One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  Well, that was overly dramatic. But as he was being sincere, Braden took pity on Sir Cyrus. He rounded the chair in front of him and sat across from the man. “You’ll always be welcome at Highfield and I’m certain we’ll visit Ravenglass from time to time.”

  “But it won’t be the same,” the magistrate sulked.

  “Nothing ever is,” Braden replied. Change was always inevitable. How many times had his own life changed without any way to reverse it? “But sometimes it ends up better than it was. You never know what is right around the corner.”

  The man glanced up at Braden, a confused expression across his face. “Better?”

  Braden shrugged. “Like perhaps a slew of nieces and nephews climbing up your leg and begging for bedtime stories.”

  At that Sir Cyrus laughed. “You do love her?”

  “Since the first moment I saw her.”

  “Very well, Bradenham.” The magistrate release a sigh, then pushed back to his feet. “I’ll head over to the vicarage with you. I’ll tell Callie that I’ll give you my blessing and that there’s no need to lie to me again.”

  Braden smiled in return. At least he’d accomplished something of merit. “I’m certain she’ll be happy to hear it.”

  Who knew the suggestion of nieces and nephews was all it would take to gain Sir Cyrus’ blessing? The entire length of the trip from Braewood to the vicarage, the man spoke of little else. He’d probably make a decent father himself some day.

  They walked up the path to the front door, but it opened before either of them could knock.

  “Cyrus Eilbeck.” Lila Southward frowned, standing sentry in the doorway. “If my father sees you here…”

  Braden stepped in front of the magistrate as though to protect the man from the vicar’s daughter. “Miss Southward, is Callie here?”

  Her frown deepened and she shook her head. “Is she supposed to be?”

  “She told me she was coming here,” Sir Cyrus said, poking his head from behind Braden to see the girl.

  “Oh.” Miss Southward stepped outside the vicarage and shut the door behind her as though to keep anyone inside from overhearing them. “I haven’t seen her all day. Is everything all right?”

  Nothing was all right, not if Callie wasn’t here. Despair settled in Braden’s heart and he scrubbed a hand across his brow. “Then she’s been missing for hours.”

  “Hours?” Miss Southward blinked with concern. “Just because she’s not here? She could be in town or visiting Daphne or anywhere.”

  But she couldn’t be anywhere. She was supposed to have met Braden. She wouldn’t have gone into town or anywhere else, not after days of not seeing him. That much he was certain of. “My brother saw her.”

  “What?” Sir Cyrus said, stepping around Braden. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “In the gardens at the castle,” he said, all hope gone from his voice. “Quent said she vanished right in front of him, into a hedge. We’ve searched the place over, every inch of the castle, but she’s not there. She doesn’t seem to be anywhere. My last hope was to find her here.”

  “Vanished?” Miss Southward echoed in horror. “Into a hedge?”

  “I could smell her scent. Gardenias, right where Quent said she’d been.” Though it still didn’t make any more sense now than it had all those hours ago.

  “On my word,” Sir Cyrus barked, his face purple and bulging, “if you have harmed my sister in any way, Bradenham, I will see you hanged. I will—”

  “Don’t be a dolt, Sir Cyrus,” Miss Southward said, her sympathetic gaze on Braden. “Can’t you see the anguish he’s in? Wherever Callie is, he had nothing to do with her being there.”

  The magistrate released an irritable sigh. “I want to see this hedge, Bradenham.”

  “So do I,” Miss Southward replied. “Let me just fetch my wrap.”

  “This has to work.” Brighid dusted off the crystal and placed it in the one small window, chastising herself the entire time. Her mother had told her over and over that the crystal must sit in the window each full moon to gather energy to be of any use. Right now there was only the sun, and the crystal had sat in the trunk for well over a decade. It might take days to warm it and they didn’t have that kind of time.

  Samhain was only three days away. If Callie wasn’t rescued before the sun’s rising on the first of November, she would be lost to them forever. Brighid would not be able to live with herself if she didn’t use everything in her power to bring her friend back.

  Power. Why had she denied it for so long? Why had she pretended that it didn’t exist? Her mother had embraced hers, but it scared Brighid. She’d tried for so long to reject what she was and because of that, she may not be able to save her friend.

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she swiped them away to better read the words in the ancient tomes. She had lost Blake or soon would. She couldn’t lose her friend as well.

  Why didn’t the words make sense? It was if she was trying to read a foreign language. Squiggles and lines ran together. These books should tell her what to do, but she couldn’t read them. With a frustrated cry she slammed the book closed and turned to see what else she could use.

  The glass she retrieved from the trunk lay in the center of the table. Only fog. She wiped and wiped but the glass would not clear. She would never see a vision through the mist.

  Fighting the urge to fling it across the room, she placed it back on the wooden block, taking deep gulps of breath, trying the calm her racing heart.

  Mrs. Routledge was a formidable witch, one her great-grandmother had feared. Brighid was not equipped to go against her, especially not when her magic was weak from going unused.

  If she had practiced, as her mother insisted, she would be able to see Callie. She’d know what to do. She’d be able to read the blasted words in the books.

  At the pounding on the door, her head jerked up. Blake was back. She could not let him see her this way. Though a small part of her heart held out hope that he could look past this, her head knew the truth and she could not bear to see the horror and disgust in his eyes.

  “Open the door, Brighid,” he shouted.

  She swiped more tears and tried to ignore his shouts.

  ”We need your help,” he called.

  She was helping. The best way she knew how. No amount of searching the castle grounds would locate Callie. They would all be better served to be on their knees in prayer.

  Brighid fingered the cross at her neck and offered a quick prayer for Callie and for herself.

  The sound of keys rattling on the other side of the door caused her to drag in a breath. The only other person with a key to this room was Mrs. Small. Surely the woman wouldn’t enter without permission, knowing she was in here. Not only was it not done, it was forbidden and had been from the time the first stone was laid to the herbarium. Mrs. Small could only come in here if there was an emergency that required the healing herbs.

  Her breaths came quick as the lock clicked and the door slowly opened.

  Oh, God, Blake could not see her like this. He just couldn’t.

  The door opened fully and he stepped inside.

  “We need you, Brighid.”

  She gulped, staring at him. All of her dreams just shattered. “I’m doing what I can.”

  He glanced about the room. His gaze first resting on the ball in the window, then the mirror on the table and finally the books spread out before her. “I can see you are,” he said gently.

  “Please, go away.” A sob broke from her lips, and Brighid brought a fist to her mouth. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  He smiled gently. “Crying? Or using your gifts?”

  She turned her head, unable to look at him any longer. He knew the truth and there was nothing she could do to deny what he clearly saw with his own eyes. “You must hate me now. Please go.”

  She didn’t look but she knew he was still there. The sound of his footsteps moved closer and closer. Why must he do
this? Did he have to look her in the eye when he condemned her?

  Blake placed a finger beneath her chin, forcing her face to him. “How can I hate you when I am so very much in love with you?”

  What was he saying? “You would have nothing to do with me if I was a real witch. You said so yourself.”

  “A part of me always knew you were one.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Yet, I still love you.”

  It was as if a light opened inside of her. Warmth swept through her body, lightening her soul. Blake leaned forward and before she could prepare, his lips touched hers. Their breaths mingled as he molded his mouth against hers. The room charged with energy, wind rushed about them and every part of her being came alive.

  When he broke away from her, Brighid stumbled back, grasping the table to hold her upright. She had difficulty catching her breath, but it was if she had come to the end of a long race, and won. She glanced around the room. The crystal began to lighten, the mirror no longer fogged. She grabbed a book and read. The words were now clear.

  Blake grabbed the wooden table to steady himself. That kiss was more than anything he could have ever imagined. It was magical. Blood pounded in his head and he was slightly dizzy.

  As his head began to clear, he focused on the woman before him. He always believed Brighid to be enchanting, but she truly was magical. “Can you find Miss Eilbeck?”

  Her eyes met his and there was deep concern in those grey depths. “I will do everything I can to bring her back, but I fear making a promise.”

  “What do you need me to do?” Brighid should not be alone in this, yet he had no idea how he could be of service. If it was only to stand by her side and hand her herbs, he would do so.

  She bit her bottom lip and looked at the books. “I am not certain yet. I need to read.”

  “Then I shall help you.” He grasped a book and pulled it toward him. There was nothing but scrawls and lines. “How can you read this?”

  A small smile pulled at her lips. “I couldn’t until you kissed me.” She placed a delicate hand against his cheek. “I believe you brought me my magic, Blake Chetwey.”

  As much as she craved to give herself over to Blake’s arms and wish everything else away, she could not. She was charged with a task whether she asked for it or not. “We need tea,” she offered brightly, no longer willing to let Blake see how much she feared failure. She must call upon all she knew, and those of the past, to guide her through the next trying days. If only there were someone who was also magical or had a connection to the spirits, but it fell to her to do what must be done and Brighid had never been more frightened in her life.

  “I’ll summon the cook or one of the maids.”

  “No!”

  Blake stiffened at her outburst and narrowed his eyes, waiting for her explanation.

  “Could you please go to the kitchen and bring back a kettle of water?”

  He gave her an odd look, then did as she asked while she gathered the herbs most likely to assist with clarity. Unfortunately, she only had licorice root available, but it would do. After she had Callie back, she would see about fully stocking the herbs and would no longer be negligent in allowing those with magical properties go to waste.

  She bent to lift the cauldron from the fireplace. She barely lifted it off the hook before she let it drop again. Goodness that thing was heavy. How had the women in her family moved it? If she couldn’t lift it empty, she certainly couldn’t when it was full.

  “Allow me.” Blake stepped in front of her and lifted it as if it weighed no more than a feather. The only evidence of its weight was the straining of his arms against his jacket. “Where shall I put it?”

  Brighid gestured to the far corner where they were not likely to trip over it.

  “Won’t you need it? Don’t witches mix all of their brews in cauldrons?”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “They are cooking pots more than anything. I don’t recall my mother or grandmother ever using it. It has always just hung there, and put out of the way when tea needed to brewed.”

  Taking the flint, she lit the kindling, which took to flame immediately. The wood had probably been sitting here since her mother placed it there years ago.

  “Cook would have been pleased to prepare a cup of tea,” Blake offered.

  “It must be brewed in here.” Once again the questions lingered in his eyes but he did not speak. “The power is in the room, as are the herbs, and the tea will be stronger if made in here.”

  While she waited for the water to boil, Brighid settled before the books. The answers were here. She just needed to find them. Blake hovered at her elbow, more of a distraction than a help, but she didn’t dare ask him to leave. She might need to rely on his strength. “If you could, please write down my notes.”

  “Of course.” Blake drew of a stool to the side of the table, pulled the foolscap before him and dipped the quill in the ink, waiting for her to speak. She never dreamed he would support her, or even help. She just hoped it wasn’t because of the urgency of the situation. Would he turn from her when it was over?

  “I’ll need hemp seeds and hazelnuts.”

  He wrote the words down without question. “The water is hot.”

  Brighid glanced up. She had forgotten she was to brew tea. “Thank you.” She stopped reading only long enough to prepare the tea and tried not to grimace as she drank. Licorice was not a flavor she preferred, but it would help bring her clarity. Chamomile would do the same, but also relax her and Brighid feared getting sleepy and she could not afford to rest now.

  She read page after page of the tomes and Blake continued to write when asked. The darker it grew, the more candles Blake lit. He didn’t need to be asked. It was almost as if he anticipated her needs.

  Cook placed food on the small table just outside the room and Blake retrieved the tray. The two ate in silence as Brighid read and Blake made notes.

  Her brain filled with knowledge of her ancestors and vivid recollections came to mind of her grandmother’s and mother’s instructions. She had blocked their words out for so many years because it was all too frightening. If only she had heeded her mother and worked at her craft, gaining knowledge and strengthening her gift, she would be prepared. Were three days enough?

  Marisdùn’s courtyard was overrun with carriages in the fading light. And there were enough Londoners milling about that Braden’s Cumberland castle was now more populated than Rotten Row during the fashionable hour. Damn it all! The last thing he needed was this insanity swirling about.

  “Good God,” Sir Cyrus muttered under his breath. “I’ve never seen so many people.”

  “Neither have I,” Miss Southward added in awe.

  Braden shook his head in frustration. Why did they all have to arrive today? Exactly how many people did Quent tell to arrive early? His jackanapes of a brother…

  “Bradenham!” the Earl of Kilworth called from across the courtyard, with a woman on each of his arms. “There you are.”

  Damned Kilworth. The fellow wasn’t Braden’s favorite on his best day. And today was quite far from his best day.

  The earl crossed the courtyard, towing the two women with him. Then he smiled in greeting. “Brought a couple of ladies with me. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Ladies? From the look of the pair, Kilworth had acquired them at some bawdy house along the way. They were nearly spilling out of their too-tight bodices and their hair was unbundled about their shoulders as though they’d just been tumbled. But, at the moment, Braden couldn’t care less about Kilworth or his companions. Nothing mattered right now, nothing except finding Callie and then keeping her safe the rest of his life.

  “In a bit of a hurry at the moment, Kilworth,” he replied, trying to usher Sir Cyrus and the very innocent Lila Southward past the reprobate and his ladies.

  “Do tell me Lady Hope is here somewhere,” the earl called after them, making Braden’s step nearly falter and his pulse pound in his ea
rs. “I haven’t spotted her yet.”

  Braden swung back towards the degenerate earl and growled, “If you so much as take one step towards any of my sisters, I’ll stick your head on a pike.”

  Kilworth’s eyes widened in surprise.

  Then before the earl could find his tongue to respond to the threat, Braden turned once more on his heel, and directed Sir Cyrus and Miss Southward towards the garden gate.

  “Who was that?” Sir Cyrus asked once they were out of earshot.

  “A friend of my brother’s,” Braden replied, anger still coursing through his veins. How dare the man ask after Hope with not one, but two lightskirts on his arm? If Miss Southward wasn’t in his company, he’d have crashed his fist right into to Kilworth’s nose.

  He stalked through the garden gate with Callie’s brother and her friend on his heels. He navigated their way through the winding hedges and shrubs until they came to the hedge. The last place anyone had seen his Callie.

  “Right here,” he said, wishing his voice hadn’t cracked as he did so. But he couldn’t help it. The longer Callie was gone, the more fragile he became. It didn’t make any sense for her to have disappeared here. It just didn’t. But what if she really had?

  Sir Cyrus stepped closer to the hedge and touched the leaves with his hands. “Here?” he asked.

  That’s what Quent had said. So Braden nodded, not certain he could speak without his voice failing him.

  “Oh, Braden!” Quent sighed with relief as he rounded a hedge. “We’re in luck. Chetwey knows a witch.”

  Miss Southward gasped and Quent seemed, just then, to realize that Braden wasn’t alone.

  “Apologies, Miss Southward.” Quent nodded in greeting. “Didn’t see you there.”

  “Lord Quentin,” she began, a hand above her heart. “What do you mean a witch?”

  That was Braden’s question as well. If this was about that damned Samhain party, he was going to stick his brother’s head on a pike right next to Kilworth’s. “I hardly think this is the time, Quent,” he grumbled.

  “You’re right,” his brother agreed. “It’s not the time yet. Mrs. Small says that midnight on Samhain is the right time, but we need a witch, and like I said, Chetwey knows one, so we are in luck there.”