Carlton, Amber - Trinity Magic (Siren Publishing Romance)

by Amber Carlton

  “Okay,” he said. “A couple of weeks. The Kendall Halloween party. I’ll be there.”

  Faith turned toward the sink. He thought he heard her crying when he left the kitchen, but he didn’t have the guts to turn back.

  Chapter 4

  The clouds moved across a dark sky, and the light of the moon, released from its gauzy prison, fell upon the land. Four saddened shadows moved across the ground, pushing and pulling a handcart over the sodden earth. Breathing heavily, their feet sinking in damp ground, they ignored the mist of rain that dripped into their faces. Each footstep carried them farther into the future and away from the security and comfort they had come to know.

  Arleigh still heard the high-pitched wail of the banshee. The grief-stricken howls broke her heart, moving on the air like a melody of pain. The death spirit followed them, and the banshee’s need to see Stephen buried swept over Arleigh and made her body ache. The cries would stop only when the body had been covered with dirt, and Arleigh was as eager as the death faery to have it done. Arleigh felt the fierce pain of the banshee all the way through her bones.

  “How much farther?” Corliss asked. “There is a scary sound in the air. I want to go home.”

  Arleigh lost her grip on the card and stumbled. Corliss could hear the banshee. She shot a glance toward the woods, but the creature hid in the shelter of the trees. Only her black cloak was visible, an inky stain on the air.

  “A little farther,” Arleigh said. “The grave is next to your mother’s. I dug it earlier.”

  Fresh tears pour from Arleight’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. She tasted bitter salt on her lips, a taste that reminded her too much of lost hope and lost lives. She struggled over the sodden ground, pulling the cart slowly. She glanced over at Fiana. The girl stared straight ahead into the thready moonlight. Quiet tears flowed on Fiana’s cheeks, and the sniffling behind Arleigh confirmed that Hannah and Corliss were crying again.

  She had no choice but to keep moving. She didn’t think any of them could stand the sight of Stephen’s body for another night. The rain fell harder now. If the ground got wetter, they would have a hard time shoveling the dirt back into the grave, and they risked sickness if they stayed out in the rain too long. If one of the girls became ill, Arleigh had no idea if she could take it.

  Arleigh’s heart hammered in her chest. They had perhaps a matter of days in which to share their sorrow and prepare for the worst. Flynn would come for her.

  In the scattering moonlight, the freshly dug mound of dirt emerged. She knew the girls had seen it, too, because a ragged sigh escaped from Fiana, and Corliss began to sob. A small wooden cross marked the grave of Sarah Caindale, who had died giving birth to her youngest daughter.

  They pulled the handcart to the edge of the grave and struggled to lift the bundle, finally laying it as tenderly as they could on the damp earth. Fiana put her arms around her little sister, and Corliss sobbed against Fiana’s chest.

  “What do we do now?” Hannah asked. “Now that Papa is dead, what will happen to us?”

  Hannah’s restless hands plucked at the folds of her damp cloak. Between the wet strands of hair plastered across Hannah’s face, Arleigh saw the terror reflected in her eyes. Arleigh closed her own eyes for a moment. Thoughts tumbled through her mind and random images flooded her. She didn’t know what to tell them or how to comfort them. She sighed and prepared to say something, anything, but Fiana released Corliss and moved toward her.

  “You don’t know, do you?” Fiana asked.

  Arleigh hesitated for a moment. Fiana deserved an answer, and the look on her face demanded one. Oh, she didn’t want to make it worse. She would have given anything to put her arms around them and tell them their lives would stay the same, but she knew they wouldn’t accept any lie that came from her lips. Even in their childish minds, they knew fate would not be kind.

  “I don’t know what will happen,” Arleigh said, “but I suspect we won’t have much time together.”

  Fiana nodded. She moved toward her sisters and went to stand behind them. Her arms encircled them both. Hannah and Corliss pressed against her, and Fiana’s hands went to their dark hair, stoking calmly for what seemed a frozen moment in which their love rose into the pallid moonlight. Once again Arleigh’s strength weakened, and she wondered how she could protect these three children in a place where mercy and comfort were hard to find. The banshee’s cry pierced the darkness, as if to steal any hope she might have.

  Anger surged through her that Stephen Caindale had placed himself in jeopardy for her. He had left these three girls defenseless in this place, and she could offer them nothing—not protection, not hope. Her indenture might soon be bartered for by another, and the girls might become orphaned chattel, scattered into the Virginia colony to whichever families would take them. What could she say to these girls when she knew she was the cause?

  Fiana’s curt voice cut through her thoughts.

  “Arleigh.”

  Arleigh’s head snapped up, and she met the younger girl’s eyes. Even in the shadowy light, she saw the questioning look in Fiana’s glance and looked down to avoid the girl.

  “What are you thinking?” Fiana asked.

  Nothing. Nothing…everything.

  “The thoughts in your head will not help us,” Fiana said. “You are not to blame. Our father had his own mind.”

  Arleigh gasped. Fiana’s eyes held dark pools of midnight in the pale glow of the moon. There were no answers there.

  “Fiana, do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Now is not the time to place blame. Now is the time to ask God to keep our papa safe and help us prepare for what is to come.”

  “What do you know?” Arleigh asked.

  Fiana blessed her with a tired smile. “Nothing…and everything.”

  Arleigh’s head ached, and she feared she might faint onto the wet ground. She struggled to keep her balance and, for one small moment, actually felt a trickle of anxiety snake its way down her spine.

  “There is no need for fear,” Fiana said quietly, “at least not of me, but there will be plenty of fear to come in the next few weeks. For now, we need to say goodbye to Papa.”

  A small blink of light flitted through the woods beyond the gravesite. A warmth spread through Arleigh and she thanked Adelina for keeping watch over them. She nodded and folded her hands in prayer, listening to the banshee wail in the deepness of the forest.

  Chapter 5

  Ryder sat at the desk in his sanctuary. It was the only place on the property he could escape from his sisters. Even then he wasn’t always successful. They continued to parade down the glass hallway connecting the main house to the cottage and thought nothing of intruding into his privacy. He had managed to get through dinner last night and away from Natalie’s groping hands, but he knew now his sisters planned to resume their mission to find him the perfect woman. If they only knew he’d already found her in his demented mind, they’d call Dr. Maxwell and have him back at the shrink before you could say “Ryder has issues.”

  He continued to pore through his library stash, enjoying the texture of the pages and the small details of daily life the old ledgers held, but there would be hell to pay for his enjoyment. Mrs. Cargill would kick his ass, because getting the documents back to the library in time to meet his deadline had become a moot point. He hadn’t even begun the scanning.

  “Couldn’t hurt to bribe her.”

  He thought a nice dinner at Trinity Inn might do the trick. He reached for a pen to jot himself a note, and a scrap of parchment tucked in a ledger caught his attention. Discolored and stained, yellow with age, its edges crinkled when he touched it. He gingerly lifted the cover of the ledger and brought the parchment into the light of his desk lamp. The tight, painstakingly written script captured every inch of the crisp paper.

  He poured a glass of whiskey from the bottle in his drawer. There was nothing worse than a closet drunk, but if Faith saw it, there’d be trouble. She’d bee
n popping in unannounced for weeks, keeping her eye on him. And of course, her little mind-reading trick didn’t allow for much privacy.

  He began to read.

  He’ll be coming for me soon. ’Tis the lasses I must protect, no matter the cost to myself. ’Tis a debt I owe their father. Stephen gave me security and a home when I expected none, and ’twas a hope for the future, possibly a lifetime.

  ’Tis silly to dwell in the past. Stephen is gone now, but the lasses remain, and the only hope lies in me. They can’t survive alone and, sure, they’ll not be permitted to do so. ’Tis fear in my heart they’ll be separated and bartered to the highest bidder to cause me more pain.

  When he comes I will go, but ’tis promises I’ll demand or deny him what he wants. I’m the small token he dreams of conquering, and ’tis lifetimes he has waited.

  All my life I’ve tried to hide from this curse and understand why it haunts me. Will the curse follow me to Cardew Manor, as it has followed me every day of life and across the sea? I pray to the saints that it does. My heart feels his power is real and then ’tis certain doom.

  I long for love. ’Tis all I want. He says love has been both life and death to me, the reason I now live trapped within this form, but no matter. The time’s come to heal the wounds. ’Tis a champion I need, but my needs have ne’er been answered. My life is a borrowed one, and if I must relinquish it, I’ll do so. What happens to me no longer matters.

  “You are so wrong about that.”

  The cool air leaking through the drafty window brushed past him and swirled temptingly around his face, even fanning the pages that littered his desk, but sweat poured from him. Perspiration dotted his hairline and leaked down his forehead. He noticed the fire had gone out, and he shouldn’t be sweating in the middle of a cool room. He downed the glass of whisky that sat on his desk then stared at the empty glass in his hand. How many had he had?

  He closed his eyes and rubbed at them with the heels of his hands. When he opened his eyes, the page still lay in the center of the mahogany desk, like a precious jewel amid lumps of coal. He reached out and traced his fingers along the fading ink, feeling the soft rise of the letters on the parchment, long dried and losing their vitality. But had they? Emotions rose from the page, burning into his skin like hot flame. The desperation felt tangible.

  Stephen. He thought of the dead man carried in the arms of strangers.

  “It’s Stephen Caindale,” a voice said from the doorway.

  Ryder’s head jerked up. Faith leaned against the door jamb, wearing her stupid cow pajamas. The soft glow of the hall light haloed around her. She looked like an angel, but even her prettiness could not temper his sudden anger.

  “Quit doing that,” he snapped.

  “Sneaking up on you?” she asked with a smile.

  “No, reading my mind. You know I hate that. It’s an invasion of my privacy.”

  “You can usually block me,” she said, stepping into the room.

  “Forced to after twenty-odd years of your knowing my every thought and feeling.”

  “Exactly,” Faith said. “So what’s with the open mind? What’s got you spooked? And why are you thinking of Stephen Caindale?”

  “Well, a lot has me spooked, but what makes you think it’s Stephen Caindale?”

  “Well, it seems logical, doesn’t it? You’re thinking of a Stephen, and he was the first Caindale in America. Had three daughters, remember? The first American Trinity. We’re descended from the Caindale family. Come on, Ryder, you’re the historian.”

  “Right. Some historian. But it doesn’t mean I’m thinking of Stephen Caindale because he’s related to you.”

  Faith shrugged. “Think of all the Stephens you like. Is there something you’d like to tell me, a reason why you blew Nat off last night? Care to make any confessions?”

  Ignoring her attempts to bait him, Ryder continued to stare at the scrap of paper held carefully between his fingers. Faith sat on the edge of the desk. Scores of little cow faces smiled up at him. Faith reached down and poured a shot of whiskey into the glass and downed it in one swallow.

  Ryder tore his glance away from the parchment and met his sister’s eyes. “Can you tell me any more about the Caindales?”

  Faith laughed. “I don’t have room for history in my head. That’s your thing.”

  “What are you doing in here anyway?”

  “Woke up ’cause I had a dream. It’s kind of fuzzy around the edges, but it had something to do with three little girls. I guess it was us, but for some reason, we all slept in the same bed.” She poured another shot into the glass and held it out. “You look like you need this. What’s wrong with you?”

  Ryder downed the amber liquid without a thought.

  “I was reading, and I came across this letter, or diary page. I don’t know what it is, exactly.” Faith reached out and snatched at it. “Be careful. It’s very old.”

  “I’m not going to hurt your musty, old diary page,” Faith scoffed. “What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  Faith read the page, her feet swinging from the desk. When she had finished, a pained expression crossed her lovely face. She reread it, and her fingers began to fold the edges of the page. Ryder saw a small speck of charred parchment drop to his desk. He reached out and took the parchment from her before she could ruin it. She made a face at him and tucked her hair behind her ears.

  “So what happened to her?” Faith asked.

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” Ryder said.

  “She sounds so—”

  “Perfect?”

  “Well, I was going for desperate,” Faith said. “You’re such a romantic, Ryder. What about this curse?”

  Ryder sighed. “We’re dealing with a different mindset. People are products of their times.”

  “Stupid times,” Faith said. “Okay, she’s not so perfect if she really believed she’s cursed, but something bad was going on. Do you think everything worked out?”

  “If she’s talking about Stephen Caindale, something must have worked out since you’re here, right? At least one of the girls survived, but the letter doesn’t say how many girls there were. It could be two, five—”

  “There were three,” Faith said, hopping off the desk. She started toward the door.

  “Wait,” Ryder said. “How do you know that?”

  Faith swung around, wearing the expression she reserved for idiot brothers. “Because I dreamed of three, Ryder.”

  “You said you could have been dreaming of yourself and the girls.”

  “I know what I said,” Faith grumbled, “but I was wrong.”

  Ryder’s eyebrows lifted, and a smile leisurely spread across his face.

  “Could you repeat that?” he asked.

  “No,” Faith said. “I won’t repeat it. I dreamed of three. There were three girls. A Trinity. The man is Stephen Caindale, and the girls are his daughters. Fiana, Hannah, and Corliss.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course. Am I ever wrong?” She tossed her hair back and spoke to him over her shoulder. “Get some sleep, Brother. You have bags under your eyes. Not attractive.”

  The door closed. His hands roamed over the dozens of books that littered his desk.

  “There has to be something else here.”

  A light flickered in the corner of his vision, and he suddenly felt dizzy. For one moment, he laid his head down on the desk and closed his eyes. When he opened them and lifted his head, he stared at the shadowy area in the center of the room. And it happened again.

  Oh, no. You passed out, an actual blackout this time. This can’t be real. Women don’t materialize out of nowhere, especially women like that. Ghosts don’t exist, and they certainly don’t visit because you pick up a sheet of parchment.

  Dressed in a tattered nightdress, his dream girl stared into the hearth that now flickered with a gentle fire. The glow from the embers cast enough light to outline her body through the thin fabric, revealing slender limbs
and gently curving flesh. His heart stuttered at the sight of her, and the beginnings of another erection stirred in his pants. Part of it might have been the sheer surprise of seeing her suddenly manifest in his quiet room. The rest, well, what he saw hidden beneath that nightdress confirmed what he already suspected. She had the most enticing body he’d ever seen. If he imagined her, his imagination was working overtime, giving him glimpses of everything he had ever wanted.

  He wanted to run his hands through the wild strands of deep red hair tumbling down her back, and linger in the intoxicating curve of her lower back, where her body molded into a rounded swell. He could easily cup her small ass in his hands and—

  She turned toward him.

  Spying unnerved him, but he studied her anyway. She was hot, and he loved watching the way her body moved. Her breasts swelled above a bit of wrinkled lace, and her nipples hardened, straining against the confines of the flimsy linen. His gaze lingered on the pale flesh of a shoulder, where the strap of the nightgown had slipped. He saw the russet shadow between her legs. Damn.

  She tossed her hair away from her face. The scent of violets flooded the room around him. Guilty, embarrassed that his eyes had focused on the shadowy V between her thighs, his glance shot back toward her face. Beautiful. Pale. Vulnerable. Heavy, dark lashes blinked away unshed tears. Her eyes, a deep, dark green, the color of clover, were bright, filled with hurt, pain. A heavy, wounded sigh filled the room.

  She sat on a bench that materialized out of nowhere and hunched over a battered table. She scribbled with a quill on a piece of parchment that looked amazingly like the one he now held in his hand. The scratch of the quill and the raspy sound of the parchment rustled the quiet.

  That cloud of hair obscured her face and shrouded her small body like a protective shield. He willed her to look at him. His heart stuttered again when she raised her head. Their eyes met, hers widening. He had half-risen from his chair when he realized she hadn’t seen him. She’d heard something, and the sound caused the tears to fall from her eyes and spill across her cheeks. He glimpsed something unsettling in her face. Hopelessness.