And the day after that, and the day after that, until one of them grew brave enough to suggest they meet in another location, at another time.
As the weeks passed, the pair snatched every stolen moment they could, dizzy with longing and young love.
The other boy knew nothing of it.
So, when the Hunt was finally upon them, when the girl’s pink cheeks had grown red, from the cold as much as from John Beaufort’s kisses, the boy begged for her chosen hiding spot. He, full of dreams bright and rosy, proclaimed himself to be the one who would catch her.
The girl, full of dreams of John Beaufort, leaned in and whispered the first lie she’d ever told.
Meet me at the hollowed tree in the north field,she murmured, her breath hot against his cheek, driving him nearly mad with want.I’ll be there, waiting.
The wind snatched those words and carried them away, past the Stones, past the cove, past all of Mistaken itself.
The morning of the Hunt dawned bright with promise.
The boy greeted the morn, his lips wet with anticipation. He was ready. And when the Hunters took to the land, roaming and ravaging the bush, the bramble, searching for their prizes like dogs on the scent,Hessel Mackenzie ignored their boyish chuckles, ignored their loud mêlée, and raced instead to the north field.
The tree was a towering, barren shell of a Redcap. Spotting a flutter of ribbon peeking from the monster’s center, he ran through the tall grasses with all his might. He reached into the hollowed tree with confident, greedy hands. His fingers clasped around the wrist of his prize, and he let out a whoop of triumph.
He’d done it. He’d claimed his bride.
But it was not his beloved whom he pulled free.
He stared in confusion at a girl with eyes as gray as an approaching storm, with hair dark as night. He stared at a girl who was not his Mary McIntyre, but a girl with scattered stars across one cheek.
He stared at her.
She stared at him.
And then she smiled.
And Hessel Mackenzie, the boy who should have had a heart most broken, took his bride in his arms and kissed her.
5
The barn waswarmer than Greer had expected.
The tang of sawdust and fresh paint hung in the air. As one of the largest barns in Mistaken, its construction had been an audacious statement, an earnest hope for good things to come. There would be harvests to store, new animals to house. Bounties were on their way, and the Andersans were ready to receive them.
The air buzzed with lighthearted merriment. After a short, intense summer of tending crops, readying for the harvest and Reaping, and preparing for the dark months of winter to come, everyone gathered now with unusually high spirits, bolstered by the barrels of ale supplied by Roibart Andersan.
Bales of hay, softened with layers of quilts and furs, were laid out in conversational arrangements. Dozens of lanterns and oil lamps gave the cavernous space a happy glow. In the middle of the main floor were long tables heavy with food. Smoked salmon and tender jerky were displayed on ceramic platters. Wooden bowls overflowed with roasted vegetables and late-season berries. An entire length of one table was dedicated to fruit pies and nutty, dark breads.
The storm clouds had rolled away, leaving behind a dazzling night sky, and nearly everyone in Mistaken had turned out. Though most of the women stayed inside, the men congregated in the yard aroundthe ale, refilling their cups and laughing uproariously. Several lads had brought fiddles and pipes and were challenging each other with zesty runs.
For the younger crowd, there was a marked undercurrent to the evening, a pulsing, pressing urge to see and be seen. With the Hunt so near, many were using this night to woo would-be partners while sizing up potential competition. Frilly dresses peeked out from long woolen cloaks. Hair had been slicked and pinned and ribboned. Cheeks were pinched to alluring shades of pink. Everyone was full of smiles and gaiety, as if vying to be the brightest and most dazzling.
All of the good cheer set Greer’s teeth on edge; her own thoughts were drowned out by the sounds and shouts of everyone else.
From across the barn, she heard Lotte Morag, a Steward’s wife, whisper that she was with child again. Outside, along the far edge of the tree line, hidden by the cover of darkness, came the muffled, breathy moans of two sweethearts fumbling against each other. Beside the bonfire, a group of boys ran through the list of Hunt participants, comparing the girls’ looks and the width of their hips. Their conversation was sprinkled with bursts of wicked laughter.
Inside her mittens, Greer’s fingers danced with agitation. She longed for a mug of mulled cider. Spirits often helped dull the roar of so much sound. But first she needed to find Ellis. When she was with him, everything quieted, distilling to only the most important of details.
Where was he?
A pack of young men wandered into the yard, and Greer scanned their number. They were led by Lachlan Davis, Hessel’s favored suitor.
Greer hadn’t liked him in childhood, when he’d dipped the end of Louise’s long braids into wells of ink at school, and she liked him even less now. A kinetic energy danced through his short, muscular frame, a caged restlessness that always verged toward mean-spiritedness. With his dark hair and even darker eyes, he reminded Greer of a compact wolverine, endlessly prowling and always on the hunt.
