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Hemlock: Tales of a Traveler, #1
Hemlock: Tales of a Traveler, #1
Hemlock: Tales of a Traveler, #1
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Hemlock: Tales of a Traveler, #1

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Broken hearts aren't always broken. Sometimes they're just bruised.



Hoping to forget about her worthless ex-boyfriend - not to mention the humiliating way in which they parted - Martha sets out on a hike taking in the dramatic scenery of the English Lake District.


 

But as she picks her way across a set of ancient stepping stones, disaster strikes. One false step sends Martha plunging head first into an angry river.



Time Travel. Sideways.


She wakes up in a cave, wearing nothing but her dodgy, mismatched underwear, and her only company is that of the strange man who saved her life.

 
Tall, dark, and extremely handsome, Vadim certainly has the potential to help Martha forget a lot of things, especially that treacherous louse Tony!

 

But this isn't the twenty-first century, and medieval Erde is nothing like home!


If she's to have any hope of fitting in, Martha's going to need help, and lots of it! Vadim offers her his protection, but it comes at a price.

 

If Martha wants his aid she'll have to pretend to be his wife!

 

Vadim is a wanted man. An outlaw.


The last thing his life needs are complications of the female kind. But when he finds the strange woman lying beside the river he cannot abandon her. Despite the risks, and against all of his better judgment, Vadim offers to help Martha find a way home.


Can Martha adapt to life in a medieval society? Can she avoid the Evil Earl and his minions? And, more importantly, will she find the courage to trust her heart again?


(Please note! This book is NOT a standalone. Please steer clear if cliffy endings aren't your thing!) 

 

LanguageEnglish
PublisherN.J. Layouni
Release dateApr 27, 2014
ISBN9781507038611
Hemlock: Tales of a Traveler, #1

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    Hemlock - N.J. Layouni

    CHAPTER ONE

    Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd

    In hindsight, hiking in the Lake District on a bitter day in November was not, perhaps, the best way to fix a broken heart.

    Martha Bigalow looked up at the leaden sky and winced as a fat raindrop smacked her on the eyeball. Ow! She pressed the heel of her hand to the afflicted eye. Spend a nice day in the country, she muttered, mimicking the gentle Irish accent of her Aunt Clooney. It’ll do you good, so it will, pet. There’s nothing like a bit of fresh air and exercise to sweep away man troubles. Hah!

    The plan formed that morning over breakfast, snug and safe in the warmth of her aunt’s Lakeland kitchen, wasn’t exactly living up to Martha’s hopes.

    In the secret places of her mind, she’d imagined herself floating over the moorland like some despairing Bronte-esque heroine crossed in love, her heart mortally wounded by the hero’s cruelty—not that she’d ever admit that one out loud. But the reality was nowhere near as tragically beautiful. She was freezing cold and soaked through to her skin. There was nothing remotely poetic about trudging along in wet knickers. On the plus side, she hadn’t cried about Tony for the past five minutes. The loathsome fecker!

    With the wind buffeting her from every direction, she pulled back the hood of her parka a little and peered around. Was there a quicker route back to Littlemere?

    Sleet-edged rain drifted along the valley in fast-moving sheets that dwarfed the highest peaks. The familiar landmarks were already swallowed up by low cloud. No, it certainly wasn’t the best weather for going off piste. Squinting into the wind, Martha looked ahead, following the narrow path she was on until it disappeared beneath a tangle of rusting bracken. It was little more than a rabbit-way, really, but at least it led downhill.

    Replacing her hood, she set off again, head down, hands thrust deep into her pockets. Raindrops hammered her hood, battering on the fabric like stones until her head vibrated with the constant tattoo. Unpleasant though it was, Martha wasn’t afraid. These hills were old, if slightly grouchy, friends. Another hour and she’d be home and dry, sitting down to eat a steaming bowl of Aunt Clooney’s homemade soup.

    Stumbling and sliding through the wet bracken, she finally made it to the river. Martha heaved a sigh. All she had to do was nip across to the other bank and pick up the regular walking trail on the other side.

    The river had other ideas. Swollen by the downpour, the ordinarily benign strip of water had been transformed into a tiger, hissing and grumbling as it raced towards the valley. Martha picked her way uphill until she reached the line of ancient stepping stones. They usually stood proud of the river, but now they lay semi-submerged beneath the froth of angry water.

    No problem. Her coat might be crappy, but her boots were good. Taking a deep breath, she jumped and landed solidly on the first stone. Martha grinned and swiped the cuff of her wet sleeve over her face. One down, five to go.

    Stones two and three weren’t quite so easy. They wobbled with the force of the water pushing against them, minuscule movements as the shingle bed shifted beneath their immense weight.

    She dithered on stone number three for quite a while, steeling herself to make the next leap. For the first time that day, a frisson of fear rippled up her spine. As she looked down, the speed and motion of the river made her head spin. Forcing her eyes upward, she fixed them on the opposite bank. It was so near. Just a couple more hops and she’d be on her way home.

    With a final glance at stone number four, Martha exhaled like a weight-lifter and jumped.

    As her foot touched the stone, it hit something slimy, and the world went sky down. Suddenly she was thrashing in the icy water, heart hammering, lungs refusing to breathe. Although the river wasn’t deep, it was powerful, tugging at her body with unimaginable force. Flailing and splashing, she flung out her arm and hooked it about one of the stepping stones before the water swept her downstream.

    Inch by painful inch, she dragged herself to safety, choking as a torrent of foaming water rushed into her nose and mouth. By the time she reached the shallows, she was exhausted. Trembling with cold and fear, she lay face down, forehead resting on her arms, gasping and totally spent.

    Sweet baby Jesus. What just happened? Teeth chattering, she crawled from the river then collapsed onto her back on the soggy shore. The rain kept coming, belting down from the darkening sky. Her head felt fuzzy and muddled. She had to get off the hill. It’d be night soon, and she was already well into hypothermia territory.

    Come on, Bigalow. Move it! Despite her inner drill-sergeant’s best efforts, her body wouldn’t obey.

    What about her phone? Maybe it had survived? She reached into her coat pocket, her fingers claw-like with cold, and managed to scoop up her phone. It sloshed when she shook it, but ever the optimist, she pressed the on button. Nothing.

    Stupid, flimsy, state-of-the-art piece of junk. What am I going to do now?

    Violent shivers wracked her body. In desperation, she forced herself to crawl a couple more paces, but the incline of the muddy bank was too much. Wrapping her arms uselessly about herself, Martha slumped back and closed her eyes.

    As the river sang on, a slow lethargy invaded her limbs and sapped her will to move. Perhaps if she rested for a moment? Her head ached; Lord, she was so tired. A little rest couldn’t hurt. Just to prepare her for the long walk home.

    212892.jpg

    She sat up gasping for air, wrenched from an unpleasant dream involving herself, a pool-noodle, and a raging sea. It was dark, and her bed felt strangely lumpy and uncomfortable. When she reached for her bedside light, her hand struck wet stone. What the…? Reality restored her memory, but it failed to quieten her heart. This wasn’t her bedroom.

    The river. She must have fallen asleep by the river. So where was she now?

    Motionless shapes rose out of the gloom as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. H-hello? Her voice bounced around a cavernous space. Whatever this place was, it was big. Like the inside of a cathedral, but much colder. Quieter too.

    She battled against the urge to shout as the silence crushed down on her. Her spine prickled, the weight of the dark summoning all her long-forgotten childish fears. Steady, rhythmic plink-plonks of dripping water kept time with her ragged breaths.

    She forced herself to breathe slower and deeper. A full-bore panic attack wouldn’t help. Gradually, the indistinct shapes morphed into rough walls and a sweeping roof of stone. At last, the penny dropped.

    How the hell had she ended up in a cave?

    Huddling into a shivering ball, Martha wrapped her arms about her legs. They were bare, and as devoid of clothing as the rest of her. Oh my God! The only thing between her and total nakedness was her ill-matched underwear. An unknown someone had, quite sensibly, removed all of her saturated garments. Even so, she cringed, and the heat of a blush prickled across her cheeks.

    Thank God whoever undressed her had been repelled by the sight of her off-white knickers and saggy old bra. Victoria’s Secret they weren’t. How humiliating.

    Always wear nice underwear, pet. You never know when you might wake up in the hospital.

    Aunt Clooney’s voice spoke in her head as clearly as if she were sitting beside her. The old lady was forever spouting odd sayings, but that particular old chestnut was right on the money.

    Martha groped around on the floor, hunting for her clothes. Instead, she found a woolen blanket. It must’ve slipped down when she’d woken.

    She dragged it about her shoulders and huddled beneath its itchy folds, wrinkling her nose as the scent of leather and sweat enveloped her. At least it was warm. Shuffling her butt, she attempted to find a comfier spot on the thin bedroll.

    Perhaps Mountain Rescue volunteers had brought her here? She frowned in the dark. So why hadn’t they taken her back to the village? It wasn’t that far away. And why leave her alone in a cave without so much as a flashlight or a foil blanket? No. Whoever brought her here had nothing to do with Mountain Rescue.

    When she shivered again, it had nothing to do with the cold. Something wasn’t right.

    The darkness to her right was slightly lighter than the rest of the cave. That must be the entrance. Martha leaned toward it, clutching the blanket a little tighter to her chest. She couldn’t sit here all night, half-naked, hoping her rescuer might return. Rescuer? He could be a serial axe-murderer for all she knew. A vivid imagination could be a terrible affliction. She chewed on her lower lip. Maybe she should make a run for it?

    Then she heard the crunch of slow footsteps approaching the mouth of the cave.

    Oh hell!

    She swept her hands over the dirt floor in semi-circular motions, blindly hunting for something she could use as a weapon. The movement caused her blanket to slip, exposing her chest to the bitter cold. Cursing beneath her breath, she secured her wayward covering and continued the search one-handed.

    Her fingers folded around a fist-sized rock. It was rough, heavy, and comforting. Just the right size for braining someone. She found it not a second too soon, for a large shadow appeared at the entrance to the cave, bearing aloft a flaming torch. Heart pounding, Martha flung herself down on the bedroll and pretended to sleep.

    Blood pounded in her ears, almost deafening her. Martha tried to hold her breath, but pent-up air escaped in shuddering gasps.

    The figure advanced. Crunch. Crunch. Closer still. His heavy boot-steps sent tiny bits of stone skittering towards her when his feet scraped on the dirt floor.

    It had to be a man. No female walked like that.The whispering flames of his torch were audible now. Their fiery glow penetrated her closed eyelids like the sun.

    Just how big was this guy? And, more importantly, could she take him? Martha opened her eyes a fraction, studying him from beneath her eyelashes. Her life might depend on knowing her opponent’s strength.

    The figure reached up and slotted the torch into a hidden place on the cave wall, close to where Martha lay trembling. The dancing flames transformed the shadow into a man.

    A tall man, and a strong one too, by the look of him. He turned and moved towards her.

    Was he dangerous, though? Every fiber of her soul screamed out a unanimous yes.

    Eyes tightly shut, Martha gripped the stone until her fingers ached. She sensed the man leaning over her prostrate form. What was he doing? Blindness increased her sense of vulnerability. She cracked her eyelids a fraction, and her heart went from a gallop to a stop. In his hand, he held a knife. A large and very shiny knife.

    You’ll only get one shot at this, Bigalow.

    The rock’s rough surface bit into her fingers. With a cry of fear, she lashed out at her assailant.

    Not quickly enough. With frightening speed, a large hand grabbed her wrist in mid-arc. She gasped, writhing with pain as cruel fingers exerted pressure on her feeble bones, threatening to crush them into toothpicks. The stone fell harmlessly from her hand and hit the ground with a thud.

    The knife clattered to the cave floor as the man grabbed the tops of her arms and hauled her against him. What darkness are you? he hissed from behind a mask that shrouded the lower half of his face.

    Martha found herself up close and personal with the most incredible pair of eyes. Mesmerising eyes, glittering like coal in the torchlight. The concealing mask heightened the impact of his gaze. She couldn’t formulate a response—not when pain had her whimpering like a puppy.

    Speak! he demanded, giving her a hard shake.

    Ow! Feck! Let g-go of—

    Answer me, woman! The pressure on her arms didn’t lessen. She struggled uselessly against him, her naked skin pressed to his woolen cloak.

    I’m Martha! she cried.

    Armarther? His beautiful eyes frowned, and the pressure of his hands eased. What do you mean, Armarther?

    Me! She tried to pull away, but he was too strong. I’m a…I mean, Martha. Martha B-Bigalow. L-let me go. Please!

    The panic in her voice must have reached him. Whatever it was, the immovable cage about her arms loosened, and she was free. The moment release came, she scuttled backward to the safety of the cave wall, arms crossed over her chest, rubbing at her throbbing arms.

    The man sat back on his haunches and watched, his eyes never leaving her face. Uncomfortable seconds ticked by, and still he didn’t speak. Only her panting breaths broke the silence.

    Was he waiting for her to make the first move?

    He picked up his knife from where it had fallen and slid it into a sheath on his belt. That was one less thing to worry about.

    The weapon’s disappearance gave her courage to study him, not that she could see much for the heavy cloak he wore. Even so, she could tell he was big. But not, she suspected, in the bulging and muscle-bound way. He was much too rangy for that. Hugging herself, Martha pressed back harder against the damp cave wall.

    Hardly daring to breathe, she continued her wary inspection, her eyes moving over the shapeless grey cloak until they arrived at the place where his face should have been. A deep hood covered his head, and a broad strip of fabric shrouded his face, highwayman style. Only his eyes were visible. And what eyes they were. Her stomach lurched several times in quick succession. Thick dark lashes, the kind to make a woman weep with envy, framed his almond-shaped eyes. Jet-colored eyes that shone with a light of their own.

    She gave herself a mental shake. It must be an effect of the crappy torchlight. Either that or he was wearing contacts. Who wore a cloak nowadays, or a mask, for that matter? Was he living out a deranged Batman fantasy? Was this place his BatCave?

    Careful, Bigalow. Don’t anger the crazy person.

    The man held her gaze, not once looking away. Martha glanced down at the cave floor, relieved to break the connection. If he was trying to out-stare her, he’d won. She had the strangest notion he could see all the things she preferred to keep hidden—especially from a creep like him.

    Still he didn’t speak.

    His cold, silent scrutiny was beginning to piss her off. Who are you? she demanded, at last. Why did you bring me here?

    Such gratitude. His slightly husky voice held an accent she couldn’t place. Perhaps I should have left you outside for the wolves to feast upon. He tossed the blanket to her. She hadn’t even noticed it was gone.

    Wolves? Yeah, right. Blushing furiously, Martha grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around herself. A flash of anger melted away the remnants of her fear. Don’t be so ridiculous! This is the Lake District, not…not… She floundered for a country where wolves still roamed wild.

    His black eyes narrowed. No wolves, hmm? Where are you from, I wonder?

    The man threw back his head and emitted a long wolf-like howl that went on and on, echoing eerily around the cave. The hairs on Martha’s arms stood up in legion, and icy shivers raced down her spine. His animal impression was very convincing.

    She stared, open-mouthed. He’s as crazy as a box of frogs. Feel better now? she asked when the last hellish note died away.

    In reply, the man raised one leather-gloved finger and tilted his head slightly toward the cave entrance. Listen.

    And then her whole body erupted into a mass of gooseflesh. From far away, other wolf voices answered, continuing the stranger’s song.

    It had to be a dream. Jaw flapping, Martha tried, and failed, to put into words all the terrible confusion racing through her mind.

    Were dreams this painful, though? Her head ached, pulsing with a slow symphony of throbs. Summoning her courage, she glared at the man. I don’t know what your game is, pal, but I don’t like it.

    She scrambled to her feet, and a sharp pain flashed down her leg. Her right knee almost gave way. She must have twanged it when she fell in the river. The man extended his hand, but she swatted it away. The blanket snagged beneath her foot and almost came loose. With a muttered curse, Martha yanked at it, managing to preserve her modesty at the final moment.

    In one graceful movement, the man rose from his crouching position. He accompanied her to the cave entrance, keeping abreast of her as she hobbled barefoot over the uneven floor, but he made no further attempt to offer his help.

    She stepped beneath the rocky arch into the outside world. Her hand flew to her mouth. For a brief time, she forgot the man existed at all.

    The rain had stopped, and a bitter wind blew, leeching the remaining heat from her skin. She barely noticed. The valley below secured all of her attention. It was utterly dark. From this height, she should have seen roads down there, villages. There was nothing. Not a solitary light shone out in the darkness. A mass power cut? No. If that was the cause, she would have seen the friendly glow of a thousand candles. Besides, power cuts didn’t affect car headlights, did they?

    Her headache picked up speed. This was all so wrong. Littlemere was a popular tourist trail, for God’s sake. It wasn’t as if she’d been out hiking in the middle of nowhere.

    But no matter how long she looked, she didn’t glimpse a single light anywhere. Even the moon and stars had hidden themselves behind the heavy clouds. The skeletal shapes of trees, rank upon rank of them, clung to the sides of the valley, almost to the entrance of the cave.

    Littlemere’s hills were devoid of trees.

    The surrounding landscape looked wrong. Sharp, soaring peaks replaced the gentle curves of the countryside she knew. Nothing was right.

    Where the feck am I?

    CHAPTER TWO

    Tales-of-a-Traveler-Hemlock-Flourish.psd

    Breathing much too quickly, Martha leaned back against the stone wall, her legs as wobbly as a newborn lamb’s. Where was the Littlemere? An entire village didn’t simply get up and walk away.

    Impossible. She turned and glared at the masked man. This was all his doing. For some perverted reason, he must have drugged her, and then driven her out here—wherever the hell here was.

    Where’s Littlemere?

    You talk in riddles. Come back inside, he said in a gentle voice. You will catch a chill, standing there wearing so little.

    Martha glanced back at the silhouetted landscape, her body shaking with a combination of cold and raw fear. The man didn’t sound perverted. If anything, he sounded concerned.

    Well, of course he does. He’s messing with your head.

    Great. She was holding conversations with herself again. It was a stress thing. She’d been doing it a lot since she’d caught Tony— oh, forget him. Right now, her unfaithful ex-fiancé was the least of her worries.

    Why are you doing this? Wrapping her arms about her shivering body, Martha raised her chin, holding the masked man’s gaze. Is it a power thing? Is that it?

    He took a step closer, eyes frowning over his mask. What is it you imagine I am guilty of, m’lady? He didn’t look angry, only puzzled.

    Drugging me, kidnapping me, taking my clothes. Martha arched her eyebrows. Any of this sounding familiar? How about when you tried to stab me—

    I certainly did no such thing.

    Now he was angry.

    His eyes flashed like fiery coals. You are free to leave whenever you choose. Go now, if you will. He gestured outside. Your sodden garments are by the hearth. I was about to make a fire to dry them when you attempted to cave in my skull with your rock.

    If he wanted an apology for that, he’d be waiting a long time. So what did you need a knife for?

    The man took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The wood is wet, he said, with exaggerated patience. Unless I first split and feather it, it will not burn. Shaking his head, he stalked back inside the cave, muttering snarly things beneath his breath.

    Martha chewed her lower lip, her eyes darting from the strange man to the unfamiliar land outside. Now that he’d given her permission to leave, she was suddenly reluctant to go. Okay, he was a total fruit loop, but it was dark out there. An unfamiliar, howling kind of dark. Added to that, she had no idea where she was, and her clothes and boots were still soaking wet. Perhaps she should postpone her departure until morning. Decision made, she sidled back inside.

    He knelt beside a circle of stones that marked the boundary of the fireplace. Martha crept toward one of the two log seats beside the hearth and sat down. The man didn’t look up, too intent on what he was doing.

    With her free hand, the one not occupied with securing the wayward blanket, Martha massaged her temples. The white-hot headache knifing between her eyes was fast becoming an absolute blinder. Hardly surprising, really. It wasn’t every day the world she knew disappeared.

    Aunt Lulu would be pacing the floor with worry by now. Had she already alerted Mountain Rescue? They must be out looking for her by now.

    There had to be a rational explanation for all this, something her muddled brain had overlooked. Perhaps she was having a mental breakdown of some kind? She hadn’t been sleeping much recently. Misery had that effect on her. Or maybe it was the result of some terrible hallucinogenic illness? She might even be dead. Now, there was a comforting thought.

    Her idea of heaven, however, was a place sunshine and peace, not of hypothermia, migraines, and twisted knees. And it certainly didn’t come with a complementary wanna-be medieval cave-dweller.

    Unless, of course, this was the other place. The basement. Martha shivered again. No. Hell would be warmer. So, by that reckoning, she must still be alive.

    Huddled in her blanket, she watched as the weird man arranged small pieces of twigs in the blackened hearth. His movements were smooth and deft, as if making fire was second nature. Maybe he lived here, all alone in his horrible cave. What was he, a medieval re-enactor gone feral?

    After arranging the twigs, he placed a layer of fluffy kindling on top. How would he light it? She craned her neck to see.

    He fumbled in a leather pouch at his waist and produced a metal stick and some kind of stone. As he struck the two together, a shower of brilliant sparks rained down on the bed of kindling. A thin ribbon of smoke swirled upward in a lazy spiral.

    No matches or firelighters for this guy. He really was living the survivalist dream.

    Flipping back the hood of his cloak, the man pulled off his mask and threw it to the ground. Then, cupping the smoking ball in his hands, he raised it close to his face, gently blowing on it, encouraging the embryo fire to life.

    Having ascertained she wasn’t dead after all, Martha shuffled to the end of her log in order to see him better. If the veil was his normal attire, this might be her only chance to study him properly. The police were big on physical descriptions, apparently.

    Oh, hello. Unexpectedly, her stomach flipped, and she sat up a little straighter. He was younger than she’d imagined; the old-fashioned way he spoke had thrown her. She began compiling a police report in her head.

    Age? early-thirties, give or take a year.

    As he blew on the kindling ball a second time, tiny flames appeared, their light illuminating his face. The fire danced and flickered, reflecting in the man’s dark eyes, lending him a demonic air.

    Eye color? Demon? Martha sucked on her lower lip. No. She’d pass on that one for now. How about hair color? Freed from the confines of his hood, it hung down his back in a smooth black sheet, ending in a ragged line just beneath his shoulders. Making a sound of irritation, he flicked back his head to remove the hair from his eyes and the peril of the flames.

    The newborn fire shone kindly on its maker. The Hollywood-perfect cheek bones were the ideal accompaniment to his firm and stubbled jaw line. Lovely. Not a sag or a bag anywhere. A little unkindly, Martha overlaid his profile with that of her ex-fiancé, mentally evaluating the two men. Tony lost. He’d gotten rather doughy around the edges of late. In comparison, the stranger’s face was granite and marble.

    Crossing her legs, she released her pent-up breath in a slow exhale. There was something rather sensual about his mouth, particularly the fullness of his lower lip. Set in such an angular face, it saved his face from harshness.

    The man set the flaming ball in the hearth, tending to his greedy progeny as patiently as any father, feeding it small morsels of twigs until the flames were able to gorge on thicker pieces of wood.

    Martha knew she was staring. She just couldn’t help herself.

    Perhaps sensing the intensity of her gaze, the man glanced around. Have you seen enough yet, m’lady? He rose smoothly to his feet, all six-foot-something of him. Or perhaps you might like to see me dance a jig next?

    Don’t flatter yourself. Martha blushed, annoyed he’d caught her dissecting him. She needed a change of subject—and fast. What have you done with my clothes? I take it you were the one who undressed me. The thought of him seeing her squishy bits made her cheeks burn even hotter.

    You would prefer I left you to freeze to death in your sodden garments? He crossed the cave in two strides and selected another piece of wood from a pile of logs in the shadows.

    Yes… No… She raked her hands through the wild frizz of her hair. I don’t know. Another flash of pure white pain pulsed through her head.

    I derived no pleasure from the experience, if that comforts you, he said, throwing the wood on the fire.

    Yeah. Right. Her heart set off galloping as all her former panic resurfaced in a sudden crashing wave. Enough with the games. Who the hell are you? she demanded. Where the feck am I, and what did you do with Littlemere?

    The man slung one long leg over the log and sat astride it. Littlemere? He began removing his leather gloves, one finger at a time. Is that a person or a place?

    The village! She all but screamed the words at him. You know what a bloody village is, don’t you? Where am I?

    The Norlands, m’lady. Erde, lest you have forgotten that too. The nearest hamlet is more than five leagues from here. Examining the stitching of his gloves with apparent interest, he added in an undertone, I fear the cold must have addled her mind.

    Martha! Heart pounding with fury, she leapt to her feet, grabbing hold of the blanket as it made yet another bid for freedom. My. Name. Is. Martha. Where the bloody hell are the Norlands? Talk sense, why don’t you? I don’t want a hamlet. I want a proper village, preferably a town. Somewhere big, with shops and hotels. You know, decent restaurants, ATMs…cars…telephones? A bitter laugh escaped her. Is anything I’m saying even the slightest bit familiar to you? Feel free to jump in at any point.

    The man picked at a small hole in the seam of his glove. The town of Edgeway holds a market once a month during—

    That’s hardly the same thing, is it?

    I really cannot say.

    Ow, shit! Something sharp jabbed into the sole of her foot.

    Calm yourself! Throwing his gloves aside, the man shot to his feet. Although he didn’t shout, his voice was loud enough to get her attention. Losing control of your temper will not benefit you.

    Subdued by his superior height and proximity, Martha limped back to her seat to examine her wound. Just a spot of blood, but it hurt like crazy.

    The man glanced at her foot. Would you permit me to—

    No. It’s fine! He’d touched her more than enough already. She pressed her thumb down on the bloody mark and winced. It’s nothing, really, she added in a gentler tone, throwing him a fake smile for good measure. He’d been fairly harmless so far, but she didn’t want to piss him off. Not when they were alone in the middle of nowhere.

    Your words are strange to my ears, but instinct tells me your heart is truthful. Shall we begin again? He stood before her, hand held over his heart. Some call me Hemlock, but you may call me Vadim. He bowed his handsome head. If it is within my power to do so, I will help you find your way home.

    Ch-charmed, I’m sure. Her stomach fluttered. And I’m Martha, Martha Bigalow. Without thinking, she thrust out her hand. What the heck had she done that for? His old-fashioned manners must have rubbed off on her. How do you do? she added for good measure, then cringed.

    I do very nicely, thank you. After a momentary pause, Vadim took her outstretched hand.

    Although his skin was rough, his touch was gentle. Warm. A pulse of electricity bolted up her arm. To her amazement, he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it with a feather-light kiss. All the time, those dark, knowing eyes bored into hers.

    ’Tis my greatest pleasure to know you, Lady Martha, he murmured against her skin.

    For a moment, she forgot to breathe. J-just Martha will do. Thanks. What was she thanking him for? Blushing and flustered, she slipped her hand from his.

    He made no attempt to stop her, but a half-smile played upon his lips.

    Weird hermit, or an escapee from a secure unit? Whatever he was, Vadim knew what he was doing to her. Damn him. Martha shook her head to clear it. What was she thinking? Get a grip, woman.

    While she wriggled her icy toes by the heat of the now blazing fire, Vadim retrieved her clothes from where he’d stashed them, and wrung out each sopping garment in turn, twisting them with his hands. Droplets of water pattered to the dry, dirt floor, quickly transforming it to a muddy ooze. It was strangely intimate, watching a strange man handling the things she wore next to her skin.

    What are the chances of my clothes being dry by morning, do you think? she asked.

    Chance is something I seldom trouble to estimate, m’lady. The tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. We have never been the best of friends.

    Not a gambler, huh?

    This is strange fabric, he said, neatly changing the subject. I have never seen its like before. What is it? He raised her coat close to his face to examine it.

    It’s a nylon mix. Don’t ask me to explain what that means, I have no idea myself. She blinked. Did he just sniff at her parka? Lord knew what that smelled like after a day spent sweating in the hills.

    It is not a particularly serviceable garment. Vadim gave it a shake. As he did so, her water-logged phone flew out of the pocket and landed with a thud at her feet. His smile vanished, suspicion glinting in his narrowed eyes. What is that?

    N-nothing. Martha snatched up her phone and nursed it between her hands. Just my phone. Don’t worry. It doesn’t work anymore.

    Vadim threw down her parka. In two long strides, he was beside her, hand extended. Show me.

    Reluctantly, Martha obeyed. Great. She’d really blown it now. He probably thought she was going to call the cops. What would he do to her?

    Vadim turned the phone over and over in his hands, frowning as if he’d never seen one before. What is it? he asked, prodding at the power button.

    If that was the way he wanted to play it, fine. She needed to keep him sweet. "It’s a telephone. I use it when I want

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