Part 1 (2/2)

”Aren't you being a little harsh?” I said.

”Not nearly so harsh as she deserved,” Annelise retorted. ”No one was sad to see her go except for the Buntings and Mrs. Taxman, and they didn't know the half of it.”

”The half of what?” I asked.

”The mischief she got up to.” Annelise folded her arms. ”I'm sorry, but I can't say more. Mum ordered us not to dignify that woman's wicked rumors by repeating them.”

It was an exercise in futility to countermand an order issued by the matriarch of the Scaiparelli clan, so I turned my attention to the less daunting task of preparing lunch.

Two hours later, I stood in the clearing atop Pouter's Hill, gazing through filmy gray curtains of rain without seeing much of anything.

Pouter's Hill rose steeply from the meadow beyond my back garden. Climbing it had become a homecoming ritual, a way of reacquainting myself with the countryside after a prolonged separation. More often than not, I found the view soothing-patchwork fields, ever-changing sky, sheep-speckled hills-but it brought me no peace of mind that day.

I couldn't stop thinking about the first time I'd seen Prunella Hooper, the day Mr. Barlow had pointed her out to me across the square. His comments had made such an impression on me that I could remember them verbatim.

”I've seen her type before,” he'd said. ”They simper to your face while they stab you in the back. Sneaky-mean, my dad used to call 'em, and he knew a thing or two, did my dad. Steer well clear of her, is my advice. Women like her make trouble wherever they go.”

I couldn't help wondering if Mr. Barlow's words had been prophetic. Had Mrs. Hooper made trouble in Finch? Was that what Annelise had meant when she referred to ”wicked” rumors? Had one of the rumors been wicked enough to trigger the ultimate retribution?

Had a villager killed Pruneface Hooper?

It seemed highly unlikely. It would be daylight madness for a local to commit a murder in a small community where everyone knew who wanted to murder everyone else and how they would do it-and when and where and why-given the chance.

Yet someone had killed Prunella Hooper. Someone had clouted her on the head and left her to die beneath the vibrant array of potted geraniums hanging in the front-parlor window of Crabtree Cottage. Had that someone been a stranger, or a neighbor?

I shuddered, envisioning the cheerful red blossoms reflected in a spreading pool of blood, and turned to squelch disconsolately down the muddy path that would take me home.

I was halfway down the hill when the horse appeared.

Chapter 2.

It came out of nowhere, a black stallion some fifteen hands high, bearing down on me like a runaway train. In my panicked attempt to get out of its way, I failed to remember how firmly my wellies were planted in the mud and jumped right out of my boots, landing flat on my back in a sodden ma.s.s of last year's leaves well mixed with this year's muck.

While I lay there dazed and winded, gasping like a netted trout, the horse's rider brought the steed to a halt, dismounted, and flung himself to his knees beside me.

”Lori?” he cried. ”Oh, Lori, are you hurt?”

A gloved hand touched my forehead and I found myself looking up into the violet eyes of a man whose life I'd saved just over a year ago.

When I'd first met Christopher Ans...o...b..-Smith, he'd been unshaven, unshorn, half-starved, and dressed in rags.

He'd come a long way since then.

He was gainfully employed, for one thing, as stable master at Ans...o...b.. Manor, the property next door to mine. He lived there, too, in a spa.r.s.ely furnished flat opposite the stables. He'd shaved his beard and clipped his prematurely gray hair short, exchanged his rags for serviceable work clothes, and added flesh and muscle to his lean frame. His face-his extraordinarily beautiful face-which had once been gaunt and pale, was now glowing with good health. The most charitable part of me rejoiced to see him looking so well.

The rest of me was ready to strangle him.

”Kit,” I wheezed. ”You maniac. You could've killed me.”

”I'd sooner kill myself,” he murmured, unzipping his rain jacket. ”Are you hurt?”

”I'm peachy.” I pushed myself into a sitting position and caught my breath. ”There's nothing I like better than wallowing in frozen mud.”

Kit wrapped his jacket around me and helped me to my feet-my stockinged feet. I s.h.i.+vered violently as gooey fingers of frigid muck oozed through my socks.

”May I have my boots?” I asked through chattering teeth.

”I'll tie them to the saddle,” said Kit. ”I'm taking you home.”

”On Zephyrus?” I eyed the stallion warily. ”Thanks, but I'd rather walk.”

”You'll catch your death.” Kit retrieved my wellies and brought the horse around. ”Please don't argue, Lori. I feel badly enough as it is.”

”But-”

Kit cut my protest short by sweeping me off of my feet and onto the horse's back, where I teetered precariously until he climbed up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist.

”Lean back,” he instructed. ”I won't let you fall. Gently, now, Zephyrus . . .”

Zephyrus did go gently, and Kit kept me more or less upright, but the downhill journey was a trial nonetheless. I was a lousy horsewoman at the best of times and the steep grade took its toll as seldom-used muscles strained to keep my mud-covered bottom from slithering out of the saddle. By the time Kit tethered the stallion to the apple tree in my back garden, I was certain that I'd never walk again.

I was on the verge of demanding that Kit carry me into the cottage when I caught sight of Will and Rob gazing wide-eyed at us through the solarium's back door. Forcing a cheery smile, I slid gingerly from the saddle and hobbled toward the cottage on my own two frozen feet.

”I'll help you inside,” Kit offered. ”Then I'll be off.”

”Oh, no, you won't.” I seized his elbow. ”You think I'd turn you loose on an unsuspecting public? You're a hazard to your own health and everyone else's.” I tightened my hold. ”You're coming inside to get dry and warm, and you're not leaving until you tell me what's wrong.”

Kit looked away. ”What makes you think something's wrong?”

I glared at him. ”Do I look stupid? You were riding like a maniac up there. You never ride like a maniac. Ergo, something must be wrong.” I tried to push my wet hair out of my eyes, smeared my forehead with mud, and heaved a long-suffering sigh. ”Besides, your lips are turning blue. I can't let you go home with blue lips, so put Zeph in the shed and come inside.”

After a moment's hesitation, Kit led the stallion around the side of the cottage to the shed, where he'd find everything he'd need to make Zephyrus comfortable.

I watched him go, then sloshed into the cottage, where my adoring sons greeted me with gales of merry laughter. A grimy, wet, and limping mummy was, evidently, the sort of sight gag two toddlers could really sink their baby teeth into.

Annelise took one look at me and ran to fetch an armload of towels.

It was growing dark by the time Kit and I sat down to eat. The boys were in bed, and Annelise had gone to spend the evening with her mother, so Kit and I had the kitchen to ourselves. Kit had exchanged his wet clothes for a flannel s.h.i.+rt and a pair of baggy sweatpants that had last graced my husband's much brawnier frame. I'd changed into jeans, a sweater, and my thickest pair of wool socks.

After tossing Kit's riding gear into the washer, I'd given Bill a quick call to fill him in on my overly eventful day. He'd been suitably shocked to hear about the murder, relieved to know that my encounter with Zephyrus had injured nothing but my dignity, and as puzzled as I was by Kit's carelessness. He wasn't one bit surprised by my determination to find out what was troubling Kit.

<script>