, don’t let her fall.
She repeated the prayer over and over again, knowing that a fall now could be fatal not only for herself, but for the babe she carried. Erik’s son.
After what seemed an eternity, Misty slowed. She whinnied, then whinnied again as she burst through the trees into a small clearing.
Kristine blinked the rain from her eyes, certain she was seeing things. But no, it was still there. A rugged-looking house built of sturdy logs and gray stone. A small barn was set back from the house.
With a sigh of relief, Kristine slid from the saddle and ran up the stairs, drawn by the possibility of a warm fire and shelter from the storm. She felt bad for leaving Misty in the rain, but comforted herself with the knowledge that wild horses remained outside in all kinds of weather.
She hesitated a moment; then, summoning her courage, she knocked on the door. She waited several heartbeats, then knocked again. Still no answer.
A gust of wind chilled her to the bone. Biting down on her lower lip, she stared at the latch, wondering if the door was unlocked, wondering if she dared go inside, uninvited.
A sharp crack of thunder ended her indecision. She lifted the latch and the door swung open. “Hello? Is anyone home?”
When there was no answer, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
It was cold inside the house, too, but at least it was dry. There was a thick woolen blanket draped over the back of a settee and she drew it around her, grateful for its warmth.
It was a large, square room. The fireplace looked big enough to roast an ox; the mantel was higher than her head. The furniture was large and sturdy, built for a man’s comfort. A bookshelf was set against one wall. There were several low tables. A rack of antlers hung above the fireplace.