Bewitching Page 5

  The earl nodded knowingly while Henson assisted Alec with his coat. Then with a flick of his hand he dismissed the servant and walked around to the opposite side of the carriage. He opened the door and leaned inside.

  She looked at him as if she expected him to swallow her in one monstrous bite, and on closer inspection he saw that her color had come back tenfold. She quickly turned away.

  "Are you feeling ill?"

  After a long, tense moment she mumbled to the curtain, "No, I think I'm going to curl up and die."

  "I doubt you'll die from a sprained ankle," he said, unable to keep the sarcasm from his tone. He had been through his share of London seasons and had witnessed the dramas that females could enact.

  Strange that it bothered him to think that this girl, with her odd face and even odder behavior, might be as vapid as many of the women he knew in London. For some reason he wanted her to be as different as her face. He called himself a fool and waited for a response.

  None came. She sat there, one small gloved hand across her forehead, shielding her eyes. It was a gesture of someone who'd been hurt.

  "Does your ankle pain you?"

  "'Pain' does not describe how I feel," she said behind her hand.

  "That bad?"

  "Worse than you could ever know."

  Tired of questioning the back of her head, he reached out and gently pushed her hand away so he could turn her face toward him. Her face would tell him if she was suffering. The cheeks that turned toward him were so flushed they looked red. "Did you sustain some other injury?"

  Panic flashed in her eyes, and she raised a hand to her cheek. "I think . . . I mean . . . a fever. Yes, that's it!" she said, her words rushed. "I think I have a fever."

  He examined her face. "You do seem flushed."

  "I do, don't I?" She patted her face as if she could feel the heat of it through her kid gloves. "The window is cold, you see . . . and . . . uh, it cooled my face." She blessed him with a smile—a bright smile, not the listless smile of someone who had a fever.

  "I see. How very resourceful of you."

  "Yes, I did have to think quickly."

  For some reason Alec had the strangest feeling that they were talking at cross-purposes. He tried to counter his confusion with logic. "Did you think about opening the door? It is brisk outside."

  She looked past him at the fog he knew hovered just a few feet above them. "No, I didn't. But that does make much more sense. That must be why you are a duke and I'm a wi—" She slapped a hand over her mouth so that Alec could see only her wide eyes. Her hand slowly slid away from her lips. "Woman."

  "Your Grace, the fog's settling."

  Alec turned to Henson. "Did you check the other trees again?"

  "Couldn't find a shaky one in the lot. Every one's as sturdy as the London Tower. The road's safe, Your Grace."

  "Fine. Tell the others we're ready to leave." Alec turned back and once again had a perfect view of the ostrich feathers on the back of her bonnet. He shook his head and glanced down at her hands, which she wrung nervously. Watching her was like watching a small soft rabbit snared in the iron jaws of a fox trap. Something about her innocence drew him, as did the aura of helplessness he saw in her. For some reason he felt an urge to put her at ease, though he couldn't remember ever having felt benevolent before."Miss MacQuarrie."

  She jumped as if pinched.

  "We shall take you to an inn and summon a doctor to examine your foot." And your head, he thought, or possibly mine, since he realized he was staring at the tilt of her lips. He broke his stare and stepped into the carriage, settling next to her just before Seymour and Downe joined them. Within a few minutes the carriage had safely moved through the woods and was on the open road. The fog had thickened and now hovered a bare two inches above the ground.

  Alec studied the girl, asking himself what it was about her that caught him unguarded. There were brief moments when she looked at him as if she saw some kind of wonder in him. Women had always stared at him; that in itself was not unusual. His wealth and title drew them like ants. But this Scottish girl was different, with her odd face and her uncanny ability to touch something inside him with a mere look. She was a novelty. He fought the urge to study her longer by looking out the frosty window and seeing nothing.

  They lumbered along for a few silent minutes during which Downe once again took out his flask. The earl was Alec's friend, but he was of late a profligate rascal and was truly obnoxious when he was foxed—an occurrence that seemed to be happening more and more often. He was just preparing to tell him to put the flask away when Seymour gasped. Alec looked at him and saw that his eyes were riveted on the girl and his mouth gaped open. Downe stared too, the flask forgotten for a moment.

  Alec looked at her, but saw nothing amiss, and turned back toward his friend.

  "Did you see what I just saw?" Seymour asked Downe.

  The earl's answer was to swill a drink and then watch the girl, his eyes narrowed.

  Alec looked at her again but saw nothing odd.

  "I'll take that," Seymour said, making a grab at Downe's flask.

  "Won't help," the earl said. "I just saw it again. Watch."

  Again both men looked at her.

  "You need to ease up on that stuff, both of you. Hand me the flask.”

  "Her collar is moving," Seymour whispered.

  They all stared at her, their gazes locked on her throat. From her expression Alec could tell her mind was miles away. Probably in Scotland, he thought.

  After a moment, during which the fur collar on her jacket twitched and shivered, she must have felt their looks, because she glanced up at the men. She looked at each one and said, "Is something wrong?"

  "Your collar is moving," Seymour told her.

  Her hand came up to stroke the fur. "Oh," she laughed. "This is Beelzebub. I call him Beezle," she said, as if that explained everything.

  A small black-tipped paw flopped over her shoulder and an odd sound came from her neckline. It was not unlike that made by the hot air balloons that ascended from Hyde Park in the summer.

  She looked at them and said, "He sleeps a lot."

  Alec stared at the lump of fur he had thought was a collar. "It's alive?"

  She nodded.

  It snorted, then wheezed.

  "What, may I ask, is a . . . a Beezle?"

  "A weasel."

  "So is Downe, but he doesn't make that horrid noise," Seymour said, laughing at his own wit, since it was common knowledge that it wasn't often he could get one up on the earl.

  Downe raised one eyebrow.

  "You have a weasel wrapped around your neck," Alec stated.

  "Actually he is an ermine weasel, and he likes to sleep there."

  "So would I." Downe's eyes rested on her neckline.

  "I told you what we should have done with that tree," Seymour said, glaring at Downe, but only making him smile.

  Alec leaned back against the seat and gave Downe a hard look meant to silence him. "These two gentlemen are quite harmless, actually. As I said before, I am the Duke of Belmore. This one with the hot eyes and loose tongue is the Earl of Downe."

  "Doing you harm is the last thing on my mind." Downe gave her a wolfish smile.

  "And this," Alec continued, motioning toward Seymour, "is the Viscount Seymour."

  "Seymour is harmless," Downe added, "and witless, too."

  That started the bickering all over again. Intending to finish the introduction in spite of his friends, Alec turned to the girl. She looked from one man to the other in confusion, then turned to him and moved her hand to pull her weasel tighter against her. He could see the apprehension in her expressive face. Some small scrap of sensitivity sparked deep inside him, from a place untouched. He started to reach for her.

  She took a deep breath and began to mutter again. A shout sounded. Suddenly the coach shot forward at a frantic pace. The passengers grabbed anything they could to keep from flying into each other. More shouts and curses came from the coachman. A loud bang resounded, and a sudden scurrying noise echoed down from the box.

  Alec grabbed her and held her fast against his chest, trying to absorb the bounce and shock as the carriage rattled over the rutted road. They hit something hard, and his body pinned hers to the seat.

  Momentum forced him to move against her. Every soft female inch of her pressed against him. Her hands tightened their hold on his coat and pressed into his belly. Her hot breath brushed in frightened pants against his ear.

  Suddenly, uncontrollably, he was aware of her as a woman. Her eyes met his, surprised, then curious, then searching. Their world was silent. He fought for control over the natural urge that passed between them. Again she searched his face. With a coldness born of instinct, he covered his reaction. Don't look too deep, Scottish, there's nothing in here for you.

  She flushed. A wistful sadness existed between them as surely as if they had spoken their thoughts. She closed her eyes and turned away. The coach hit another bump, and he tightened his grip on the cloth handle.

  Downe grunted, then swore. The carriage finally slowed, then stopped. Alec wrapped an arm around Joy and sat up. The earl's angry voice echoed through the carriage interior. "Get the devil off me, Seymour! Your blasted bony knee's in my back."

  Alec and Joy looked at them. The earl's blond head was wedged into a corner of the carriage floor, his booted feet were braced against the door, and the viscount was atop him, clinging to the opposite end of the seat to avoid the earl's boot heels. The weasel clung to Seymour's coat collar.

  "Can't help it, Downe. I've no place else to put my knees."

  There was a scuffle, then a loud groan. "Watch out for my shoulder. Bloody thing hurts like the devil."

  "Sorry. Give me a moment t
o get this animal off my neck."

  "Come here, Beezle." Joy opened her arms, and the weasel lumbered into them. Alec noticed that his arms were still around her and quickly pulled back. Seymour managed to right himself on the seat and began to dust himself off.

  Alec gave Downe a hand up, and the carriage door opened. A white-faced Henson peered in at them."Sorry, Your Grace. We broke a harness."

  "Can it be fixed?"

  "They are working on it now."

  "Fine,” Alec said, turning his attention to the girl who was clutching her weasel to her chest. He saw that her cheek was smudged with dirt and her hat was cockeyed, the purple plumes broken and hanging down over her shoulders. She looked like a sparrow that had fallen from her nest. He felt the urge to tuck her back inside it. Somehow he knew that this woman, of all women, should not be all alone in the world.

  He turned away from her. That helpless look on her face made him lose his train of thought. He climbed down from the carriage and moved toward the team where his coachman and the other footman were repairing the broken harness.

  "Who harnessed the team?" Alec asked in a tone that didn't bode well for the culprit.

  "Me, Yer Grace," Jem the coachman answered, but added quickly," 'Twas a brand new one. Sturdy as an elm, it were. Never seen the like. A good inch thick, an' it just broke like it were paper. Here, look here." He held up the leather strap of the harness piece.

  Alec examined it. There were no cuts, no clean slices. The edges were frayed indicating it seemed to have torn in two. "How long before you can have it repaired?"

  "Almost done now, Yer Grace. Took the strap off the thill line."

  "Fine." Alec walked back and climbed inside the carriage. "We'll be off in a minute."

  "This was a sign," Seymour whispered, wide-eyed and looking as if he expected the carriage to glow a supernatural light. Downe snorted, slid his flask back inside his coat, and readjusted his sling.

  As Alec settled back in his seat he glanced down at his coat and saw the fabric wadded into tight wrinkles where Joy's fists had clutched it. Then as surely as if she had reached out and touched him, he felt the girl's stare—that familiar yet elusive look. She seemed to be memorizing his face. It made him as uncomfortable as hell.

  At this point, all he wanted was to reach the inn, quickly. He treated her to a cool look, but it died when his gaze connected with hers. For some odd reason he looked at Downe's injured arm, then back at the girl. There was a link between the girl's look and Downe's arm. Henson closed the carriage door, and once again they rattled down the bumpy road, the Duke of Belmore deep in thought.

  A few moments later, to his absolute horror, he remembered where he had seen that exact look—Letitia Hornsby. He groaned inwardly. This odd Scottish girl stared at him with the same look of devotion that Letitia Hornsby wore when she looked at Downe—a look that held her heart in her eyes. But before he could even digest that thought there was another shout.

  ***

  When the wheel came off the carriage, Joy gave up. Someone was going to get hurt if she didn't stop trying to cast a travel spell. She rested her chin on a hand and tried to accept her fate. Experience had taught her that when her spells were this befuddled, the best thing she could do was give her magic a rest. Sometimes she did better, could concentrate more, if she waited. Whatever, she didn't want any harm to come to the men, especially the duke.

  There was something more between them than just tattered heartbeats and intense looks. There was a force, a pulling force that told her he needed something from her. There was some remnant of desperation that he hid behind an icy glare. She sensed it as surely as she could sense a spring rain.

  The nervous one, Viscount Seymour, leaned toward her, examining her as if she were an apparition."You are the one, aren't you?"

  Her stomach lurched at the thought that he might actually know she was a witch. She held her breath, not knowing how to reply.

  "Leave the chit alone, Seymour," the earl said, disgust threading his voice, then turned to Alec. "Even if she is the one, Belmore would have to call his man of business before making his move. Bloodlines, you know, and all that other . . . stuff."

  Another argument ensued, so she glanced at the duke, whose hand had distractedly risen to his coat pocket. She caught the soft crinkle of paper and wondered about it. He told the men to be quiet, pinning the earl with a stare as cold as midnight. The earl stared back, which made them look like two dogs facing off. The viscount had grown suddenly quiet and uneasy.

  The silent battle continued. It did not take long for Joy to realize that the duke would be the winner. She had seen the coldness in his eyes. After a few tense minutes that seemed never to end, the earl broke eye contact and raised his flask to his lips once again. The duke turned away. Then, as if she'd called him, he looked at her.

  He took her breath away. His eyes held secrets that piqued her natural curiosity, like treasures buried deep and waiting for someone to care enough to uncover them. He seemed to be looking for something as he watched her, searching.

  What is it you seek? What do you need? She wanted to ask the questions, but they wouldn't come. As quickly as dandelions in the summer wind the quest in his eyes was gone. And in its place was that shuttered look.

  They had all been silent too long, living in their own thoughts. Too much time had passed in silence, Joy thought, chewing her lip and thinking. The questions would surely start again soon. She needed to think of a tale she could tell them. The one thing a witch was taught early was never to tell a mortal she was a witch. Mortals did not understand that witchcraft was not something dark and evil. One had to get to know a mortal very well before he or she could understand, and that was a rare mortal indeed, for history had proven that many would never understand because of their misconceptions about witches. The MacLean didn't trust too many. She said most mortals thought witches flew around on besoms, had warts on their faces, looked haggard, and had ragged gray hair.

  Joy's paternal grandfather, a warlock, had married a mortal—the daughter of an English peer—and the MacQuarries and the MacLeans had welcomed her, once she proved herself an exceptional human being. Of course her aunt also swore that her grandparents' marriage was the source of Joy's problem. Tainted blood, she claimed. Joy always figured it could have been worse. She could have had no powers at all. She could have been born all human mortal instead of a weak white witch.

  She could tell these men something close to the truth without mentioning the witch business. Perhaps she'd inject a little hyperbole and, for spice, maybe a tad of drama to make the tale interesting. If she could hold them enthralled, maybe they wouldn't notice the things she left out—logic, credibility, truth.

  The duke had turned his penetrating eyes toward her. Those eyes spoke to her, knew her, and they wouldn't miss much. Here it comes, she thought.

  "Where is your family?"

  "Gone," she replied, wanting to stare at her lap, but unable to look away.

  His gaze held hers.

  "You mentioned Surrey. Is that where you were going?"

  She nodded.

  "Why?"

  "My grandmother's home is there."

  "I thought you said your family was gone."

  "They are, except my aunt, and she's gone to—" She caught herself. "She's out of the country for two years."

  "She went away without leaving you properly chaperoned?"

  "I am of age," she informed him, raising her chin a bit. "I am twenty-one."

  "I see." His tone was not unlike that used to humor a child.

  There was a long silence.

  "How were you traveling?"

  "On foot," she answered in a squeaky voice. Even she wouldn't have swallowed that claim. Stupid, daft, dumb.

  The duke cast a meaningful glance at her new half boots. Not a scar or a scuff marred them. The heels were unnicked, and the edges of the soles barely worn. The hems of her pelisse and traveling gown were perfectly clean, no signs of the muddy roads anywhere on her person. He turned his dark gaze back to hers and gave her a look that almost made her spill forth the truth. "You walked from Scotland?"

  "Oh, my goodness, no!" She raised a hand to her heart in what she hoped was an innocent and dumbfounded gesture. "One could hardly walk all the way from Scotland." She smiled.

  Again the silence went on, the duke giving her an I'm-waiting look while Joy fabricated a thousand stories in her furtive mind.