Bewitching Page 6

  "No doubt Seymour's fairy of destiny just dropped her here." The earl lounged back against the carriage window with a smirk on his brandy-moistened lips.

  "Oh, stuff it!" The viscount flushed with anger.

  "What's wrong, Seymour? Has your feeling, right here"— the earl thumped his chest— "gone walking? No old hags, no angels, no trolls?" He looked at Joy. "Oh, I forgot, she's Scottish. I should probably say brownies and bogeys."

  "You're foxed, Downe," the duke said, giving his friend a hard stare. "I suggest you leave off—that is, unless you wish to walk."

  "Wouldn't do to have one of Belmore's friends staggering down the road, now, would it? What would people think?"

  "You're an ass when you drink," the viscount said, then looked at Joy. "Beg pardon, miss, but drinking gives him enough tongue for two sets of teeth."

  Joy looked at the earl— a handsome man when he wasn't sneering—and asked, "Why do you drink, then?"

  The carriage was stone silent. Something flickered in the earl's eyes, some vulnerability, and then they took on a closed, cynical look. "Because I like it. I've honed swilling and braying to a fine art. It's taken me as many years to perfect as it has taken Belmore to creep into favor with himself. He's as well known for his sublime sense of consequence as I am for my lack of the same. You see, I like some spontaneity in my life." He gave the duke a strange look, then added, "You know what they say: brandy breaks the boredom." He let his words hang in the close confines of the carriage. Then, seeing that his words appeared not to have affected the duke in the least, he turned and stared out the window.

  She could feel Viscount Seymour's eyes on her, and she looked up at him.

  He smiled reassuringly and asked, "Do you know where your grandmother's home is?"

  "Outside of East Clandon. 'Tis called Locksley Cottage."

  "Locksley, as in Henry Locksley, Earl of Craven?" the viscount asked, looking at the duke, then back to her.

  "My grandmother was a Locksley."

  "Seem to remember my mother mentioning them, distant relatives of some sort. The old earl disowned his daughter after she ran off and married some oddball Scot, and . . . ” The viscount stopped and gaped at her. "You're Scottish."

  She nodded and watched his expression. "That woman was my grandmother."

  All the color drained from the viscount's face and his finger, which he rudely pointed at her, began to shake. "See? See?" He looked at the duke. "I told you. It's destiny. Fate. You cannot fight it."

  "Yes, Belmore, you needn't call your man of business. 'Tis all done for you, unless you need to check her teeth." The Earl of Downe smirked knowingly, then began to laugh and laugh, as if it was the most hilarious thing in the world for her to be the great-granddaughter of an earl.

  She had thought that her grandmother made her a bit more like them. A sick feeling settled in her belly. But she wasn't like them, for she would never laugh at someone so cruelly. She might be a witch, but she had human emotions. It hurt to be the object of someone's jest. The earl was still smirking at her. Her throat tightened and she turned her eyes to her lap and tried to swallow the lump of embarrassment.

  Beezle, who had been sound asleep in her lap since their wild carriage ride, opened his eyes and searched her face. He turned his head toward the laughing earl and slowly stood up. A moment later he was crawling up the suddenly silent earl's chest.

  "What is it doing?" Downe eyed the weasel.

  Beezle had crawled up to the earl's face and was lifting one black-tipped paw toward the earl's pursed mouth.

  "Perhaps he intends to check your teeth," the duke said with utter nonchalance.

  The weasel placed its paw on the earl's lower lip and pulled it down, then peered into his mouth. "Get . . . it . . . offumm . . . me."

  Joy started to reach for Beezle, but the duke placed his hand on her arm and slowly shook his head. His eyes were those of a man one did not defy, so she sat back and watched with dread. For the next few minutes Beezle carefully inspected the earl's mouth, lifting his lips this way and that, pulling his mouth into the most awkward positions.

  Beezle sniffed the earl's breath, turned his small furred head away, and wheezed. Then he released the man's lip and wrapped himself around his neck. With all the grace of a lame cow, he curled into the same position he had assumed on Joy, except that he hung his head down over one broad shoulder and stuck his nose into the earl's coat.

  "Quit laughing, Seymour. Get it off me." The earl tried to shrug, but his injury must have stopped him because he winced.

  "And ruin the spontaneity?" The duke almost smiled. "Surely not."

  "I say, Alec. You're right. Makes my day." The viscount chuckled.

  The duke silently watched his cornered friend. Joy had never seen two men communicate without saying a word, but these two were doing just that. And the tension was as thick, as real, as that between two warring clans.

  By this time Beezle had climbed down into the earl's lap and was standing on his haunches. He rummaged through the man's coat until he pulled the flask out of his pocket. Joy watched her familiar sit back on his hindquarters and dig his sharp little back paws into the earl's thigh. The earl sucked in a breath, then tried to grab the animal, but Beezle hissed, baring his razor-sharp teeth. The earl snapped his hand back, clearly startled. The weasel watched him through eyes that were more awake and more threatening than they had been in years.

  With the drunken earl at bay, the weasel held the silver flask between its two hand-like paws and inspected it, sniffing the cap and blinking at his reflection in the silver. Then he held it in his teeth and waddled down the earl's long legs and up the duke's.

  Joy looked at the duke's face, waiting for his reaction. No emotion registered. His angled face wore the same refined look. But it didn't matter because Beezle couldn't have cared less. The duke was no more to him than a human ladder. Without even a glance at the esteemed peer over whom he meandered, her familiar dropped the flask onto the seat, plopped down on top of it, and fell sound asleep.

  Chapter 5

  Joy finally attempted to explain how she came to be in the woods, but she made sure she didn't look at the duke. She kept her eyes on her hands, folded in her lap, or on the viscount. He seemed the most receptive, nodding encouragement and looking concerned when she came to the more tragic parts of her story. She told them that her carriage had run into a ditch, and after a brief visit into the woods she returned to find it gone—an occurrence she attributed to some nefarious motive of the ramshackle coachman she had made the massive mistake of hiring. She finished her tale and watched closely her companions' reactions.

  The viscount was the first to speak. "It's of no importance, Miss MacQuarrie. The whole thing was completely out of your control. Destiny, you know. Can't fight fate." He crossed his arms, then added, "The fates control everything, including the fact that you're Scottish, that I'm a viscount, and that Downe, here—apparently even the fates can make a mistake—is an earl. Mortal man has no control over what happens to him."

  "The only mistake I am aware of is the unfortunate fact that you and I met, Seymour," the earl shot back."And as far as mortal man having no control, I do believe Belmore is the exception. You are mortal, aren't you, Alec?"

  Joy could feel the duke stiffen. The movement was so subtle, so minute, that she wouldn't have noticed except that she sat next to him and could feel the squabs on the seat shift ever so slightly.

  "The Duke of Belmore," Downe went on, "would not allow anything as mundane as fate to command his life. Oh, no, quite the contrary, Alec is controlled by tradition, by what should be done for a man of his . . . consequence, and by his own plans and schemes." The earl spoke to Joy, but his eyes were on the duke." Rest assured he will do what his father did, and his father's father, and his father, etcetera, etcetera."With that, he turned and looked out the window.

  Joy glanced at the duke. His eyes were so cold that she felt a chill just watching him. He's vulnerable, she thought, and he's covering it up. She wondered what it was he didn't want the world to see.

  He looked at her then. She could feel him assessing her, mentally weighing something. She wondered if he believed her tale and what he would do if he didn't. For some reason this man's opinion of her mattered very much.

  He was such a serious fellow, and for all his hard handsomeness there was something lonely about him, or perhaps it wasn't loneliness but instead isolation. Something told her he was trying hard to act as if he didn't care. No one could be that cold. He had to have a heart inside him, because it called out to her. As surely as she knew the sun would rise in the east, she knew this man was more than what he allowed the world to see. Her eyes dropped to the grim line of his lips, and she gave him a small tentative smile.

  The Duke of Belmore looked as if he needed a smile.

  His face changed, took on a look of curious interest, but he did not return her smile. She wondered if he knew how. She watched him for a moment, trying to picture what his face would look like if he did deign to smile. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't picture it. Finally she gave up and stared out the window at the fog. It had dropped lower, and now the road was barely visible.

  As if summoned to do so, she turned back toward him. His look had become even more intense, but she didn't believe that anger was the cause. There was something else, something intimate. She could feel her face flush under his perusal, and she averted her eyes. Her hands were clammy beneath the soft leather of her gloves, her mouth was dry as a week-old oatcake, and she had the feeling she was melting.

  Looking for something to do besides blush, she reached for the wick on the carriage lamp. If she dimmed the light, maybe he wouldn't be able to see inside her soul, for that was how she felt when he turned
that penetrating stare her way.

  In her nervousness she turned the wick key the wrong way and it came off in her hand. She stared at it, embarrassed, and made a fumbled attempt to put it back. A hard male hand gripped her wrist.

  "I'll do it." He reached toward the lamp, and his shadow fell over her. It was dark and cold, like the duke himself, and yet she could feel his warmth, smell the raw scent that seemed to emanate from him and him alone. Like the salty breath of the sea, it pulled her in an ebbing wave. It was like a physical presence surrounding her. He put the wick key back, turned up the lamp, and started to move back, but stopped, looking down at her, his intense face barely inches above hers.

  She raised her eyes to his and could almost taste his breath. If she moved just a wee bit, their lips would touch. His gaze held her frozen, locked in an instant of time where hearts cried out. She could not move, but she didn't wish to and had no regret about her poverty of will. This was like being caught in a moonbeam—the only light in a vast void of darkness. The darkness was there; his face warned her away with its tightness. But the glint in his eyes said don't go.

  His grip on her wrist tightened, hard, imprisoning her. Her pulse pounded against the pad of his thumb. Her heart felt as if it were somewhere around her ears, thundering inside her head. She could feel her hand going numb and the resulting tingle—her blood turning into a thousand star-points. His eyes pierced her with their heat. She had thought his eyes cold—an icy dark blue—yet how odd that she perspired from his look. Dampness beaded and trickled between her breasts, on her arms, and on the backs of her thighs.

  Still holding her wrist, he moved back, breaking the bewitching magic that felt stronger than a warlock's spell. She remembered to breathe. He stared at her wrist with an odd expression, as if he had just noticed he held it. Her fingers brushed his as if to say it was all right. His grip slackened, and she felt the blood rushing back to her fingers. It matched the feeling in her chest.

  For a brief second she thought she felt his thumb gently rub her wrist, but it all happened so quickly that she was not sure that it had actually happened. An instant later he sat beside her, staring sightlessly out the window into the white fog.

  Again she breathed the cooling air, and with that breath came an awareness of something other than this man. The quiet. The only sound in the carriage was the muted pounding of the horses' hooves, the jangle of harness and braces, and the occasional creak of springs as the vehicle moved along the road. It was as if her senses had come back to her. Male smells dominated the interior—damp leather, tobacco, and brandy. The air tasted stale, hard, and male in her dry mouth. Instinctively she reached for Beezle and absently scratched his fur, aware that it would be soft and plush. After that exchange she needed to touch something soft and familiar.

  The loud clearing of a masculine throat cut through the air. She flinched, startled. It was the cynical earl, and she looked at him, expecting a sneer. That wasn't what she saw. As sure as heather bloomed on the moors, he watched her, but his look was speculative, and it made her uneasy—a different kind of restlessness than she felt from the duke. The earl was an odd man, and she didn't like him much. There was anger inside him, raw and festering, a wound untended. He was rude, enjoyed his brashness, seemed to wallow in it, and his smile was too practiced.

  One could tell volumes about a person from a smile. The nervous viscount stared out the window and muttered under his breath. But he had smiled at her, and it was sincere. Cocking her head, she looked at the duke and tried to picture his face with a smile, but she had no luck. Even her mind's eye could not see him as anything but focused and intense.

  She gave up and settled back, looking out the window as did the others, until the coach finally pulled into a timbered coaching inn. A warm yellow glow from its diamond-paned windows lit their approach with a strange eerie glow. A sign proclaiming the establishment to be the Shovel and the Boot hung at a drunken angle from a rusty cast-iron mount over the heavy oak door.

  Mist hovered around an ancient mossy gray stone fence that circled the carriage courtyard, where the duke's outrider dismounted and stood speaking to a post lad. The door to the inn creaked open, and light bled gold onto a flagstone walkway, only to be blocked by the shadow of an aproned innkeeper.

  At the same instant the carriage door opened and the footman pulled down the steps. The duke was the first to step down. He waved the servant away and turned back, holding his hand out to Joy. She scooped up Beezle, settling him around her neck, and started to rise, but glanced down at her foot, unsure if she could stand on it without assistance. She needn't have worried, for the next thing she knew, the duke lifted her out of the carriage and strode toward the inn door, cradling her against him and giving orders that sent those within a twenty-foot range scurrying like rats in the tower room to do his bidding.

  For Joy the damp English air held no chill; the cold didn't bother her. In fact, when she was in his arms she could imagine the man inside that cold shell, and her fantasies warmed her, along with his brawny chest. He had such a wonderful shoulder, on which she rested her head after a brief sigh. Just perfect.

  Even through the layers of cashmere and wool, she could feel the strength of his arm behind her knees.

  A burgeoning tingle picked that very instant to flutter its way from her head to her toes and then to her heart. She wondered if it was the same thrill that some witches experienced when they flew. She'd heard that flying was one of the most profound and joyous rewards of being a witch.

  Yet Joy didn't know that feeling. Try as she might, she could not remember the one time she'd flown. Of course she had been forbidden to fly after she did so that once, and had the misfortunate experience of blasting herself right through the two-hundred-year-old stained-glass window in the Catholic chapel atCraignure. Her aunt had rescued her and had offered a graceful apology to the bishop, as soon as he came around. It was truly unfortunate that the poor man of God had been praying beneath that window at the time.

  Joy still had a three-inch-long white scar on her left hand and a longer ragged one on the back of her neck. Her aunt told her that both scars would serve to remind her that flying was not for her. But those puny scars were nothing compared to the one she carried deep inside her—the one that reminded her she was only half a witch, and the half she had wasn't very good at making magic.

  But her unflagging hope carried her through the tough times, the times when everything she did seemed to go awry. Hope was her ballast. Hope was her salvation. It made her dream her dreams and pray her prayers. Someday perhaps things would be different.

  She looked up and caught the duke watching her again with that open curiosity, as if she was something foreign. I am, she thought, figuring she was probably the first witch the man had ever encountered. She smiled again, hoping to receive one in return. She didn't get it. A wall of ice frosted his look again. His guard was up.

  Don't touch me, it said. Stay clear.

  He was so strange. There was no smile in him. How very sad. He needed someone who would dig deep enough to find that treasure he'd buried. He needed someone with hope, because he had none. Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie had plenty of hope. She'd needed it to get this far. And she needed a purpose. Was that it? Was that what bound them in some strange way? She sensed it was, because this man desperately needed a little magic in his life.

  ***

  Alec sat on a hard bench at a long tavern table and studied the piece of paper on the table in front of him.

  Granted herein, by the archbishop of Canterbury, is special license to Alec Gerald David John James Mark Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore, Marquess of Deerhurst, Earl of Fife, the right to marry without the posting of banns and at a time and place of his convenience.

  A raucous cheer broke his concentration, and he looked up at his friends, who were involved in a high-stakes game of darts. In this small inn there was no private parlor, just the common room, with its stark white plaster walls speckled with hay and crossed by dark beams, a room filled with a thick fog of smoke, the sharp stench of ale, and the heavy aroma of greasy mutton and fresh baked bread that drifted from the back kitchen.