Prince of Magic

by Anne Stuart

  The carriage pulled to a screeching halt a few feet beyond them, and Jane uttered a low, surprisingly vile curse beneath her breath as the door opened. “Come along, Elizabeth,” she muttered. “Got to be neighborly, even to snakes.”

  “Jane, dear! What a treat to run into you!” The woman was tiny, dark-haired, and breathtakingly lovely, dressed in a bright peacock cloak. The man beside her was, if possible, even more beautiful, with wavy blond locks, a straight, perfect nose, pale, delicate skin, and an expression of utter boredom. He was dressed in puce.

  “Actually, Lady Chilton, you missed us,” Jane said in a caustic drawl. “May I present to you my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Penshurst?”

  If Lady Chilton had thought to bring a lorgnette she would have certainly held it up to her bright blue eyes to shield her frankly assessing gaze. It took her only a moment to dismiss Elizabeth as someone of no earthly interest. Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether she should feel affronted or relieved.

  “Delighted, Miss Penshurst,” she said, barely stifling a yawn. “And this is my husband, Lord Chilton.” The elegant Lord Chilton waved a bored hand in her direction. “And what brings you to Hernewood, Miss Penshurst? You look like a healthy young girl—perhaps you were in search of bracing physical exercise? That’s about all Yorkshire has to offer, unless, of course, you’re interested in metaphysical matters.”

  “Metaphysical matters?” Elizabeth echoed, resisting the impulse to exert some bracing physical exercise on the tiny Lady Chilton. She had no idea why, but Her Ladyship’s tone of voice had been condescending, making Lizzie feel both overgrown and positively fat. She could only wonder at her effect on the lanky Jane.

  “The Chiltons are followers of the Druid religion,” Jane said in a noncommittal voice. “They came to Hernewood to consult my brother about his research.”

  “Gabriel is a font of wisdom and power,” Lord Chilton said with a faint show of enthusiasm. “The world is blessed to have him.”

  Jane made a faint choking noise. “You’ll have to forgive me—I’m his sister and less impressed.”

  Lady Chilton wrinkled her tiny little nose. “A prophet without honor in his own land,” she intoned. “I pray for the day that everyone will follow the true way.”

  “Did I happen to mention that Elizabeth’s father is a rector?” Jane said cheerfully.

  If anything Lady Chilton looked even less approving. She sniffed. “How interesting.”

  “Maybe Gabriel will decide to convert her,” Jane continued mischievously.

  Elizabeth opened her mouth in shocked protest, but her response was overridden by Lady Chilton’s clear horror.

  “Don’t be silly, Jane,” she said, her voice with its faint hiss sounding ominously snakelike. “Gabriel would have no possible use for a . . . for a . . .”

  “A proper young cousin,” Elizabeth supplied cheerfully. “Perhaps he wants me for a virgin sacrifice.” She said it deliberately, to shock them, but the moment the words were out she regretted them. Her father would have been horrified to hear her pertness.

  Lord Chilton turned to stare at her, a speculative expression in his pale eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, eyeing her as if measuring her for a shroud. Or a sacrificial altar.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Elizabeth!” Jane sounded absolutely horrified by her weak attempt at humor. “Gabriel doesn’t believe in human sacrifice.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that,” she said dryly.

  “I mean, he doesn’t believe the Druids practiced blood sacrifice at all. He thinks it was all a bunch of wicked lies perpetrated by the Romans.”

  “Or that’s what he tells people,” Lord Chilton murmured with a patronizing smile. “We followers of the Way know the truth and do our humble best to relive the customs of our forefathers.”

  This didn’t sound particularly encouraging to Elizabeth, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to get into an argument about arcane and possibly bloody religious practices.

  Jane wasn’t similarly repressed. “I’m certain if Gabriel were interested in blood sacrifice it would be in honor of a juicy sirloin.”

  “The Druids didn’t eat their sacrifices,” Lady Chilton said softly, looking at Elizabeth with a singular lack of appetite.

  It was a bright, crisp spring day, and yet suddenly Elizabeth felt suffocated by the bright colors and eerie demeanor of the Chiltons, by the bloodthirsty discussion. Marigold moved restively beneath her, adding to her sudden queasiness, and she wondered how the elegant Chiltons would respond if she spewed all over them. She doubted they’d be pleased.

  She cast a pleading glance at Jane, but her cousin was oblivious. For the moment she was well and truly trapped.

  “You really should consider joining us in one of our little meetings, Jane dear. It could open new worlds to you,” Lady Chilton said in her rich, dulcet voice. “And your cousin would be welcome as well. Though of course a follower of a limited religion like Christianity would doubtless be bored by our quest for knowledge.”

  “I think not, though you’re very kind to offer,” Jane said.

  “Your brother has honored us with his presence on several occasions, dear Jane. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Lady Chilton pressed her.

  Elizabeth had had enough—of being ignored, of the Chiltons, of Lady Chilton’s soft, possessive tone when she spoke of Gabriel. It was time for desperate measures, and her nausea had passed. There was nothing else she could do but give docile Marigold a surreptitious pinch.

  Marigold’s reaction was distressingly enthusiastic. She let out a trumpeting shriek, rearing on her hind legs, and it was all Elizabeth could do to throw herself down on the horse’s neck, clinging for dear life as the supposedly sluggish mare took off like a bolt of lightning, heading straight for Hernewood.

  It seemed only a matter of moments before the dark forest closed around them. It took all of Elizabeth’s concentration simply to hold on, uncertain whether she’d be better off clinging to the wild creature or falling to a certain death. It didn’t help that she could blame no one but herself for her predicament. The wind had torn her bonnet from her head, her hair had pulled free and was streaming behind her, and she couldn’t hear whether anyone was in pursuit or not. Doubtless Jane would come after her, but Marigold seemed possessed of supernatural speed, and together horse and rider seemed to hurtle through a tunnel of green darkness.

  But Marigold was far from supernatural, and eventually she began to slow, almost imperceptibly at first, then gradually. The wind was no longer rushing past Elizabeth’s head, and she slowly lifted herself from her crouched position, listening for the sounds of pursuit. She could hear nothing but the heavy breathing of the horse beneath her and the wind through the towering trees.

  She reached down and stroked Marigold’s neck, murmuring soft, apologetic words, and was gratified to find the mare slowing her pace even more, coming to a halt just as the path led into a small clearing.

  “Good girl,” Elizabeth murmured. “Good, strong girl, everything’s all right, and we’ll just find our way back . . .”

  She’d spoken too soon. Something spooked the already-rattled horse, and this time when she reared up, Elizabeth went flying, sliding off her back and into an ignominious heap on the forest floor. Marigold was kicking, and Elizabeth rolled quickly out of the way of the flying hooves, hearing her dress rip as she scrambled out of harm’s reach.

  A moment later Marigold was gone, tearing through the forest on another mad dash, this time riderless. And Elizabeth lay in the fallen leaves, bruised, winded, and dazed.

  The silence of the forest closed around her like a shroud. Marigold was long gone, and she’d outpaced Jane’s attempt at rescue. Lizzie was alone, lost in the middle of the forest, with no earthly clue how to find her way home.

  She struggled to her feet, brushing the twigs and leaves
from her sober brown dress. It was well and truly ripped, the gaping cloth exposing her pristine cotton chemise trimmed with lace. She should have known better than to wear a riding dress that was too small for her. At least it would prevent her from ever having to mount a horse again during her visit to Yorkshire. Unless some nimble-fingered soul could repair it.

  She reached down and ripped it outward, tearing the fabric across the front as well in a triangle-shaped flap. Fix that, she thought defiantly.

  Tossing her unruly hair behind her, she took stock of her surroundings. She was at the edge of a small copse, with what seemed to be at least three paths leading from it, including the one Marigold had brought her on. The clearing was surrounded by a ring of ancient trees. Lizzie took a deep, calming breath, but there was no peace in this place, and she wondered why.

  She looked about her, unsure which path had brought her here. And which way led to Hernewood Manor. For all she knew she might have even left the Durhams’ land.

  She took a few steps toward the center of the clearing then stopped, frozen. Something was wrong, something was very wrong with this place. She knew it with her senses, deep in her bones, knew it with a certainty that her father would have scoffed at and Old Peg would have approved. There was evil in this place, she could feel it. And Marigold, smart, annoying creature that she was, had felt it, too.

  She saw it then and tried to tell herself it was nothing. Simply a dead rabbit, lying in a welter of dried, brownish blood, stiff and still. It was set on a large flat stone that looked oddly like a table. Or an altar. She shook away the horrid thought.

  But why would an animal be left to rot in the woods? There were plenty of scavengers, woodland creatures who would have made short work of a dead rabbit, and yet this one seemed to have been there for at least a day, and yet no one had touched it. Whatever had killed it had no interest in eating it.

  Not whatever, she realized belatedly. Whoever. The rabbit had been slit from stem to stern with a sharp instrument, and the blood had fallen onto the rock in a bizarre pattern.

  People needed to eat as much as the woodland animals did. Who would have had the luxury of simply killing one of God’s creatures and then leaving it? Certainly not anyone who ever had to think about providing food for the table.

  Which meant that whoever had slaughtered and abandoned the lowly rabbit was one of the landed families. Someone who could kill with impunity, knowing there’d be no punishment and no repercussions.

  She forced herself to move closer, staring down at the poor creature. She wanted to touch it, to offer some comfort, but it was too late. The miasma of evil that surrounded it was powerful, and she wondered if that was what had spooked the exhausted horse. There was something about the pathetic little corpse that frightened away the other animals as well.

  She stepped back, feeling the odd relief fill her as she increased the distance. She couldn’t just leave it lying there to rot, she thought. If the animals wouldn’t take care of it, then perhaps she ought to bury it.

  “Don’t be absurd, Lizzie.” She spoke the words out loud, taking comfort in the sound of her prosaic voice. “You’re in the middle of the forest with nothing but your bare hands. You need to concentrate on finding your way back home, not on burying rabbits.”

  Resolutely she turned away, looking for an avenue of escape. And she told herself that it had to be an overwrought imagination that made her think the rabbit’s dead brown eyes were watching her.

  Catching her tangled hair in her hands, she fashioned it into an ineffectual knot at the back of her head and started toward the middle path with a dubious sense of assurance. For some reason it seemed utterly important that she appear certain. And that she didn’t look back.

  She had no sense of the hour. The forest was dark, timeless, looming around her. She could hear the rustle of the wind through the trees, the occasional call of birds, and those sounds of life provided her a measure of comfort as she made her way down the pathway, following the deep bite of the horse’s hooves in the soft dirt.

  And then she came to a fork in the path. She could either go to the right or the left. Common sense told her to go right, but instinct tugged at her to take the left-hand path. And the telltale hoof marks had disappeared completely in the thick tumble of fallen leaves.

  She was getting cold now, and she pulled her torn dress closer around her, shivering in the cool afternoon. “You have nothing to worry about, Lizzie,” she scolded herself. “You’re in the forest, where you belong. You’re in Yorkshire, not in the wilds of Scotland, and three people watched the horse take off with you. People will be looking for you, beating the bushes.”

  For some reason the thought of the so-elegant Lord Chilton beating the bushes in his puce wardrobe was ridiculous enough to make her laugh. But Jane would be hunting for her, and doubtless so would half the servants at Hernewood Manor. Her father would be mortified that his wicked, thoughtless daughter had caused such an upheaval, and she suspected neither Sir Richard nor Lady Durham would be greatly pleased with her fecklessness, but that was the least of her worries. Getting home safely was paramount.

  She took the left-hand path, ignoring her practical self and following her instincts. The path to the right was wider, better traveled, the path to the left, narrow and winding. She kept going anyway, her riding boots pinching her feet, her hair tumbling out of its makeshift knot.

  She was losing track of time. She might have been out there for half an hour, it might have been two or three. The darkness of the woods remained constant, both comforting and unnerving. There was peace and beauty in the woods. But in this woods there was evil as well.

  Another fork in the path, and Elizabeth stopped cold, suddenly uncertain. She’d come no nearer to civilization by taking the left-hand course—by all common sense she ought to head toward the right.

  She didn’t want to. The path to the right, like the previous one, was wider and more recently traveled. She could see the broken branches, the unsettled leaves that carpeted the path. A number of people had been down there recently. Perhaps those who were in search of her?

  She started down the right path, and that hideous sense of wrongness washed over her once more. She could hear Old Peg’s voice in her head, warning her. Stay away, Miss Lizzie. There’s bad things down there. Keep away, love. Keep away.

  But Old Peg was dead, and Elizabeth had lost all sense of proportion. She halted, peering down the wide path, and for a moment she thought she saw movement, a flash of white in the tall trees.

  “Is anyone there?” she called out, her voice strong and clear. “Can someone help me?”

  There was no answer. No movement. She’d made another wrong turn, she told herself. She should retrace her steps, go back.

  Go back, Old Peg’s voice whispered in her head.

  I don’t believe in ghosts, she’d told Jane earlier that day, in what now seemed like a different world.

  Something was behind her now, something dark and unseen. She whirled around, but there was nothing there, just the forest closing in around her, the wide path suddenly narrow, darker, so that she had no choice but to keep going.

  She stumbled backward, and something was soft, pliant beneath her foot. She went sprawling, landing on the soft, warm body, landing in the blood and torn flesh, the smell of death all around her, and when she opened her mouth to scream she saw Gabriel Durham standing utterly still, blood on his beautiful hands.

  Chapter Five

  “PLEASE DON’T SCREAM,” he said in a world-weary voice. He’d moved with his customary effortlessness, reaching down to catch her arm and pull her from the bloody carcass. She flinched at the sight of his bloodstained hand, but she was similarly covered in gore, and it was a waste of time to be missish. He pulled her to her feet, and if her knees felt a bit wobbly she wasn’t about to let him know it.

  She
forced herself to turn and look at the body she’d sprawled across, and let out a tiny sigh of relief as she recognized the good-sized doe lying glassy-eyed in a pool of blood. It was newly killed, the blood was still draining from the body, the smell of fresh death was strong in the air.

  “Thank God,” she whispered under her breath. “I thought . . .”

  “You thought it was a human?” Gabriel supplied, leaning down and wiping his bloody hands on the fallen leaves. “You’re a fanciful creature, aren’t you?”

  “Not particularly,” she replied in her most calm voice. She always tried to sound very calm when she lied. “Getting thrown by a horse, lost in the woods, and falling over corpses would make anyone a bit nervous.”

  “I imagine so. How many corpses have you fallen over?” he asked casually.

  “This is my second. There was a dead rabbit somewhere back in the woods.”

  “The poachers must be getting very sloppy.”

  She jerked her head up in surprise. “Poachers did this?”

  “Who do you think? I don’t have any weapons on me, and I find no pleasure in hunting. Sir Richard considers me unmanly,” he added with a faint smile.

  She could make no response that wouldn’t put her into worse trouble. “Why would people poach and then leave their game behind? I thought the purpose of poaching was to provide food.”

  He shrugged, an elegant gesture belied by the rough cloth of his white shirt. “Someone might have interrupted them. I wander these woods quite often, and while the people around here should know I’m not about to go telling tales to Sir Richard, they’re still unlikely to trust me. And then there are the ghosts.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “So you’ve said. I’ll have to introduce you to Brother Septimus and Brother Paul.”

  “No, thank you. I’m quite happy in my current state of ignorance,” she replied. “What I would like is some assistance in finding my way out of these woods.”