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Chloris’s forearm. “There, the lace
merchant.”
    The merchant swept a low bow when he saw them approach. “The
finest Flemish lace for your perusal today.”
    He gestured to the selection of garments and samples he had
laid out on a trestle table. Jean examined each and every one, or so it seemed.
It was a task Chloris trusted her own dressmaker to fulfill, but for Jean it was
a pleasure. Chloris encouraged her and soon they had made purchase of a delicate
lace cap as well as placing an order for a length of lace suitable for Jean’s
dressmaker’s use.
    When they set off, Jean was in high spirits, but then she froze
and gestured to the other side of the cobbled path. “Quickly, there is someone
we must avoid at all costs.”
    Chloris did as instructed but glanced back, her curiosity
aroused. When she saw that it was the man from the house in the woods, she
inhaled sharply.
    By firelight he had appeared attractive. In the light of day he
made an even more striking figure than he had the night before. His presence was
startling. From the top of his felt tricorne hat to the polished, buckled boots
he wore, he was devastatingly handsome. Moreover, he cut a path through the
crowd, standing a good head higher than most of those who passed.
    Many of those he passed greeted him, which made it seem quite
rude of Jean to move out of his path. Perhaps it was better that they had not
encountered him directly, though, Chloris reflected, for she would not be able
to acknowledge that she knew who he was.
    As if aware of the scrutiny he turned his head her way.
    His gaze locked on hers. He inclined his head.
    Stumbling on the cobbles, she drew to a halt.
    “Hold tight to me,” Jean advised. “The stones are uneven.”
    Chloris could do no more than nod in response. From under her
lashes she could see that the man continued to observe them, making no pretence
about doing otherwise. His gaze flickered over them, as if he was eager to
determine the nature of their friendship and the purpose of their outing. When
he saw that Jean was guiding her away to the other side of the street while
casting black looks back at him, his sensuous mouth moved. Apparently he was
amused by that.
    Inside her glove Chloris’s palm tingled. The sensitive skin
there, where he had caressed her, seemed to be stimulated by a sensual memory at
the sight of him. It was oddly seductive, and it made her senses rush. It also
made her wish he was touching her again. Shocked at her own reaction to the
sight of the man, she asked herself how it could be. His nature, was that why?
His curious powers and his wild ways? Flustered, she turned away, reminding
herself that it was imperative Jean did not see her exchanging glances with the
local Witch Master. However, his nearby presence and the nature of the situation
meant she was quite unable to stop herself playing the innocent in order to
question her cousin’s wife. “Who is it that we must avoid?”
    “That man, Lennox Fingal. A questionable man if ever there was
one.” Jean scowled.
    Lennox . His name whispered around
her mind. How well it suited him—strong, direct and memorable. She feigned
confusion, hoping for more information. “Questionable?”
    Jean leaned closer, lowering her voice. “They say he dabbles in
witchcraft. There are a bunch of them around him and all are suspected of
wrongdoings. Tamhas has been watching him.”
    Chloris was not only startled by the vehemence with which Jean
spoke, but also by the information she imparted. Tamhas was watching the man
from the house in the forest? He’d often spoken out against witchcraft, and he’d
been vehement about Eithne leaving, all those years ago. She hadn’t, however,
been aware that he currently had suspicions about the people who met in the
house in the forest. If she had known, she would never have ventured there. “He
does not appear as I might have expected a witch to appear,” she said, giving
her honest reaction.
    “That is half the