Bewitching Page 4

  "I've got a bad feeling about this," Seymour said, his gaze darting left, then right, as if he expected the rest of the forest to collapse.

  "Here it comes again." Downe said, resting a booted foot on the splintered stump. "Seymour's gloom-and-doom speech. To what do you attribute this? Fairies? Trolls? Ghosts? Witches?"

  A gasp of horror sounded from behind them, and all three men turned. The girl peered out from the carriage, her color pale.

  "Now look what you've done, Downe. You've scared the bloody hell out of Belmore's future wife!"

  Seymour rushed toward her.

  "Did he just call that chit what I think he called her?" Alec stared at Seymour's retreating back.

  "You heard him. He believes all that balderdash. Here, have some of the Little Emperor's finest. Dulls the cold and makes Seymour tolerable." He held out his brandy flask. "If you drink enough of the stuff, he might even start making sense."

  "The Seymours aren't known for their sense and sensibility."

  Downe gave a snort of sardonic laughter and pressed the brandy into Alec's hand. Alec looked at the flask speculatively, then returned his gaze to the carriage where Seymour was just opening the door.

  Alec strode over to the carriage, stepping in front of Seymour. "I'll take care of her." His voice brooked no argument. Seymour looked at him, glanced back at the girl, then smiled knowingly, which earned him a cool glare that spoke volumes.

  Seymour quickly stepped away from the carriage.

  Alec leaned inside and saw that the girl had no color, so he assumed either her ankle pained her severely or she was as easily spooked as an untrained filly. "Does it hurt?"

  She gave him a blank stare. “What?”

  "Your ankle," he explained with patience he was far from feeling.

  She looked at her foot. "Oh . . . yes, my ankle."

  Alec took that for an affirmative, although she seemed to be thinking about something else altogether. He reached into the gun compartment and took out a small glass. He filled it with Downe's brandy and handed it to the girl. "Here, miss . . . ” Alec stopped himself and frowned. "Or is it madam?"

  "It's miss."

  "Who?"

  "Me?"

  Alec took a long breath. "What's your name?"

  "Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie," she said, not looking at him, but giving her skirt a little shake before she settled back against the seat.

  He nodded. "Scottish. That explains it."

  She looked at him then. He placed the glass in her hand. "Take this. Sip it. It will keep you warm while we clear the road. I suspect it might take a while.” When she hesitated, he ordered, "Drink."

  She quickly lifted the glass to her full lips and took a sip, then made a face and wrinkled her nose.

  "Trust me. You'll feel better."

  She took a deep breath, apparently to prepare herself for the upcoming ordeal, then sipped again, screwed up her face, and gulped as if she'd swallowed the sins of the entire ton. It was a few minutes before she stopped coughing and looked up at him again, her eyes tearing, but the moment they met his gaze they grew misty with that same odd yet familiar expression.

  He still couldn't place the look, but he knew one thing for certain: it made him bloody uncomfortable. He closed the carriage door and walked back to the fallen trees with Seymour trailing him like an overanxious beagle.

  "She must be the one," Seymour said in a rush. "It's fate. I know it."

  Alec stopped and turned to his friend. "Do you truly believe I would take a complete stranger and make her the Duchess of Belmore?"

  "Of course he wouldn't," Downe said, joining the two men in time to hear Seymour's comment. "After all, he hasn't yet researched her background. Have you, Belmore? She might not be duchess material. Besides which, when have you known Belmore here to do anything without first planning every single detail?"

  Alec's back went ramrod straight.

  "This trip to Belmore’s hunting lodge was not planned" Seymour shot back, his expression triumphant.

  "Are you two finished? We have business more pressing than goading each other or trying to goad me into one of your rows."

  "Never works anyway," Seymour muttered.

  Alec gave them his best ducal glare—the one that usually stone-silenced anyone within an immediate range and could send a servant into double time. He glanced at the flask, still clutched in his hand, and was tempted to take a drink, a very human reaction considering the day's events. But the Duke of Belmore prided himself on not giving in to human reactions. He handed Downe the flask and turned to his servants— two footmen, an outrider, and his coachman— who were valiantly trying to move the first of the fallen trees. With the wood green and wet the trees weighed enough to need special handling. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it near Downe's feet. Seymour followed suit while Downe, whose injured arm rendered him unable to help, stood nearby making snide comments about fate and destiny and the predictability of the Duke of Belmore.

  Half an hour later, having had enough of Downe's wry tongue, Seymour suggested that he and Alec ram a tree trunk into the earl's blasted big mouth.

  Alec didn't answer. In his mind he kept seeing Juliet's letter, which had contained the same unflattering word that Downe had unknowingly just used: predictable.

  For twenty-eight years, Alec had thought his behavior unquestionably suitable and logical for a man of his consequence. Life wasn't simple for the English aristocracy, and the higher the title the greater the responsibility. At least that was what Alec had been raised to believe. It had been pounded into his head over and over that ducal duty came first. Belmore traditions, the revered family name, the example he set by his actions—those were the things that mattered.

  He took command but rarely lost his temper. He'd learned at a very young age that a Belmore Duke did not show emotion. A duke needn't shout and therefore didn't. In his life there was no room for folly, which was fine with him; his behavior was ruled by custom, logic, social standing, and traditions that were generations old. Life had been that way for his ancestors, and now it was the same for him, and that was a matter of supreme pride with him.

  But predictable? Boring? Those were not traits he relished, any more than he relished the humiliation of losing Juliet. He glanced at his coat, lying on a stump near the earl. In his coat pocket was the special license he had requested from his man of business, with a careful preparation that did his reputation justice. Marriage by special license held more than only its aristocratic allure. His wedding was to have been a quiet ceremony with two witnesses. That had appealed to him because such ceremonies were private and expedient. The frivolity of a huge wedding was something he would not embrace.

  Yet now the license served only as a reminder that he had been jilted. A wave of icy humiliation ran through him. His mind flashed with an uneasy curiosity about what Juliet's mere soldier had to offer compared to him. In her letter she had said she wanted love. Love. He'd seen what love could do. He'd seen men shoot each other in the name of love. He'd seen perfectly sane, reasonable people crumble like week-old bread for the sake of that one elusive emotion that he was sure was either fantasy or folly.

  There was a time, long ago, when he, too, had thought that love would be magical. He could remember standing before the tall rigid figure of his father, a monolithic presence to a five-year-old boy. He had forced himself to raise his eyes and look into those of his father. They had the same eyes, same face, same Castlemaine blood. His hands had grown clammy and he had wanted to wipe them on his thighs, but he'd caught himself, remembering that a marquess and future duke didn't do such things. He'd had to take deep breaths to get the words past his dry throat. Then he'd done it, told his father he loved him, thinking with childish simplicity that perhaps that was the magic phrase that would win approval. It won cold anger instead.

  Love. He viewed it the way an atheist might look upon a crucifix. The word had meaning only for those fools who sought it.

  He heaved a heavy tree trunk with strength born of fresh anger and frustration. The forest mist had swelled in the last few minutes, grown even damper. Dew caught in his silver-streaked hair and trickled a lazy path down his temples. The same misty moisture dripped like a child's tears from the leaves of the trees, peppering the ground and the men who worked to clear the road. The duke's motions became mechanical, routine, and he stood straighter, more rigid, lost in black thoughts and damaged pride. Before long, his blue eyes grew icy with a scorn born of the fact that the Duke of Belmore had no knowledge of that elusive thing called love.

  ***

  Joy sat back in the carriage, her imagination swimming not with a picture of a cottage in Surrey but with the hawk-handsome features of a silver-haired duke.

  She sighed. A duke. Imagine that. His title ranked just below that of a prince. These were the men in fairy tales and girlish daydreams. At the mere thought of him, she felt a ripple of shock go through her, the same shock his touch had sparked. It was the oddest thing—as if she were truly bewitched.

  This was a fantasy come true. He had carried her like a gallant knight in days of yore. She bit her lips to hold back a wee giggle of pleasure. It escaped anyway. Her back still tingled from the feel of his arm supporting it when he carried her through the forest. The faint aroma of tobacco lingered on his clothing, and his breath was warm and wine-sweet when their faces were little more than a kiss apart. And his eyes—those were the eyes of a man whose heart cried out for a little magic.

  She hadn't been carried in a man's arms since she'd been a small child in the arms of her father. That was one of the few memories she had of her parents, who were long since gone. But this was much different from her memory. When the duke carried her she felt as if spring bees were swarming in her belly, an
d his scent had made her light-headed. It was odd, but in his arms she had felt as light and free as ribbons in the wind. When she looked into his face, she saw something unknown, intriguing, as if something inside her was calling out to him. It was an eerie feeling even for a witch—a witch who in reality needed to get to Surrey.

  She gave a sigh of regret and shook off her reverie. She needed to concentrate on her witchcraft, not on the strength of the handsome duke, how it felt when he carried her, wondering what it would be like if he held her against his chest and lowered his lips to hers . . . .

  Beezle wheezed in his sleep, snapping her back to the sensible world. He was wrapped like a sleeping fur around her neck and, as usual, not a whit of help in spell casting. Concentrate, she told herself, concentrate. No more whimsy, Joyous!

  Of course whimsy provided an easy escape when one didn't know what else to do. And whimsy was safer, since she was certainly courting disaster. She had lost the piece of paper containing her travel incantation—not that it did her much good anyway, with the bottom burned off. No doubt it was lying on the tower room floor. With only her feeble memory to rely on, she had already tried to recast her spell, substituting the word "chimes" for "bell," but she had obviously guessed wrong. The result was fifteen felled trees blocking the road. A white witch was supposed to become one with nature, not wreak havoc on it. She took a quick sip of the strong drink the duke had given her.

  "And they call witches' brew vile," she muttered, certain that a brew of speckled batwings and eye of newt would taste something like this potion. She took another small sip, thinking maybe it was something one had to become used to. It still tasted horrid and did not help relieve the feeling that this time she had really made a muddle of things. She wasn't exactly sure how to save herself in this situation, and when she thought about the duke, she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to be saved.

  "Beezle!" She gave him a nudge. "Wake up, you slothful thing, you." The encouraging thought crossed her mind that maybe the weasel could miraculously become a useful familiar. Of course he had to be awake to be of use. She nudged him again. He wheezed and twitched, then draped his paws down over her shoulder and went back to sleep.

  "Useless. Absolutely useless." She sighed, absently scratching his head, which had nestled into the neckline of her pelisse, and stared at the glass of brandy in her other hand and frowned. She moved over to the carriage door and opened it, careful not to put any weight on her throbbing ankle. The men were busy clearing the road, so with a quick flick of her wrist she tossed the brandy into the dirt. She started to pull the door closed, but she couldn't resist sneaking another peek at the men, the duke in particular.

  It was as if her eyes were drawn to him, and an odd sweetness flowed through her at the sight of him. He had cast off his coat and stood at one end of a tree, directing the men. His shoulders were as broad as a Highland laird's, his hips were narrow, and his legs were long and powerful. His stance was all command and confidence. He seemed to know exactly what to do and the most efficient way to do it. The men moved easily, without struggling. They just followed his instructions and had managed to move half the trees already. He had power and surety of mind. He stepped right in and took control—a trait she sorely envied, considering she had so little control herself.

  "You have no control because you do not concentrate, Joyous!" Her aunt's words came flooding back to her—a sure sign that she should look to her magic and not the imaginary hero of the fairy tale in her mind.

  With one last wistful look at the duke, she settled back against the seat and scrunched up her face with the effort to remember. "Now what was that incantation?" she murmured. "Speed . . . heed. Door . . . floor? No . . . Bore? No. Core? For? Gore? Ho—Oops!" She clamped her hand over her mouth. She knew that word was not in the spell. What had she said? "Lore? More?" That was it! "Ring the bell more." She knew that that was wrong. That choice of words had sent her to the North Road with the Duke of Belmore instead of to a cozy cottage in Surrey. What a fix . . . . She drummed her fingers on the armrest.

  How was she to escape this situation? She was a witch. She should act like one. She would make up her own spell. Her face wrinkled in thought. A few minutes later she had thought up her own incantation:

  Oh, listen to me,

  I'm sorely in a fix.

  Apparently my spells don't mix.

  So please pay heed, and with due speed,

  in a hurry

  send me to Surrey!

  She took a deep breath and chanted it out loud.

  A loud crack echoed in the clearing, followed by some male shouts. There was another thud, then another, and another. Slowly, with a sense of dread and with her hands covering her eyes, she moved fearfully to the carriage door and peeked through her fingers. Three more trees lay in the road and the men, including the impeccably dressed duke, were all splattered with mud and dirt clods. They did not look pleased. Even the tall blond man with the injured arm was mud-splattered and the nervous, fidgety one was looking skyward as if he expected the heavens to fall at any moment.

  Her gaze drifted toward the duke. He took charge immediately and had the men checking all the nearby trees. Control of the situation was in his hands. His voice could be heard well above the others. It was deep and strong, a voice that exuded power. Her mind flashed with the fanciful thought that with such a braw and brawny voice, the Duke of Belmore would have made a magnificent warlock.

  She watched a dreamy moment longer, then sighed and pulled the door closed before she slid back into her warm corner and elevated her injured foot on the seat opposite her. Settling back against the plush squabs, she looked around the inside of the carriage. The seats were wide and deep, the seat springs covered in a rich emerald green velvet. She ran her hand over the velvet, watching its pile catch and glimmer in the lamplight. Gold braid and thick-fringed tassels held back the velvet curtains that covered the carriage windows. The inside doors of the vehicle were made of highly polished burl, and the brass carriage lamps, with their crystal knobs and beveled-glass shades, glistened and twinkled like captured stars. Looking closer at the shades she noticed that a crest was etched delicately into the glass— falcons. She opened the door again and peered at the crest on the outside of the carriage. It was the same design. A custom carriage. What elegance!

  Even more impressed, she closed the door and moved back into her corner, imagining what it would be like to be driven in such luxury wherever one had to go. No need to remember incantations, no need to concentrate. One could just lie back against the velvet and let the world pass by . . . .

  "Are you comfortable, Your Grace?" the footman would ask her.

  She would lift a hand bejeweled with emerald rings given to her by her devoted husband because they matched her eyes. Then she'd say, "Of course, Henson. I'm going to rest now. Let me know when we reach Brighton. I'm sure the prince is awaiting our arrival. You know what the prince always says, 'No ball is a success without the Duke and Duchess of Belmore.'"

  Then the footman would close the carriage door, and her handsome, regal, commanding husband would lean forward, his hand sliding around to caress her neck, before he pulled her closer. . . and closer . . . until she could smell the tobacco, taste the sweet wine. Then his lips, cool and hard, would press against hers . . . .

  Lost in her daydream, Joy had no idea that she had pressed her lips against the carriage window, until she opened her eyes—her mouth still pressed against the cool, hard glass—and stared into the stunned faces of the Duke of Belmore and his friends.

  Chapter 4

  "What do you suppose she's doing?"

  "I cannot possibly imagine." Alec stood next to the Earl of Downe, his coat slung over one shoulder. He glanced from Downe, who was frowning in speculation, and Seymour, who was suspiciously silent, back to the girl.

  Her eyes were closed and her lips were plastered against the glass like pink leeches. With a quick flash of green, her eyes opened and stared right at him. Then she whipped back against the seat, her face hidden by the side curtain.

  "She's Scottish," Alec said.