Without a second’s hesitation, Bernard swung the butt end of the rifle into the side of Hayden’s face. Blood exploded from his nose. Amelie screamed and flung herself toward Hayden, but Bernard caught her by the arm, holding her back. Fanny edged sideways, but Bernard saw her and leveled the rifle at her.
“This is unconscionable!” Bernard shouted at them. “Do you think I want to do that? I hate this. I hate this!”
He shoved Amelie forcefully against Hayden, whose head was lolling against his chest. “Now, tie him up, and do it properly or I will break his nose all over again!”
With shaking hands, Amelie obeyed, sobs catching in her throat as she worked. When she’d finished, Bernard checked the ropes again. “Good,” he said. “Very good. Now, then, upstairs, you two.”
By now Hayden had regained consciousness. “What are you going to do with them? Where are you going with them?” he shouted, struggling against his bindings.
“Now, then, young man,” Bernard said, his tone chill with offense. “Nothing untoward, I assure you. But if it is to be assumed that Miss Chase and Mrs. Walcott died in a house fire, they’d hardly be sitting about the drawing room while flames consumed them, would they? No. They’d be in bed.
“You, Lord Hayden,” he continued, as if bestowing a great favor, “will be thought to have arrived too late to save them, but in the course of attempting to do so, you succumbed yourself. You’ll be a hero.” He actually waited then, as if expecting Hayden to thank him.
“Say your good-byes, Miss Chase.”
Amelie stared at Bernard. All the defiance had gone out of the girl. She shivered where she stood, arms wrapped tightly around herself, slowly rocking, a ghastly cast to her skin.
Fanny had to do something, say something. She said the one thing she’d been clinging to, the one hopeless hope she’d been holding tight in her heart, proof against the madness and fear.
“Listen to me, Bernard.” Her voice sounded shaky, even to her. “You must listen to me. If you hurt us, Grey will find out. He will burn down your house and every stamp in it. Then Grey will find you and he will kill you.”
At this threat to his stamps, Bernard froze. His brows clenched together over the bridge of his nose. “Grey? Who is…Grey? You mean Lord Sheffield?” He laughed. “My dear Mrs. Walcott, Lord Sheffield is miles away from here. I waited until I saw Donnie MacKee drive him out of town before coming back and getting you.”
And there it was, her final hope gone, disappeared like a conjurer’s dove.
“Donnie MacKee turned around,” said Grey Sheffield from the doorway.
Chapter 41
Bernard swung around, already firing, and this time he did not miss. The bullet caught Grey, spinning him around and throwing him back into the hall.
“Grey!” Fanny screamed as Bernard snapped off another round. The bullet hit the doorframe, blasting it into splinters. Bernard dodged back into the room, grabbing hold of Fanny and dragging her in front of him. A sense of déjà vu seized Fanny. She’d been here before, shielding a craven while Grey stalked him.
Amelie had pitched herself onto Hayden and was working frantically to untie the ropes binding him. Bernard paid them no mind. His gaze was riveted to the doorway. Fear glided beneath his tense expression. “Lord Sheffield. Come out or I will be forced to shoot Mrs. Walcott.”
“Didn’t you hear her, McGowan?” Grey’s voice was strong and sarcastic. “If you hurt her I will go to your house and destroy every one of your stamps; then I will return here and kill you.”
“You wouldn’t,” Bernard breathed in horror.
“I would. I will. In fact, if you do not surrender yourself this minute, I’ll be off. You can watch the fire from here.”
“No!” Bernard shouted. Sweat beaded his forehead, the veins stood out like cords on his neck, and a red film coated the whites of his eyes. “No. You mustn’t,” he sobbed. “You can’t.”
“Let her go.”
“No!”
“Then good-bye.”
Breathlessly, Fanny waited. She heard the sound of footsteps receding down the hall and a door opening and shutting. Bernard shoved her away, and she fell to the ground as he ran to the front window, tearing open the drapes and flinging open the casement. He leaned out with his rifle. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” he muttered feverishly. “Where is he? Where is he?”
“Here.” Grey stood once more in the doorway.
Startled, Bernard jerked back from the window, firing randomly. Grey started forward, a look of fierce anticipation in his eyes. Bernard fired again, but he was rattled now, his hands shaking, and the bullet went awry. He fired again and the hammer fell on an empty chamber.
“Sloppy, Lieutenant McGowan,” Grey said. “Six bullets. You’re done.”
With a growl, Bernard swung the butt of the rifle, aiming for Grey’s head. With a low snarl, Grey caught it midflight. Bernard’s eyes widened in amazement.
“No one threatens Fanny,” Grey said, and for the second time in six years, he knocked a man clean out a window.
Hayden stumbled to his feet, feeling ridiculously light-headed now that the danger was past and he realized just how much of his blood was on the floor, on his shirt, and on Amelie’s dress. He sat down again, cursing.
Luckily, Amelie didn’t seem to find anything lacking in his attempted heroics. She kept weeping and touching his face and weeping again and declaring that a broken nose was no great matter if properly set at once.
Grey had fared far better. McGowan’s bullet had hit him in the biceps, but caused only a flesh wound that Fanny had grimly, and silently, bound. Afterward Grey had tied up the unconscious McGowan and left him lying on the front lawn. In the meantime, they would wait for Donnie MacKee. He had stayed at the end of the drive awaiting Grey’s signal, per Grey’s instructions, Grey having been concerned that the rotund innkeeper would be more liability than aid. Then MacKee could haul McGowan away to his bar’s cold cellar for keeping until the authorities arrived.
“But, Grey, how did you do it? We all heard you walking away and the door closing,” Hayden said, beginning to enjoy the cooing ministrations of his beloved.
“Ploddy,” Mrs. Walcott said. Grey smiled at her admiringly.
“Ploddy?” Hayden repeated.
“Yes,” Grey said. “I found him outside when I arrived, trying to decide whether or not to mount a rescue by himself. Would have done it, too, if I hadn’t shown up. Grand old gaffer. Came into the house with me and stood right next to me the entire time. As soon as I said I was leaving, well, he left. Bernard made the proper assumptions and…” He shrugged.
“Ploddy, a hero,” Amelie said wonderingly. “Where is he now?”
“He’s guarding McGowan. I think he’s settling in to enjoy his newfound hero status.” Grey’s gaze drifted toward Mrs. Walcott, who’d been uncharacteristically silent.
Hayden watched, trying to decide if there was anything to Bernard’s claim that Grey and Mrs. Walcott were romantically involved. He didn’t think so. They were both far too self-possessed, their natures too chilly and superior to ever know the sort of love he and Amelie shared.
Ah, well. He pulled Amelie closer.
Grey watched her, his heart, his only desire, and when she rose and left he followed. He found her on the terrace, looking out on the dark meadow. She must have heard his footsteps, but she didn’t turn. Her eyes were raised to the night sky, a spangle of stars strewn across its black canopy.
“Bernard pushed the urn over,” she said.
“So I assume.”
“You assumed it was a cat.” He heard the smile in her voice.
“For a while,” he admitted.
She turned then, and he caught the glint of pearly teeth. “Why did you come back?”
“Enchantment,” he said. “You cast a spell on me, and I was compelled to come to you, to find you, to remain at your side. It was a very fairy-tale moment.”
She laughed, a full, throaty sound. “But
you don’t believe in magic.”
He stepped closer to her, and damned if he didn’t hear nightingales begin to sing sweetly from nearby. “Don’t I?”
“No.” She sobered a little. “But you should. Grey, I cannot be anything other than what I am.”
He studied her face, falling in love all over again. “Fan, I do not know what you are, but I do know who you are, and that is a maddening, audacious, vinegary, and yes, enchanting woman whom I madly, ardently, stupidly love, and I would not change one thing about you. Ever.”
She gazed deeply into his eyes, and whatever she saw there brought a shimmer of tears to her eyes. But she would not let them last long, lest he think he’d brought her anything but joy. “Not one?” she asked.
“Well,” he allowed, “except for this strange obsession you have about clean-shaven men…”
And then he was pulling her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly, passionately, and deeply. And she did not protest about his lack of skill with a razor.
Not at all.
Chapter 42
London,
One year later
Lord Grey Sheffield was finishing his second cup of coffee and enjoying a lively account of paranormal activity when an enormous round shadow slid across his paper like a solar eclipse.
He glanced up and promptly did a double take.
“Good Lord, Fanny,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “You’ve outdone yourself. I feel confident in saying no other woman in London is capable of balancing an entire table of ornamentation atop her head with as much sangfroid as you.”
His wife, decked out in an extravagant hat and a lacy white dress that fit her form like a second skin, smiled. “So, you like it, then?”
“God knows why.”
“Because it is chic,” she said, shifting a small furry lump from one arm to the other, “and you, through your stubborn refusal to spend any time on your own appearance, must perforce delight in my elegance.”
“Hmm,” said Grey, his eyes falling on the whitish mound. “Is that another dog?”
“No. You told me no more dogs.”
“Only because the howling at night has become a matter for some dispute with the neighbors. What is it then?”
“A rabbit. Quite quiet. I’ll let it go in the garden.”
“There is no garden. Your beasts have destroyed it.”
“They’re not mine.”
“Yes, I tell myself the same thing about me.”
She laughed and bent to set the rabbit on the floor.
“Amelie sent another letter yesterday. They are in Brazil now,” she said.
“How many months is this honeymoon of theirs to last?” Grey asked.
“You can’t blame them. Amelie’s hungry to see the world, and Hayden is only too glad to show it to her.”
She moved behind him and leaned over his shoulder. She knew he wasn’t able to concentrate when she did that.
“What are you reading?” she asked innocently, her breath warm against his ear.
“An account of a man who claims to be able to move objects with the power of his mind.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
“Doubtful,” he said.
“But not impossible.”
“Not impossible,” he agreed. “Though most of what we take for magic is simply a mystery whose answers have yet to be found.”
“And which am I? Magic or mystery?” she whispered in his ear.
He turned and found himself looking up into her eyes. Once more, and as always, time became suspended, his heartbeat stuttered, and time slowed to a long, liquid moment while he was lost in her gaze. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I’m still working on it.”
She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and slipped around to his front, sliding onto his lap. “Do you think it will take long to figure out?”
“A lifetime,” he said, tucking her closer and inhaling the scent of her hair.
“You must be very committed,” she said, and hissed with pleasure as his mouth prowled down her cheek to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. He traced her ear with his tongue, and she shivered.
“Oh, I am most resolute,” he said, turning her in his arms.
“Perhaps I can prove my abilities,” she said, a thrill of excitement shimmering in her eyes. “Would you like me to conjure something for you?”
“And only me.”
She twined her arms around his neck and drew him to her. His mouth opened hungrily on hers. He’d never be able to kiss her enough, never be able to control the passion that erupted so spontaneously between them. When he finally drew away to give her a chance to catch her breath, a wicked gleam had entered her eyes.
“Yes, indeed,” she murmured, pulling him back to her. “I certainly feel something stirring.”
It was noon in Little Firkin. A perfectly lovely spring day. The sun glimmered on the river that danced happily along the town’s boundary, and a breeze riffled the flags atop stakes delineating the site of a future pottery factory.
The people of Little Firkin leaned over their back fences for their daily chin-wag, enjoying the warm sun, while the shopkeepers swept the plank boardwalk outside their shops. Children played Kick the Can in the street outside MacKee’s Bank (formerly McGowan’s), and a group of Little Firkin’s finest young men flexed their muscles self-consciously as they unloaded building timber from the railway’s loading dock, for a group of young ladies who pretended not to notice.
But when a capricious breeze nickered to life in one of the town’s back alleys, kicking up a dust devil of leaves and halfpenny candy wrappers, and a voice like a strangled cat pealed through the town center, they stopped whatever they were doing and headed for Main Street.
An ancient crone with a face like a withered apple appeared at the end of the town amidst a swirl of dust, her ragged, multicolored skirts whipping around. On either side of her, legs braced and hackles raised, stood two enormous hounds, their lips curled back over huge fangs. The crone lifted a gnarled bole over her head and shouted, “Be there anyone here to dispute my claim to Little Firkin?”
Little Firkin turned its collective head, looking around hopefully, but no one appeared to accept the old dame’s challenge. She glared about and then, satisfied, dropped her bole, dug into the velvet pouch hanging from her belt, and withdrew two bits of something, which she then popped into the monster brutes’ waiting maws to a chorus of canine lip smacking and tail wagging.
“Good lads,” the woman muttered, and turned, hobbling back down the street, followed by her two not-quite-so-ferocious-looking companions.
At the same time, a middle-aged representative of the Art Workers Guild let the curtain drop back down over the bank window through which he’d been watching.
“What in the name of all that’s holy was that?” he asked, turning his bemused gaze to the rotund man sitting across the desk from him.
“That be Grammy Beadle,” said Donnie MacKee. “Our witch.”
The End
If you enjoyed So Enchanting, keep turning these pages or hit your Content button for a Sneak Peek at Connie Brockway’s delightful historical romance…
As You Desire
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The Golden Season
So Enchanting
As You Desire
A Dangerous Man
The Bridal Season
Bridal Favors
One Bride Too Many
Lassie, Go Home
> About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Connie Brockway has written both historical romance and women’s fiction to much acclaim, including earning two coveted starred reviews from Publishers Weekly. She has twice won the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious Rita award and currently has over 1.5 million books in print. An avid traveler, gardener, and cook, Connie lives in Minnesota with her husband and any number of spoiled mutts.
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As You Desire
Sneak Peek
A rake in tarnished armor…
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Desdemona Carlisle has spent most of her young life dreaming of a knight in shining armor. When a dashing figure in midnight-black riding a snow-white steed comes to rescue her from the ruffians who have kidnapped her, she believes her destiny has finally arrived. She surrenders herself to the masked stranger’s embrace only to discover her rescuer is none other than Harry Braxton, the scoundrel who stole her heart when she was just a girl, adding it to his collection of exotic treasures as if it were just another trinket.
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Harry Braxton doesn’t want to be any woman’s knight-errant. He plays the role of notorious rake to hide the dangerous secret that has kept him from offering Desdemona his own heart. But his tarnished armor soon begins to crumple beneath the irresistible assault of Desdemona’s sparkling wit, her dazzling beauty, her teasing and tender touch. As a legendary treasure hunter, he never dreamed he’d be forced to give up the most priceless treasure of all.
So Enchanting Page 32