The Huntress Read Online Free PDF Page B

wily calculation that had saved him and his daughter upon more than one occasion.
    A shrill whistle and a few catcalls from the pit jarred Martin back to his surroundings. Aware of the restiveness overtaking the theater, he realized that Arthur was all but plucking out the ends of his grizzled beard in his frustration with Martin.
    Martin managed to resume the performance as though nothing was wrong. He had been a consummate actor his entire life, playing at one part or another: soldier, spy, courtier, gentleman. There had only ever been one role where his glibness had failed him.
    Father.
The advent of Meg into his life had changed everything. He’d die for his little girl…kill for her. If those witches threatened her again—
    The thought sent such a feral surge of anger through Martin, he stopped just short of slashing down his fellow performer. Arthur yelped with fright, shook his fist at Martin, and then collapsed awkwardly into his death scene.
    The applause that followed was deafening, but no more than a distant roar in Martin’s ears, his mind busy with the trap he would lay for the red-haired witch.
    Perhaps she was a member of the Silver Rose coven. Perhaps she was not. Whoever she was, she had best be prepared to give a good account of herself, or unlike the witch sprawled on stage at his feet, she wouldn’t be getting up to take her bow.

    L ONG AFTER THE PLAYERS HAD EXITED THE STAGE , C AT REMAINED in her seat, feeling dazed. Like some hapless maiden lured off into a fairy wood, she blinked hard, groping her way back to the real world.
    Never in all her travels had she seen anything like this vast wooden arena nor the performance that had taken place this afternoon. Three shillings of her scant store of coin it had cost her, but it had been worth every penny.
    Cat had oft thrilled to the stories woven by the outlawed bards in her native land, but that had been magic spun out entirely in her head. Watching this play had been like seeing one of the tales of her childhood spring to life and that had been mostly owing to him—the handsome Sir Roland with his mesmerizing eyes and hypnotic voice.
    When he strode toward her across the stage, she had felt as though her heart might beat straight out of her chest. And when his eyes had locked with hers, she could scarce breathe, his gaze stirring in her memories of the wild young girl she’d once been. Her head stuffed full of romantic notions of legendary Irish heroes, how many nights had she lulled herself to sleep imagining herself lying naked in the arms of the mighty Cuchulainn or the bold Brian Boru and—
    Cat stroked her throat, a flush of warmth spreading through her. She cast a nervous glance about her lest anyone else be aware of her foolish imaginings and was disconcerted to realize she was alone.
    The gallery she occupied was empty and the rest of the theater as well. The audience was gone and perhaps the players too, including the man she had been so determinedly following for most of the day.
    Cursing herself for being a moonstruck ass, Cat sprang to her feet and winced, numb from three hours on the hard bench. Rubbing her bottom, she walked stiffly from the gallery, making her way down the steps and through the corridor into the pit. The cobblestone floor was littered with orange peels, walnut shells, and a pungent dark stain where some drunken groundling had relieved himself.
    Cat wrinkled her nose in distaste. The platform towered above her, vacant and silent, but she thought she heard voices coming from the backstage area, likely the actors changing out of their costumes, and, if she was lucky, Sir Roland still among them.
    She would pay a high price if her moments of witlessness caused her to lose sight of Martin le Loup and after she had had the devil’s own time finding the man in the first place.
    Days of discreet and painstaking inquiries at the inns and lodgings in the quarters of the city where foreigners dwelled had yielded nothing. Only