Bewitching Read online

  Seymour choked on his wine and Downe laughed out loud then asked, "Did you check her teeth?"

  "Yes, and her withers and hocks," Alec added, never cracking a smile as he picked up a deck of cards. Downe and Seymour were still chuckling when he deftly dealt the cards.

  An hour later the note came.

  A footman stood at Alec's left holding a silver tray with a vellum note in its center. As Downe dealt, Alec casually opened the note, noticing that Juliet's initials were pressed into the wax seal. He unfolded the paper and began to read:

  Dear Alec,

  I thought I could do it, but I cannot. I had thought I could live without love, for you are basically a good man. I thought I could trade joy for a title. I thought I could be practical and pick fortune over happiness.

  I cannot.

  I realize I could not bear the boredom of life as the dDuchess of Belmore. For while you are, as I have said, a good man, with all to offer, there is no life in you, Alec.

  You are predictable. You do that which is expected of you because of your own consequence as the Duke of Belmore. The precious Belmore name is first and foremost in your life. I want more, Alec.

  I want love. I've found it. Although he is only a second son and a soldier, he loves me. As you read this I will be marrying the man who has given me those things.

  Regretfully,

  Juliet

  Slowly, with quiet precision, Alec tore the note to pieces and dropped the scraps onto the silver tray. He stared at his friends for a moment, absently rubbing his coat pocket, then stopped abruptly, as if he'd suddenly realized what he was doing, and let his hand slowly slide up and down the stem of the wineglass. He told the servant, "No reply."

  Raising the glass, he sipped his wine, as if the message held nothing of importance, then picked up his cards and stared at his hand, his blue eyes darker and a bit narrower than usual, his jaw a little tighter than before.

  He played through that hand and three more in stony silence. When the deal passed to Seymour, Alec requested pen and paper. When it arrived, he scribbled a quick note, sealed it with wax and stamped it with his ring. Then he quietly instructed the footman to send the note to the newspaper.

  His friends watched him curiously.

  Alec leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled in speculation near the hard line of his mouth. After a minute his hands moved beneath his jaw. "It seems the filly has more spirit than I thought. She's bolted. I am no longer betrothed."

  "I knew it!" Seymour slammed his fist on the table. "I knew this would happen. The old woman was right."

  "Why?" All evidence of cynicism had disappeared from Downe's face, replaced by a flash of surprise.

  "Nothing important. Whims of a woman." He said no more, yet both of his companions waited and watched. The Duke of Belmore showed no emotion. "Deal the cards."

  For the next hour Alec methodically and ruthlessly played his hands, winning every game with the calm and composed determination of a Belmore Duke.

  "I've had enough." Downe threw his worthless cards on the table, and Seymour followed, eyeing with envy the fifteen stacks of chips in front of Alec.

  "Where to now?" Downe said.

  Seymour stood, bracing his hands on the table and leaning closer to Alec as if in warning. "Remember what the old woman said? She said you will marry the next girl you meet."

  "That's right. Why not pay a call on Letitia Hornsby, Belmore? Would save me further serious injury."

  "It is nothing to jest about," Seymour said with indignation.

  "Of course not, he's the Duke of Belmore. He never jests about anything."

  Alec stood up abruptly. "I'm leaving. Are you two coming?"

  "Where?" they asked in unison, then followed him downstairs where they donned their coats.

  "To my hunting lodge." Alec pulled on his gloves. "I need to shoot something."

  Following his long strides across the foyer, Downe turned to the viscount. "I don't know why he intends to go to Glossop. There aren't any women within fifty miles of his lodge."

  "Remember what the old crone told him?" Seymour said, rushing to keep up. "I'll wager he's going there because there aren't any women within fifty miles. Doesn't he know he can't change destiny?"

  And they followed Belmore out the door.

  ***

  Joy stomped on the burning paper with a vengeance. "Beezle…. Look what I've done!"

  She bent down and picked up the charred piece of paper, then straightened up, dangling it between two fingers. It was still smoking, and the lower right corner was completely burned off.

  "Oh, my goodness . . . ” Her words tapered off and her voice cracked a bit as she stared at the burned paper.

  Beezle lifted his head up from his black paws and peered at Joy. His eyes darted back and forth between the paper and her sad face.

  She dropped the paper on the table and with a sigh of defeat sank onto the wobbly stool, shaking her head in self-disgust. "I've done it again."

  With a resigned sigh, Beezle stood and waddled across the table, then crawled onto her shoulder and wrapped himself around her neck. Once settled, he began to paw the loose brown curls that had escaped her chignon and now framed her delicate jaw.

  "What shall I do now?" She looked at him as if expecting advice. He stopped playing with her hair, dropped his chin to her shoulder, and wheezed."So you have no answers either," she said, absently scratching his neck while she stared at the paper. Luckily her aunt had left a couple of hours ago—left with all the speed and elegance of a MacLean witch. It hadn't taken Joy long to persuade the MacLean to accept the position in America. She had wanted to do so, and Joy wouldn't have been able to live with herself if her aunt had been forced to miss this opportunity because she had to stay and play nursemaid to her niece. She was twenty-one—old enough to be on her own. And she had discovered that her aunt was right: when she concentrated— staring at the words on the paper helped —she was able to cast some effective spells.

  Before her aunt left, she had stood over Joy as she copied the incantation that would send her to the cottage in Surrey. The MacLean had warned her that travel incantations needed particularly deep concentration. Her aunt listed a whole slew of techniques to use while Joy had conjured up a traveling outfit—the latest from a set of plates her aunt had picked up in Paris. Joy suspected that the clothing was the final test, but she'd passed, probably because she'd kept staring right at the color plates.

  With little more than two snaps of her fingers she was wearing a lovely willow green cashmere traveling costume, a corbeau pelisse, and black calfskin half boots. In her hand was a forest green silk bonnet with pale green velvet ribbons and deep violet ostrich plumes. The ensemble had done the trick. Her aunt had smiled approvingly, kissed Joy good-bye, and left in a puff of sparkling golden smoke.

  Then Joy's trouble had started. To better see it, she had held the paper with her travel incantation just a bit too close to the candle. The next thing she knew, it was on fire. Now here she was, a short time later, with part of her travel spell gone up in flames.

  "I think I can read some of it. Let me see . . . ” She smoothed the paper out on the table and squinted at the writing. "Snow . . . go. Speed . . . heed. Door . . . hmm. I can make out everything but the last line. I seem to remember that it had something to do with chimes . . . or was it bells?"

  She'd have to guess. She plucked the bonnet off the table and put it on, tying the ribbons beneath her chin as best she could with Beezle still wrapped around her neck. She gave him a quick pat, picked up the paper, and with one last look at the tower room, her home for the last fifteen years, she began to read the incantation:

  Oh, glorious night that hides the day,

  Listen to what I have to say.

  No witches brew with eye of newt,

  Just behold this traveling suit.

  I've donned it not because of snow

  But since I have someplace to go.

  'Tis off to Surrey with winged-foot speed,

  So please hear my call, please pay heed.

  When the clock strikes the hour,

  The church bell will ring

  Although 'tis not a time to sing.

  Instead please send me out the door,

  And then for good measure, ring the bell more!

  Chapter 3

  Alec never knew what hit him. One minute he was walking back to his carriage from the thick woods that bordered the road, and the next, he was flat on his back, staring up at the white mist of fog, an armful of something—someone—on top of him. He tried to shove whoever it was off his chest. Whoever squealed. A female squeal if he’d ever heard one. Alec held an armful of woman … and he sincerely hoped she was not Letitia Hornsby.

  The woman sat up with an exuberant bounce, driving what was left of his wind right out of him. He sat up, too, so he could breathe. She slid into his lap, her hands gripping his shoulders.

  "Oh, my goodness!"

  Alec inhaled a few breaths of damp, foggy air and turned toward her, expelling a relieved breath when he saw that it was not Letitia Hornsby after all, but a pert little brunette with wide green eyes and dark slashing brows. She had rosy cheeks, a determined chin, and a full mouth with a small but intriguing mole just above her upper lip. She was the most striking female Alec had seen in years, but at that moment, her attractive face wore an expression not unlike that of someone who had just been thrown from a runaway horse.

  "Where am I?"

  "On the Duke of Belmore."

  "Belmore? 'Bell more'! Oh, my—" She whipped her gloved hand to her mouth and looked left, then right, studying her surroundings, before she mumbled, "It must have been 'chimes.'"

  "What?"

  "Uh . . . nothing."

&nb
sp; Alec shifted his weight slightly.

  Her hands tightened on his shoulders, and she stared at him, her face barely inches away from his. Their breath frosted in the cold air. Neither moved. For a brief instant time itself seemed to vibrate around them. He stiffened in reaction, drawing a deep breath.

  She smelled of spring—clean, with a whiff of some kind of flower. He noticed that her waist was remarkably small. His fingertips met when his hands encircled it. He looked down to see his thumbs bare inches from her softly curving breasts. He glanced up and met her gaze. Her eyes were green, true deep green. There was little of the world in those eyes, no practiced look, no sexual awareness, just an innocence that Alec would have wagered had been lost by every Englishwoman over the age of twelve.

  Breaking their stare, she glanced at her hands, which still clutched his shoulders. “You are a duke?”At his nod she flushed and released him. "Beg pardon, Your Grace."

  "From our positions I would say grace had nothing to do with it"

  "Oh, my—"

  "Goodness," Alec finished for her. She didn't say a thing. Instead, she cocked her head slightly and watched him with a new expression on her face.

  How odd, he thought. He was sure he had seen that particular expression before, but for the life of him he couldn't remember where. It made him uneasy. Dampness from the moist dirt seeped into his breeches, a wet reminder of where he was. "The ground's cold," he said shortly, his face expressionless.

  "Oh, my—"

  Goodness, Alec mentally finished for her and watched as she scrambled out of his lap and sat on the ground. He stood and extended his gloved hand to help her up. Just as he pulled her to her feet, she cried out and her ankle gave way. He caught her around the waist before she fell. "You are injured?"

  She scowled at her foot, then looked up at him and nodded, continuing to stare. He dismissed her look as one of reverence for his title. "Where's your carriage?"

  "What carriage?"

  "You don't have a carriage?"

  She shook her head, then looked around her, as if she had misplaced something and her hand nervously stroked the white ermine trim on her collar.

  "Are you alone?"

  She nodded.

  "How did you get here?"

  "I'm not sure. Where am I?"

  "The North Road."

  "Is that near Surrey?"

  "No. Surrey is over a hundred miles south." The look on her face said it all."I take it you're lost."

  "I believe so." She didn't say a thing, just stared up at him, her expression dazed. Assuming the pain in her ankle had made her wits go walking, Alec took matters into his own hands. "How did you get here?”

  “Here?”

  “Aye. Here.”

  She blinked up at him.

  “Never mind,” he said on a sigh. “You can tell me later." In one swift motion he swung her into his arms. He heard her breath catch in her throat, and as he moved toward the carriage she wrapped her arms around his neck and slowly leaned her head on his shoulder. The warm tickle of her sigh fluttered against his skin. He cast her a cool glance, but saw that her eyes were closed. He used the moment to take in her features once again. Her dark lashes, thick and brown as sparrow feathers, rested sweetly against her skin. And what skin—clear, fresh, virginal. Pearlescent innocence. He stopped in mid-step, wondering where the devil that thought had come from. He shook himself, feeling as if he had only just awakened. He took a deep breath and moved forward, attributing his reaction to an excess of strong wine and a lack of sleep.

  The woods thinned at the roadway where his carriage stood waiting. He strode through forest ferns damp with foggy mist and saw Downe leaning against the carriage door, a silver brandy flask raised to his lips. Seymour was nowhere in sight. One of the footmen moved away from the carriage and hurried toward Alec, as if to take the girl. Alec shook his head and nodded toward the carriage. "Open the door, Henson. The lady's injured her ankle."

  "Damme, if it ain't her!" Seymour's voice sounded from his left. He could hear Downe choking on a swallow of liquor.

  Alec leaned into the carriage and set the girl inside, then turned to a goggle-eyed Seymour and gave him a look meant to chill him into silence. It worked, and he stepped into the carriage, settling next to the chit. Downe followed and sat opposite her. Alec glanced at him. The earl assessed the girl and apparently liked what he saw, because he gave her his best I'm-a-rake smile. Alec glanced at the viscount, who eyed her with a look one might use when confronted with the angel Gabriel. Neither reaction set well with him.

  He turned to the footman who folded the steps back into the coach and said, "Stop at the next inn." Within seconds the coach lurched forward into the fog. He reached around the girl and turned up the coach lamp, then leaned back and watched her.

  Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

  "This is the one," Seymour whispered. "Trust me. I can feel it in my bones." He nervously looked from the girl back to Alec, then back to the girl. "You are her."

  She looked at Seymour, then at Downe, then back to Alec, and with each look panic rose in her eyes. Sitting stiff with fear, she didn't answer; instead she stared at her hands. He wondered briefly if she was praying, and the thought touched some obscure concern he'd have wagered a thousand pounds didn't exist within him.

  The girl was frightened witless. Alec sought to calm her. "Don't worry—" she squeezed her eyes closed and muttered something—"my dear, we—"

  She snapped her fingers.

  There was a frantic shout. The carriage slammed to a halt. Alec pressed his boot against the opposite seat to brace himself and then grabbed her to keep her from flying into Downe. She opened her eyes, looking stunned and horrified, and bit her lower lip.

  He released her, thinking he might have held her too hard. "Are you in pain?"

  "No." Her voice cracked, and she immediately stared at her hands with a dismayed expression. Again she closed her eyes and whispered something.

  The poor thing really was praying. He glanced up at his friends to gauge their reaction and heard her fingers snap a second time.

  A loud crack pierced the air, followed by another shout and a vibrating thud. It sounded as if the heavens had just fallen to earth.

  He wrenched open the door and called out to his men. "What's the trouble?"

  Henson ran over, a stunned expression on his face. "Appears half the forest is in the road, Your Grace. Strangest tiling I've ever seen . . . trees falling like wounded soldiers." He reached up and scratched his head. "And there's no wind, Your Grace."

  "Watch for highwaymen." Alec opened a small compartment near his seat and removed a pistol.

  "There's not a soul about, Your Grace. The outrider checked." Henson gestured toward the forest with his own pistol.

  Alec handed weapons to Downe and Seymour, told them to stay with the girl, then left the carriage, armed. He surveyed the surrounding forest and saw nothing but trees mired in an eerie fog. He stood there for a silent moment, listening for movement. There was nothing. He walked to where the coachman surveyed the wood-piled road and another footman steadied the nervous horses.

  At least fifteen alder trees lay like fallen columns across the roadway, and yet not a suspicious sound or movement came from the woods that lined the road.

  "Oh, my goodness!"

  Alec was fast learning to hate that phrase.

  "Oh, no! I thought I said ‘alter,' not 'alder'!"

  Slowly he turned around to see the girl hanging out of the carriage and staring at the trees across the roadway, an appalled expression on her face. She cast him a quick look, appeared to gulp, and disappeared inside in less time than it took to breathe. A moment later Downe and Seymour stepped down from the carriage and stood beside him assessing the problem.

  "There are fifteen of them," the viscount announced.

  "That's what I admire about you, Seymour. You've an uncanny ability to state the obvious,” the earl said.

  "When have you ever seen fifteen trees in the road? It's not something one sees regularly." The viscount walked over to the first fallen tree, then looked up. "Not a lick of wind."

  Downe examined the closest stump. "Hasn't been cut. Looks like it just fell over."