Entrancing the Earl

by Patricia Rice

  Even when she heard the gentleman shout after her, she kept going. In her mind, she donned a cloak of invisibility and vanished behind the baize-covered door. He would forget her by tomorrow, and then she’d be gone. She couldn’t risk being seen again.

  Two

  Disgusted with himself, with society, and the world in general, Gerard pushed his gelding hard on the last stretch of the journey to Wystan Castle.

  “Ridiculous name for an old stone keep and watchtower,” he told the spirit lingering in his head. “It looks nothing like a castle.”

  The heart of his earldom dated back to a thirteenth century barony, when the fortress probably was grand for the times. The keep had originally been owned by Malcolms and called Malcolm Castle. After the first earl of Ives and Wystan breached the walls, he’d apparently liked the idea of owning a castle. So he renamed it after himself and turned it into a rambling monstrosity.

  Life is in the soil, not the architecture, the spirit in his pocket reminded him, in Latin, of course. The damned soldier must have been a philosopher, but he was right, in his way. One side or the other of Gerard’s family had lived here since before the dark ages. They were attached to this land, heart and soul.

  He couldn’t be the one to lose it.

  The journals in the immense Malcolm library housed in the castle mentioned a wooden fortress prior to the stone one. And Gerard didn’t doubt there had been a druidic village prior to the Roman invasion. The locals still placed offerings at a pagan shrine in a spring in the oak grove. Wystan had been isolated much too long to move into the modern world with any speed.

  Which was why Gerard had put off this visit. When he came north, he preferred lingering in more civilized environs. In Edinburgh and at Rainford’s home, he’d had the opportunity to discuss business with worldly men like his engineering cousin, Max Ives, as well as inventors and investors. Although, after the encounter with traitorous Lady Alice, he had to be assured that she had fled on the first train out before he’d lingered with Rainford’s company.

  “I’m usually not wrong about ladies who are ripe for a romp,” he muttered, as much to himself as to the indifferent spirit in his head. Lady Alice had given him the impression that she was interested. They’d dallied occasionally over the years without drama. He didn’t know what had come over her.

  Women require protection, the spirit said wearily, as if that were obvious.

  “Well, if she’s in dire financial straits, she certainly made a poor choice in me. I have no funds, and hers aren’t sufficient to dig me out. Besides, they’d have to hold me at gunpoint before I’d marry the deceptive wench, and then I’d abandon her at Wystan to fend for herself.”

  And you’d bolt for the continent, the spirit agreed, almost with amusement, using a crude form of English that Gerard understood without translation.

  “So maybe she had the wrong impression of me, too.” He knew his faults. He didn’t need dead Romans to remind him.

  The intriguing part of that whole episode had been the well-spoken servant carrying a library tome who’d saved his hide. Her tongue had been waspish, and her suggestion that he smack the lady had appealed to his sense of the absurd and tapped down his fury. He’d wanted to thank her, but she’d vanished in a puff of smoke. He hadn’t seen her again. She was probably a lady’s companion and had left with the rest of the guests. Companions tended to be impoverished women of quality. He’d not inquired after her.

  He was a practical man. He didn’t dally with needy maidens and spinsters who expected marriage. Should he ever hobble his freedom with the wedded state, it would be for wealth. It might come to that if he did not find an additional source of income—or a pot of gold—soon.

  Entering the wood surrounding his home, Gerard let his mount rest and breathed deeply of damp autumn leaves and pine needles. The journey from Rainford’s castle in York to Wystan in Northumberland would have taken two or three days by horse, but the train up the coast cut the time in half. He kept a horse stabled at the nearest station so he could ride in whenever he wished without notifying anyone of his arrival.

  You like annoying the women, his spirit voice concluded.

  “I don’t want anyone going to extra trouble for me,” Gerard corrected. But yes, he liked frustrating the schemes of the castle’s meddling inhabitants as well.

  The meddling inhabitants were one cause for his desperation.

  The train, unfortunately, had been filthy with coal dust. Gerard wanted a hot bath before he must contend with his houseful of interfering old witches. The witches part wasn’t a euphemism. Wystan had been a Malcolm stronghold since before the arrival of the Normans, maybe longer. The women were quite convinced their first journals recorded the oral traditions of their druidic ancestors. Since his mother was a Malcolm, as well as many of his relations, he knew all about their very odd abilities—and his own.

  His father hadn’t handed over the estate to Gerard out of generosity. The marquess had done it so he didn’t have to deal with the failing fortunes of a monstrously expensive castle inhabited by psychic women under some trust agreement written a century ago. The castle really should be closed up or demolished—except it housed an immense and ancient library.

  The medallion’s spirit fell silent, presumably in admiration of the rambling structure they approached.

  Once the all-male Ives family had taken control of the old keep, practical amenities had been added—and escape hatches. Riding into the yard, Gerard left his gelding with a stable boy and took the cobblestone path between the old stone walls to the derelict watchtower in the rear. The women had been forbidden this part of the castle, so it hadn’t been adorned with roses, padded with wall-coverings and tapestries, or filled with gilded furniture. It was stark cold stone and formidable.

  Using his private entrance, he took the worn sandstone stairs down to the former kitchen. Since he never traveled with a valet, he had to pull the water from the pump himself. It sluiced directly into a bath large enough for a male frame. He lit the gas heating element and let the water warm as the tub filled. He didn’t know which of his inventive relations had created this luxury but he was grateful for it.

  After scrubbing off coal dust and horse stench, he donned a robe, climbed the stairs to his tower rooms, and foraged in the countrified wardrobe he left there. He didn’t need to be fashionable in the wilds of Northumberland. Tweed, leather, and boots sufficed, unless he was bored enough to go to dinner. His trunks would catch up with him before that happened.

  What he wanted to do was explore his fields for any sign of a Roman ruin where treasure might be buried. It was September. He had a few hours of daylight left. He just needed food.

  By now the entire household had been alerted to his arrival, and the women would be bustling all over, stirring the servants into a tumult.

  He rang the bell. A footman arrived instantly, no doubt told to wait for the earl’s command. Gerard had to admit to appreciating the efficiency of a household that catered to his every wish—as long as it didn’t interfere with anyone else’s. He ordered food to take with him.

  He knew the ladies’ helpfulness wasn’t in gratitude for a roof over their heads. They had that whether or not he wished it. What they wanted was his presence, for reasons he never cared to understand.

  While waiting, he flipped through the invoices and correspondence left on his desk. Avery, the estate’s agent, sent important business to Gerard’s man in London. He’d already seen Avery’s professional assessment of the prohibitive expense of continuing to operate the enormous castle and the aging orchards. He could save a fortune by closing down the deteriorating structure and investing the savings by clearing the ancient orchard and turning it to crops and cattle.

  Removing the ladies and their library would be no mean feat.

  Once he had his food in hand, Gerard gnawed at an apple from the first crop off the trees and jogged down the stairs to the back gate again. He could expect to find the women anywhere from
the herb and rose gardens to the pigsty, but for now, the yard appeared empty. Maybe they were holding a meeting.

  Swinging the leather pack and walking stick over his shoulder, he finished his apple and started on a thick sandwich of cheese from his dairy. He fingered the medallion in his pocket, hoping for inspiration as to where to search, but the damnable spirit had retreated. His Malcolm gift was essentially useless except for amusement—and possibly edification should he ever take up archeological explorations. He had no control over the voices he heard—other than leaving a haunted object behind if he found it objectionable.

  With no better direction, he set off on foot for the orchard. The trees were one of the oldest plantings on the grounds and an excellent place to start searching for Roman treasure.

  He frowned as he strolled brown strips of what appeared to be frostbitten weeds where there used to be well-worn paths for carts. Had the gardeners not been scything? He’d have to ask Avery about the unsightly crop. The steward hadn’t mentioned any labor problems.

  The September sun was still warm enough to be pleasant. The hum of bees reminded Gerard of milder seasons in his family’s home in the south. Until now, he’d always visited Wystan in the chilly harvest time of October or November.

  The medallion in his pocket remained silent. Perhaps he’d misinterpreted the voice in his head. It wouldn’t be the first time. He was inured to disappointment. Hunting for treasure had about the same chance of success as gold at the end of rainbows. But he was desperate for a means of keeping the estate operational and his allowance intact, and he had to visit sometime anyway.

  A puff of smoke caught his attention. He didn’t think the weather had been particularly dry this year, but any fire could be dangerous if not monitored. He followed the wind through the trees and into a clearing. More weeds, although not as tall as the ones in the orchard. A few still bloomed a startling red.

  At one end of the clearing the women had apparently rebuilt the old-fashioned bee skeps and hackles. A figure in veiled hat and ankle-length gray skirt—with what appeared to be trousers and boots beneath—moved among the hives, waving a smoking pot.

  He’d had rather nasty reactions to bee stings in the past. He preferred to avoid one now. Assured that the smoke wasn’t a problem, he strode in a different direction, only to see a tawny blur of motion fleeing the trees, heading directly for the hives. At a woman’s shriek, Gerard grabbed the walking stick attached to his pack and ran to stop the animal.

  The beast howled as it leapt on one of the cone-shaped straw hackles. Screaming with what sounded like anguish, the woman swung her iron smoke pot at the animal. Gerard shouted at her to stand back, but she apparently didn’t hear. Skep and hackle toppled into the woman’s skirt. Bees swarmed while the smoke pot slammed into the dog. The animal bayed and lunged at the woman, knocking her off her feet. The dog was nearly as large as she was.

  At least he thought it was a dog. Swinging his stick—more of a cudgel than a polite gentleman’s accessory—Gerard whacked the howling animal’s flanks, beating it off the weeping woman on the ground.

  He could swear she was keening over the swarming bees and not from fear.

  Chased by angry insects, unwilling to confront a swinging cudgel, the dog fled.

  Gerard cursed as the stinging pests turned on him. He ought to leave the accursed woman to her creatures, but he had to see if she’d been hurt.

  He held out his hand for her to take. She was a slight creature. The huge beast could have caused injury. “Are you hurt? I can send someone to clean up. You shouldn’t be out here if there’s a wild dog in the vicinity.”

  He could swear the furious swarm of bees formed a protective cloud, but he was more concerned with the woman—who ignored his proffered hand.

  “Help me right this.” She scrambled to her feet on her own. “I don’t think all the combs are sealed yet, and they’ll be losing their winter food.”

  Gerard grimaced as one of the bees landed on his glove. But idiot gentleman that he was, he grabbed the sticky straw and hauled the hive beneath upright. Bees hummed angrily.

  The woman appeared to be singing under her breath, swinging the pot and smoking him as if he were a ham butt. He winced and swatted at an itch on his jaw, slowly backing off from the weird scene.

  “We need to send Avery and his men out to hunt for that dog,” Gerard warned. “Bees aren’t worth your life.”

  “Bees are my life,” she retorted. The heavy veil muffled her voice as well as the words of her song as she returned to soothing the insects with her chant.

  With the hive righted, Gerard backed off. Another bee crawled under his cuff and took a piece of his wrist. He slapped at it.

  The woman glared and all but snarled at him. “The workers are only doing what they’re bred to do—protect the hive. Don’t blame them. And that dog isn’t wild. Its deranged owner trained it to eat honey to harass me. Go beat the owner.”

  “And who might the owner be?” Sucking at the wound on his wrist, Gerard backed off to a safer distance.

  He could see little of her face through the thick veil, but the scorn in her voice said her expression wouldn’t be a friendly one. The sting on his jaw was already raising a welt. Angry pain traveled up his cheek.

  “The animal belongs to Wystan’s estate agent. If you don’t know that, then you don’t belong here. Who are you?”

  “Wystan’s owner,” he replied equally curtly—and hoarsely. He rubbed his throat and tried to take a deeper breath. “And if my agent is keeping a dangerous dog, then it must be for a reason.”

  He waited to see how she reacted to his identity. Earls were few and far between in these rural environs. Most people groveled—except the Malcolm ladies, naturally.

  “Avery doesn’t like bees, he doesn’t like me, and he doesn’t like what we’ve done to his orchards, even if we improved his crop.” She returned to soothing her insects.

  So much for groveling. She was one of them. He’d known it anyway. Normal women did not hover over bee hives as if they were children. Nausea welled, and he could feel his throat closing up. He fought against the reaction, refusing to allow a bee to bring him down.

  “I was about to order the gardeners to scythe that shambles,” he croaked. “You’re the one responsible? Why?”

  “Scythe it now, and you’ll lose the seeds that will replant the borders in the spring. Flowers attract bees. Bees pollinate your trees. They may also deter harmful insects. But Avery lacks imagination and refuses to study the effect of natural planting.”

  She sighed and stepped away from the hives. “I’ll not gather honey today. I might as well—”

  Gasping for air, Gerard tried not to crumple. He failed.

  * * *

  Iona gasped as the big man fell to his knees, holding his throat. Muttering curses, she threw back her veil so she could see better. She hadn’t wanted to look at her landlord—or for him to see her. She didn’t think they’d ever met, but she hated taking any more risks, and there was always the chance he’d seen her twin, as Lydia had.

  But needs must—she kneeled and loosened his shirt collar. Noting the swelling on his jaw, she removed her gloves, rubbed her fingers over the rising welt, and brushed off the stinger. She helped him lie flat on the ground and left him wheezing for air.

  Picking up her skirt, she ran back to the hives, and with her bare hand, scooped up wax and honey. Holding the salve in her palm, she returned and wiped a little on his jaw, then pried open his teeth to put honey on his tongue.

  The Earl of Ives and Wystan was so damned large. As he panted, she daringly began inspecting other places she knew bees could invade. The heavy tweed coat should keep stings off his back, and his wool vest should have protected his chest, thank all that was holy. A sting over his heart. . .

  She could have killed an earl! Fitting justice she supposed, killing the one who unknowingly gave her safe haven—when the earl she wished to kill would never die. Her life was like that.
>
  Her queen commiserated and urged her to keep looking for more stings.

  Iona pulled off his lordship’s gloves and pried back his cuffs so she could examine his wrists—always a vulnerable spot. Sure enough, a big welt was turning an angry red on his left wrist. He had thick arms, rippling with tendons and muscle, but wrists were mostly bone and blood vessels, even on the strongest of men. She couldn’t find a stinger, so she applied the honey salve. She had no idea if it would work. It was a remedy her mother had taught her—and her queen insisted would work.

  Communicating with bees was seldom helpful, but she trusted hers.

  The earl’s other wrist seemed fine. He was wearing good leather boots, protecting his vulnerable ankles. She didn’t think there was any way a bee could have entered his leather trousers—again, thank the goddesses.

  While her innocent victim gasped for air, Iona hastily removed his collar and cravat, exposing an attractive brown neck and a curl of hair at the top of his shirt. She couldn’t lift him to check the back of his neck but ran her hand wherever she could reach. No hot spots or swelling that she could find. She’d never touched a man’s neck before. Were they all this solid and sinewy? Touching him intimately stirred odd longings best ignored.

  She breathed deeply, testing the air—male sweat, a hint of fear, more than a hint of. . . anger? Resentment? She could empathize. He’d hate showing weakness.

  Beneath that lingered an appealing masculine musk mixed with a vaguely familiar whiff of lime—oh dear. She sat back and examined the wheezing earl with panic. Tall, wide-shouldered, dark and glowering. . . most definitely the man from the library.

  She prayed he didn’t remember her.

  What did she do now? Run back to the house? She hated abandoning him here, especially near her hives if he was sensitive to stings. He’d swat at any bees investigating him—causing them to swarm. With his sensitivity, that would be deadly.