The Huntress Read Online Free PDF

Break faith with me and ’tis thee who shall die.”
    The crowd gasped and a few called out warnings as the witch prowled closer, played to sinister perfection by Arthur Lehay, the old man a fine actor when he was sober. He made a repulsive crone in his rags and straggly gray wig, his chin sporting days-old bristle.
    But it was not the witch menacing him on stage that caused Martin to stumble back a pace, but the one he spotted lurking in the audience.
    He froze, his gaze riveted on a petite woman seated at the front of the first-tier galleries close to the left of the stage. Crushed between a plump matron munching an apple and a burly merchant, the woman might have gone unnoticed but for her flaming crown of hair.
    A bright beacon and not the first time that day Martin had noticed those fiery tresses. He’d caught a glimpse of her earlier when he’d disembarked from the wherry at Southwark. And then again later in the marketplace down by the docks. Modestly cloaked, garbed in a plain spun woolen gown, the woman would have occasioned little remark except for that red hair.
    Having once been a skilled street thief in Paris, Martin had too much of the hunter in him not to sense when he had become the prey. He had set a deliberately casual pace, the woman always earnestly inspecting the wares at some shop counter when he chanced to look behind. A pickpocket? Or someone more menacing, after a treasure far more valuable than his purse?
    When he had finally lost her outside the Crown, Martin had exhaled in relief, dismissing his apprehensions as merely the product of that tension that always beset him before a performance.
    But here the wench was again…
    “An’ you do not defend yourself, you shall die, Sir Knight,” Hecuba all but shouted in Martin’s ear. He started, realizing he had missed his cue to draw his weapon.
    Even as he unsheathed his sword, Martin could not tear his gaze away from that gallery. Arthur spread wide his arms, roaring out a threatening incantation only to stop mid-curse, nonplussed when Martin darted past him.
    There was more than one redheaded woman in London, Martin told himself. Mayhap he was mistaken. Mayhap it was not the same chit. He needed a closer look.
    Ignoring the glares he was receiving from the stage manager, Martin stalked toward the left side of the theater. He stopped just short of colliding with one of those young noblemen who paid extra for the privilege of sitting at the edge of the stage. Edward Lambert, the Baron of Oxbridge, had more right to do so than most. His family’s money had paid for the building of the Crown Theatre.
    Ned Lambert grinned and playfully pelted Martin with a cherry pit. Martin ignored his lordship, his gaze honed upon the red-haired woman.
    She leaned forward on the bench, bracing her hands against the gallery rail, her expression one of rapt attention.
    Martin’s stomach knotted. Mon Dieu. No mistake. It was her. She had an unusual face, the delicacy of her cheekbones at war with the strength of her chin. For a moment, her piercing blue eyes collided with his and he felt a strange connection sizzle through him as though he had just grasped the wrong end of a red-hot poker.
    Stumbling back, his heart thudded. Who the devil was she? He could fathom no reason for her to dog his steps, except for one. She was one of
them.
She had to be. What he had long feared had come to pass. The coven had found him again and that meant his little Meg was in the gravest of danger.
    Cold sweat broke out on Martin’s brow. He was seized by a blinding panic, the urge to leap from the stage, race for home, and—.
    And lead the coven straight to his daughter, which was likely what this witch hoped he’d do. Somehow the voice of reason quelled his alarm. If the witches had already located Meg, this flame-haired she-devil wouldn’t be wasting her time stalking him. She would have simply killed Martin or tried to.
    His lips tightened, his initial panic giving way to the