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  He turned. "The clocks? I didn't come in here to talk about clocks." He stepped toward her.

  "Since you brought it up, I just thought—"

  "Forget the clocks. This is our wedding night."

  "I know, but there is something you should know."

  "Take your hair down," he whispered, standing barely two feet away.

  "I—"

  "I said, take your hair down."

  "Well, if you really want me to . . . ”

  "Scottish . . . ”

  At the sound of that name almost whispered in his deep warlock voice, she pulled the pins from her hair. He watched her, something akin to pleasure in his dark eyes. The distant thought crossed her mind that if she did as he asked, maybe he'd be more receptive to her confession, when she got up the nerve to spit it out.

  Her hair tumbled down her back. It was so heavy that she usually threaded her fingers through it and shook her head to relieve the tingling in her scalp. She reached up, but Alec was there, behind her, and his hands closed over hers.

  "Let me." His voice was right above her head and so close she could feel his breath against her hair.

  Then she felt his hands running like gentle combs through her hair. He pulled her head back against his shoulder and stared down into her face. His mouth was but a breath away, one wee breath.

  He kissed her. One hand held her hair while the other reached up to stroke the line of her neck and jaw with touches that were as soft and light as snowflakes. His tongue stroked her lips and she opened them, accepting his kiss with the same overwhelming need and pleasure with which her heart had accepted him as her love.

  Some small bit of rationality said, Tell him. Tell him . . . .

  But he turned her in his arms, his lips never leaving hers, and her arms slid up around his neck. His mouth moved slowly to kiss her cheeks, her jaw, then her ear.

  "God, Scottish, how I want you." His hands closed over her behind, and he lifted her against him while his tongue delved into her ear.

  "I need to tell you something," she whispered between hot, wonderful kisses.

  "Tell me anything. Just let me touch you." His hand closed over her breast.

  "I'm a witch."

  Chapter 9

  "You can be anything you like as long as you're in bed." His mouth closed over hers and he walked her to the bed, knelt on it with one knee, and lowered her onto the coverlet, his arm still around her lower back so she was arched toward him. His lips left her mouth.

  She pushed on his shoulders. "Alec, please . . . listen to me."

  His mouth closed over her breast, pulling at it through the thin silk of her dressing gown.

  She moaned, clasping his head to push it away, but she couldn't for the longest time. His free hand moved to her waist, then down her leg to pull up her gown. She felt his warm palm skim the tender inside of her thigh. She gasped and pushed his hand away.

  He lifted his head, frowning.

  She scrambled out from under him and knelt on the pillows, her breath coming in quick little pants. "I am a witch. A real witch."

  His eyes narrowed. Still bent over the bed, his hands flat and pressing into the soft mattress, he did not take his gaze from hers. His eyes were dark and hot, his breath heaving with passion and anger. "This is not the time for games, wife."

  "It is not a game," she whispered, her voice a bit choked. "I am truly a real, spell-casting Scottish witch."

  "I have no doubt the Scot side of you thinks you are a witch."

  "I'm not daft, Alec! It's true!" She could see the disbelief in his eyes. She looked around the room, searching for some way to convince him. Her gaze locked on the broken clock.

  Raising one arm, she said, "Watch," and she pointed at the clock: "Spring that's sprung, go back to where you've begun."

  The clock clunked, but nothing happened. Alec shook his head and pushed himself off the bed to stand beside it. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, then looked back at her, his expression kinder, more patient. "Perhaps we should slow down. You are innocent and young. I understand." He began to walk around the bed. "You're frightened, but—"

  "I am not frightened! I am a witch!" She slid off the bed and out of his reach, standing defiantly with her chin in the air. Determined and a tad desperate, she used both hands this time: "Please believe my witch's spell. Repair the clock so all's well!"

  For one brief second her eyes flashed with hope, then surprise, then pride. She smiled and pointed at the mantel. "There. See?"

  One shake of his arrogant head and he gave her a look that said he would humor her, this once. He gave the mantel a quick glance, then turned back . . . and whipped his head back around so fast that just watching him made her dizzy. He shook his head and eyed the clock again.

  After a moment of tense silence he slowly walked to the fireplace, never taking his wary eyes off the clock. He reached out toward it, then hesitated as if it might bite him. His hand tentatively touched the glass of the clock face.

  "This was broken before." His palm pressed against the clock face. He turned back to her, his face stunned, puzzled.

  "Now do you believe me?" She crossed her arms over her chest in a perfect imitation of Mrs. Watley.

  "How did you do that?"

  "Witchcraft."

  His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. "There is no such thing."

  "The MacLean said Englishmen were hardheaded," she muttered, looking around the room for some other way to prove what she said was true. Her gaze locked on the fireplace. "Stand back, please, away from the fire."

  He moved over to grip the back of one of the wing chairs, his look perturbed.

  She raised her hands and flexed her fingers while trying to concentrate. It took a moment.

  "They say all Scots are daft," he said under his breath.

  "I heard that," she said, never taking her eyes off the fire. Then she chanted, "Oh, fire that burns, do what you dare. Spit, sputter, crackle, and flare!"

  The fire, which had been nothing but a small flame, shot up the chimney, the heat blasting its intense warmth into the room, and into her husband's shocked face. His hair ruffled from the heat blast. He stepped back, his frowning face flushed, and just stared at the fire.

  You want proof? She asked silently. I'll give it to you. "Oh, flame that sprout, Go out!" She snapped her fingers and the fire was gone.

  For the longest time Alec stood there, not moving, not talking, barely breathing.

  "I'm a witch."

  At this, he looked at her, bewildered. "This is not some sort of fairy tale. Witches do not exist." He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

  "I exist."

  "I am a duke, for God's sake." He lowered his voice to an intimidating level. "The one thing I cannot abide is to be made a fool of. This is trickery—some kind of sport. I do not find it amusing. You are the Duchess of Belmore." He stalked over to the adjoining door and jerked the door open, glaring at her. "I will be back in a few minutes, and I'll expect you to explain your behavior." With that command, he disappeared through the doorway.

  Joy sat down on the edge of the bed with a defeated thud, an action that sent her long hair cascading heavily around her. She grabbed a handful of hair and flung it over her shoulder.

  This was why witches didn't reveal themselves to mortals, she thought, a pair of angry dark eyes the only image of him she could picture. Somehow she hadn't quite imagined it like this. She sighed, resigned that she had some convincing to do.

  He slammed around in the other room. She blanched. Glass tinkled against glass; he was pouring a drink. Then there was silence. Lying back against the pillows, she rubbed her burning eyes, then closed them and waited.

  At the sound of the door closing, she sat up, blinking. He held a large glass of amber liquid in his hand. She gave a wee smile. All she got for the effort was a cold stare. He moved with purpose to the wing chairs and leaned against one, crossing one foot over the other as he stood there expectantly. He took a sip of the liquor and tapped one impatient finger against the glass. "Now, wife, explain your magic trick."

  "'Tis not a trick."

  His eyes narrowed again. "You are lying."

  With a resigned sigh she slid from the bed, her bare feet padding softly on the floor as she stepped around the bed and moved closer to him. Her gaze moved from his angry face to the other wing chair.

  She raised her hand and closed her eyes, trying to picture the chair hovering high in the room.

  After a second of concentration she snapped her fingers. "Up!"

  "Bloody hell!"

  She opened her eyes and looked up.

  Both Alec and the chair were five feet off the floor.

  "Oh, my goodness!"

  He stared down at the floor. "This is not happening."

  "Yes, it is."

  "It can't be, dammit!" He glared at her.

  "Yes, it can."

  "I'm dreaming," he said stubbornly. "Wake me up."

  "Alec, I am a witch, and you cannot command me not to be."

  The angry color faded from his face until he was pale with realization. "You're a witch."

  She nodded.

  "I am married to a witch," he stated flatly, then looked around him as if he expected the Devil himself to be hovering at his side. "A witch?" He frowned and rubbed two fingers against his left temple. He glanced down at the floor, a good five feet below him, and looked back at her. "A witch."

  She nodded again.

  "You're a witch," he announced to the room. Hovering above the ground, he looked at the glass and promptly downed the contents in one enormous swallow.

  "Yes, I am."

  He stared at the empty glass for a moment, then down at the floor. He moved his feet, watching them dangle i
n the air. His suspicious gaze darted left and right. He looked back at the space between his feet and the carpet. He turned back to stare her, back at the floor, then directly at her.

  "You believe me?"

  "Get me the hell down from here! Now!"

  Joy slowly lowered her arms and both the chair and her husband hit the floor, hard. The glass fell from his hand and rolled across the carpet.

  "Oh, Alec!" she said, running over to where he was sprawled on the floor, looking very undukelike. "I'm so sorry!"

  She reached out to him.

  He flinched and scooted back away from her.

  "Alec . . . ”

  He scrambled to his feet, never taking his wary eyes off hers.

  She stepped toward him, reaching out. "Please."

  "Get away!"

  "I know this comes as a . . . a surprise, but—"

  His look changed from shock to anger. "A surprise?" He spoke the words through clenched teeth.

  She bit her lip.

  "A surprise?" Now his neck was purple.

  She stared down at her clenched hands. He was looking at her with such revulsion that she couldn't bear to see it any longer. It hurt too much, knowing that he considered her a monster. Her throat began to ache.

  "A surprise is when one finds a forgotten crown in one's pocket, wife. Not"—he moved to the fireplace and waved an angry hand at the clock— "not when one finds out that one's bride is a . . . a . . . ” He waved his hand around some more while he tried to spit out the word.

  She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed, but her tears spilled over anyway. "A witch," she whispered.

  There was a full, torturous minute of angry silence.

  "God Almighty . . . God Almighty!"

  She opened her eyes only to watch all the angry color drain from his face.

  "I don't believe this." He looked right through her. "I don't believe this— I married you, in front of witnesses, in a church." He started walking toward the door, trance-like.

  Hesitantly she reached out to him—a plea—as he walked by, but he gave her a wide berth and passed without even looking at her. She swallowed hard, then heard him mumble, "The new Duchess of Belmore — Belmore— is a bloody witch."

  Her throat tight, she swallowed again, her hand against her mouth as if it could keep her from crying aloud. The door clicked open. A second later, it slammed shut.

  One deep quivering breath and she turned to stare at the closed door through blurry eyes. When his image finally vanished, little more than one brief memory, she turned slowly, her heart in her throat, and her chest so tight that taking a deep breath was impossible.

  Wraithlike she crossed over to the bed and crawled into its center, wounded. Her mind flashed with the picture of his face, stunned, repulsed, angry. She had never told anyone she was a witch. She hadn't expected the revulsion. Tears tightened her throat. She disgusted him. Her own husband. How could someone love a monster?

  Her stomach turned, churning until she thought she might be ill with shame. She drew her knees up to her chest and gripped the silk coverlet in her fists, as if it was the only thing in the world she had to hold on to.

  Her chest shook with her hurt. Her breath heaved and she couldn't control it any more than she could control the tears that poured from her eyes. The ache escaped her throat in a harsh cry, like that of a bird shot from the sky, drowning out the sudden splatter of raindrops against the window. She twisted the coverlet in her fists, tighter and tighter, until she finally buried her head in the soft cloud of pillows and hid her sobs. Outside, the rain poured down, as if the skies were crying too.

  ***

  "Wake up. We need to talk."

  Joy sat upright at the sound of her husband's raspy voice. A second later she grabbed the falling bedcovers and shoved her tangled hair back away from her face, then watched him, standing at the foot of her bed.

  He looked awful. His hair was mussed, as if he'd run his hands through it a thousand times. A dark shadow of a beard shaded his hard jaw, and the dark blue circles of a sleepless night gave his eyes a sunken, hollow look. He still wore the long green robe, but the velvet was wrinkled and the belt was crooked, its knot having twisted over to his side, making one lapel higher than the other. He smelled of brandy.

  She averted her eyes, looking toward the long window beside the fireplace. Dawn shone pink through the bedroom windows, and the room was cold, the fire as dead as Joy's hopes. He would have the marriage annulled. It was the only way out. She had figured that out about three in the morning.

  He began to pace slowly, thoughtfully, not looking at her. "First of all I should apologize for shouting. I never lose control. However, I hope that, given the circumstances, you will understand my lapse."

  Joy nodded. He hadn't looked any happier levitating than she had when she'd flown through that church window. But an apology was not what she expected. She had known that since this was 1813, she needn't worry about being dunked in a river, stoned, or burned at the stake, but she hadn't imagined an apology, especially when something told her that Alec never had to apologize to anyone.

  "I want some answers."

  She nodded again, chewing on her lip.

  "Are you . . . ” He waved his hand, as he did whenever he couldn't quite spit out what he wanted to say.

  "Do witches . . . Is death . . . Are you mortal?"

  "Do you want to know if witches live longer than mortals?"

  "Yes."

  "No. Witches and warlocks get sick and eventually die just like everyone else."

  "Eventually?"

  "Just like mortals."

  "I see." He seemed to be digesting that.

  "But I'm only part witch." Her voice was hopeful. "My paternal grandmother was mortal."

  "So that part of your story was true?"

  She nodded. “I was going to Surrey, and the Locksleys are my relatives, and they were terribly cruel to my grandmother." She paused and quietly admitted, "But there was no carriage."

  "I see.” He paused, then said, “I am not sure I want to hear this, but how did you end up on that road?"

  "I made a wee mistake."

  "A wee mistake? If your wee mistake was anything like your surprise, I think I had best sit down." He walked over to one of the wing chairs, turned it around, and sat down, facing her with an expectant look.

  "Perhaps how one views it depends upon who one is."

  "Pretend you are me."

  She took a deep breath. "Travel incantations are very difficult, but if you get it right, an incantation will just zap you from one place to another."

  "Zap you?"

  She nodded. "I suppose I could try to show you a wee one if you want."

  He held up a hand, shaking his head. "No! I have seen enough wee surprises."

  It seemed to Joy that he was taking this pretty well, considering his reaction last night. He was not shouting. She could take his sarcasm.

  His arms were propped on the chair, and he raised his steepled hands to his mouth and was quiet for a thoughtful minute. "You said your grandmother was a mortal. What happened to your parents?"

  "They died when I was six in a cholera epidemic. My aunt raised me."

  "Is she a . . . one of your kind?"

  Joy's face lit up like the dining room candelabrum. "Oh, yes! She's a MacLean witch, the most powerful of all the witches and warlocks. You should see her cast a spell. 'Tis magic at perfection. Everything she does is perfect, and she's so beautiful and commanding." Joy couldn't help but raise her chin a notch.

  "She is a very important witch."

  "Where is this paragon of witches?" He tapped a finger against his lips.

  "She went to America for two years. She had some council work to do there."

  "Council work?"

  She nodded and opened her mouth to speak.

  His hand went up again, waving a finger this time. "Never mind. The British are at war with the Americans. I don't think I want to know that either." He stared at the fireplace, then stood and walked over to the mantel where he silently watched the clock again.

  The only sound Joy heard in the room was her own heartbeat

  He clasped his hands behind his back and glanced up at the painted ceiling, then let his gaze come to rest on her, giving her a level stare. "I have reached a decision."

  She waited, holding her breath, hands clasped, heart in her throat.

  "We shall stay married."