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sensation built within her as the wool scraped over her thigh, her knee, the sensitive slope of her calf. Her senses buzzed with an exquisite blend of heightened awareness and fear. She trembled.
    He slid the stocking over her foot, then released both her legs. “Forgive me,” he murmured.
    Cecily heard him rise to his feet and stride away. She fought to sit up, batting away the folds of cloak and petticoat blocking her view. When she finally managed to get upright, she spied the man retreating into the shadows. His face was impossible to make out. What moonlight remained lit only the pale, tattered remnants of one shirtsleeve and the mud-streaked, sinewy arm beneath. Around his forearm, he had wound her stocking.
    A bandage. He had taken her stocking to dress his wound. And it must have been a serious injury, for Cecily could already discern a dark stain of blood seeping through the ivory wool.
    “You’re wounded.” She finally managed to get standing all of a piece, balancing her weight on her right leg as her bare left toes squished in mud. “You need help.” He ignored her, striding away at a purposeful speed. There was no way she could keep pace with him, not missing one boot.
    “Stop, please!” she called. “Come back. I know who you are.” And then, the far-off call: “Cecily?”
    It was Denny’s voice. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and caught the bobbing glow of torches in the distance.
    “Cecily?” he called again. “Is that you? Are you all right?” She whipped her neck back around to look for the man, but he’d already disappeared. Squinting hard, she scanned the thick curtain of forest, flattening the brown and green shadows into one shapeless mass and hoping for just one stray flash of—
    Of quicksilver. There it was. A bolt of mercury, bounding through the trees.
    “Cecily!” Denny’s voice was now joined by Portia’s. “Cecily, where are you?”
    “Here,” she called. “I’m over here.”
    The torches moved toward her, and Cecily melted with relief. She’d had enough imprudent adventure for one evening, thank you.
    “Cecily. Thank God.” Pushing his way into the stand of alder, Denny hurried to her side. He put an arm about her shoulders, and she gratefully leaned into his embrace.
    “Where have you been?” Portia scolded. “Why on earth did you leave the group? We’ve been—” When a piercing shriek ended her friend’s harangue, Cecily knew the torchlight must have illumined the bloody remains of the boar. Not wanting to look, she buried her face in Denny’s coat.
    “Good Lord,” said Brooke. “What’s happened here?”
    Cecily lifted her face and looked round at the group. Denny, Brooke, all four footmen. It couldn’t have been any of them. Her suspicions were confirmed. Dare she tell them the truth?
    She swallowed hard. “I’ve just met the werestag.”

Chapter Four
    “Well, then.” Luke took his seat at the breakfast table. He was last to arrive, as was his habit, and he addressed his general greetings to the table. “How was your hunting excursion last night? Did you catch a glimpse of your man-beast, Mrs. Yardley?”
    “No,” Portia replied with a coy smile. “But Cecily did.”
    He swung his gaze to the other side of the table, where Cecily sat, calmly nipping sugar into her teacup.
    “Is that so?”
    “Yes, it is,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, not looking up from her tea.
    “She caught more than a glimpse of him,” Denny said. “And he took her boot.”
    “He did not take my boot. I mean, he took off my boot, but he gave it back. It was my stocking he kept.”
    “Oh, naturally,” Luke muttered.
    Cecily gave him a sharp look, clearly annoyed with his flippant response. But really, how should he respond to the notion of Cecily disrobing in the woods and distributing items of personal attire to mythical beasts? A servant approached, offering him a plate heaped with eggs and kippers and a ridiculous number of buttered rolls.