Alec leaned back against the seat and gave Downe a hard look meant to silence him. “These two gentlemen are quite harmless, actually. As I said before, I am the Duke of Belmore. This one with the hot eyes and loose tongue is the Earl of Downe.”
“Doing you harm is the last thing on my mind.” Downe gave her a wolfish smile.
“And this,” Alec continued, motioning toward Seymour, “is the Viscount Seymour.”
“Seymour is harmless,” Downe added, “and witless, too.”
That started the bickering all over again. Intending to finish the introduction in spite of his friends, Alec turned to the girl. She looked from one man to the other in confusion, then turned to him and moved her hand to pull her weasel tighter against her. He could see the apprehension in her expressive face. Some small scrap of sensitivity sparked deep inside him, from a place untouched. He started to reach for her.
She took a deep breath and began to mutter again. A shout sounded. Suddenly the coach shot forward at a frantic pace. The passengers grabbed anything they could to keep from flying into each other. More shouts and curses came from the coachman. A loud bang resounded, and a sudden scurrying noise echoed down from the box.
Alec grabbed her and held her fast against his chest, trying to absorb the bounce and shock as the carriage rattled over the rutted road. They hit something hard, and his body pinned hers to the seat.
Momentum forced him to move against her. Every soft female inch of her pressed against him. Her hands tightened their hold on his coat and pressed into his belly. Her hot breath brushed in frightened pants against his ear.
Suddenly, uncontrollably, he was aware of her as a woman. Her eyes met his, surprised, then curious, then searching. Their world was silent. He fought for control over the natural urge that passed between them. Again, she searched his face. With a coldness born of instinct, he covered his reaction. Don’t look too deep, Scottish, there’s nothing in here for you.
She flushed. A wistful sadness existed between them as surely as if they had spoken their thoughts. She closed her eyes and turned away. The coach hit another bump, and he tightened his grip on the cloth handle.
Downe grunted, then swore. The carriage finally slowed, then stopped. Alec wrapped an arm around Joy and sat up. The earl’s angry voice echoed through the carriage interior. “Get the devil off me, Seymour! Your blasted bony knee’s in my back.”
Alec and Joy looked at them. The earl’s blond head was wedged into a corner of the carriage floor, his booted feet were braced against the door, and the viscount was atop him, clinging to the opposite end of the seat to avoid the earl’s boot heels. The weasel clung to Seymour’s coat collar.
“Can’t help it, Downe. I’ve no place else to put my knees.”
There was a scuffle, then a loud groan. “Watch out for my shoulder. Bloody thing hurts like the devil.”
“Sorry. Give me a moment to get this animal off my neck.”
“Come here, Beezle.” Joy opened her arms, and the weasel lumbered into them. Alec noticed that his arms were still around her and quickly pulled back. Seymour managed to right himself on the seat and began to dust himself off.
Alec gave Downe a hand up, and the carriage door opened. A white-faced Henson peered in at them.“Sorry, Your Grace. We broke a harness.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“They are working on it now.”
“Fine,” Alec said, turning his attention to the girl who was clutching her weasel to her chest. He saw that her cheek was smudged with dirt and her hat was cockeyed, the purple plumes broken and hanging down over her shoulders. She looked like a sparrow that had fallen from her nest. He felt the urge to tuck her back inside it. Somehow he knew that this woman, of all women, should not be all alone in the world.
He turned away from her. That helpless look on her face made him lose his train of thought. He climbed down from the carriage and moved toward the team where his coachman and the other footman were repairing the broken harness.
“Who harnessed the team?” Alec asked in a tone that didn’t bode well for the culprit.
“Me, Yer Grace,” Jem the coachman answered, but added quickly, “‘Twas a brand new one. Sturdy as an elm, it were. Never seen the like. A good inch thick, an’ it just broke like it were paper. Here, look here.” He held up the leather strap of the harness piece.
Alec examined it. There were no cuts, no clean slices. The edges were frayed indicating it seemed to have torn in two. “How long before you can have it repaired?”
“Almost done now, Yer Grace. Took the strap off the thill line.”
“Fine.” Alec walked back and climbed inside the carriage. “We’ll be off in a minute.”
“This was a sign,” Seymour whispered, wide-eyed and looking as if he expected the carriage to glow a supernatural light. Downe snorted, slid his flask back inside his coat, and readjusted his sling.
As Alec settled back in his seat, he glanced down at his coat and saw the fabric wadded into tight wrinkles where Joy’s fists had clutched it. Then as surely as if she had reached out and touched him, he felt the girl’s stare—that familiar yet elusive look. She seemed to be memorizing his face. It made him as uncomfortable as hell.
At this point, all he wanted was to reach the inn, quickly. He treated her to a cool look, but it died when his gaze connected with hers. For some odd reason he looked at Downe’s injured arm, then back at the girl. There was a link between the girl’s look and Downe’s arm. Henson closed the carriage door, and once again they rattled down the bumpy road, the Duke of Belmore deep in thought.
A few moments later, to his absolute horror, he remembered where he had seen that exact look—Letitia Hornsby. He groaned inwardly. This odd Scottish girl stared at him with the same look of devotion that Letitia Hornsby wore when she looked at Downe—a look that held her heart in her eyes. But before he could even digest that thought there was another shout.
When the wheel came off the carriage, Joy gave up. Someone was going to get hurt if she didn’t stop trying to cast a travel spell. She rested her chin on a hand and tried to accept her fate. Experience had taught her that when her spells were this befuddled, the best thing she could do was give her magic a rest. Sometimes she did better, could concentrate more, if she waited. Whatever, she didn’t want any harm to come to the men, especially the duke.
There was something more between them than just tattered heartbeats and intense looks. There was a force, a pulling force that told her he needed something from her. There was some remnant of desperation that he hid behind an icy glare. She sensed it as surely as she could sense a spring rain.
The nervous one, Viscount Seymour, leaned toward her, examining her as if she were an apparition. “You are the one, aren’t you?”
Her stomach lurched at the thought that he might actually know she was a witch. She held her breath, not knowing how to reply.
“Leave the chit alone, Seymour,” the earl said, disgust threading his voice, then turned to Alec. “Even if she is the one, Belmore would have to call his man of business before making his move. Bloodlines, you know, and all that other . . . stuff.”
Another argument ensued, so she glanced at the duke, whose hand had distractedly risen to his coat pocket. She caught the soft crinkle of paper and wondered about it. He told the men to be quiet, pinning the earl with a stare as cold as midnight. The earl stared back, which made them look like two dogs facing off. The viscount had grown suddenly quiet and uneasy.
The silent battle continued. It did not take long for Joy to realize that the duke would be the winner. She had seen the coldness in his eyes. After a few tense minutes that seemed never to end, the earl broke eye contact and raised his flask to his lips once again. The duke turned away. Then, as if she’d called him, he looked at her.
He took her breath away. His eyes held secrets that piqued her natural curiosity, like treasures buried deep and waiting for someone to care enough to uncover them. He seemed to be looking for somet
hing as he watched her, searching.
What is it you seek? What do you need? She wanted to ask the questions, but they wouldn’t come. As quickly as dandelions in the summer wind the quest in his eyes was gone. And in its place was that shuttered look.
They had all been silent too long, living in their own thoughts. Too much time had passed in silence, Joy thought, chewing her lip and thinking. The questions would surely start again soon. She needed to think of a tale she could tell them. The one thing a witch was taught early was never to tell a mortal she was a witch. Mortals did not understand that witchcraft was not something dark and evil. One had to get to know a mortal very well before he or she could understand, and that was a rare mortal indeed, for history had proven that many would never understand because of their misconceptions about witches. The MacLean didn’t trust too many. She said most mortals thought witches flew around on besoms, had warts on their faces, looked haggard, and had ragged gray hair.
Joy’s paternal grandfather, a warlock, had married a mortal—the daughter of an English peer—and the MacQuarries and the MacLeans had welcomed her, once she proved herself an exceptional human being. Of course, her aunt also swore that her grandparents’ marriage was the source of Joy’s problem. Tainted blood, she claimed. Joy always figured it could have been worse. She could have had no powers at all. She could have been born all human mortal instead of a weak white witch.
She could tell these men something close to the truth without mentioning the witch business. Perhaps she’d inject a little hyperbole and, for spice, maybe a tad of drama to make the tale interesting. If she could hold them enthralled, maybe they wouldn’t notice the things she left out—logic, credibility, truth.
The duke had turned his penetrating eyes toward her. Those eyes spoke to her, knew her, and they wouldn’t miss much. Here it comes, she thought.
“Where is your family?”
“Gone,” she replied, wanting to stare at her lap, but unable to look away.
His gaze held hers.
“You mentioned Surrey. Is that where you were going?”
She nodded.
“Why?”
“My grandmother’s home is there.”
“I thought you said your family was gone.”
“They are, except my aunt, and she’s gone to—” She caught herself. “She’s out of the country for two years.”
“She went away without leaving you properly chaperoned?”
“I am of age,” she informed him, raising her chin a bit. “I am twenty-one.”
“I see.” His tone was not unlike that used to humor a child.
There was a long silence.
“How were you traveling?”
“On foot,” she answered in a squeaky voice. Even she wouldn’t have swallowed that claim. Stupid, daft, dumb.
The duke cast a meaningful glance at her new half boots. Not a scar or a scuff marred them. The heels were unnicked, and the edges of the soles barely worn. The hems of her pelisse and traveling gown were perfectly clean, no signs of the muddy roads anywhere on her person. He turned his dark gaze back to hers and gave her a look that almost made her spill forth the truth. “You walked from Scotland?”
“Oh, my goodness, no!” She raised a hand to her heart in what she hoped was an innocent and dumbfounded gesture. “One could hardly walk all the way from Scotland.” She smiled.
Again the silence went on, the duke giving her an I’m-waiting look while Joy fabricated a thousand stories in her furtive mind.
“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 Five
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.
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