Breath of Magic

by Teresa Medeiros

  A contented slurp from behind a nearby bush proved her wrong. As Arian crept toward the bush, it quivered with trepidation. But before its occupant could flee, she reached beneath the prickly branches and seized a black-stockinged foot. She dragged out a wrinkled gnome of a woman, recognizing her as the Scotswoman who had saved her life by stealing the amulet from Linnet and dropping it into the pond.

  Arian plucked a shriveled leaf from the woman's hair, relishing the novel sensation of towering over someone. "You're a dreadful thief, Becca. 'Tis no wonder they were going to hang you."

  The old woman swiped at the beef juice running down her chin. "I'm as bonny a thief as ye are a witch, lass."

  Arian smiled wryly. " 'Tis God's truth you speak. I'll probably be executed long before you will."

  Becca licked her gnarled fingers, her sly gaze snaking downward to Arian's belly. "Not if there be a devil's seed within as the village folk are sayin' "

  "Oh, Becca," Arian chided. "I expected better of you."

  The woman's weathered face split in a grin. "The only devils plantin' them kind o' seeds are bonny, silver-tongued devils. Who dishonored ye, lass? Was it one o' them strappin' Churchill lads? Or that wild Burroughs boy?" Arian's face clouded and Becca's tone softened. "Don't be thinkin' o' the fellow too harshly. To tumble a comely young maiden, many a fine man has made promises he couldna keep."

  "My man made no promises," Arian whispered bitterly. Unless you count his wedding vows.

  "But he loved ye well, didn't he? No need to blush, child. His only shame lies in not comin' forward to claim ye before the mob does." Becca reached out and patted Arian's stomach. "I was a midwife in the Old Country. I'm sorry, lass, but there's no babe growin' in yer belly."

  Becca's words only confirmed what Arian had suspected, but she still felt a sharp stab of loss for that shy, golden-haired child she might never have. She sank down on the log, propping her chin on her palms. "He may not come for me at all, I fear." Saying the words aloud made her feel worse than she had ever imagined. "We had a misunderstanding. He had reason to doubt my loyalty."

  "He thinks ye let another toss up yer skirts?"

  "Oh, no! A different kind of loyalty."

  Becca shook her head. "There's no other kind o' loyalty 'tween a woman and a man. At least none worth dyin' for. And die ye will, if he don't come." Her voice deepened to a hoarse croak. "That devil-eyed preacher ain't plannin' no trial, lass. Just a lynchin' on the night o' no moon when darkness hides even the foulest deeds."

  Arian stared up at the tiny woman as the woods grew darker, as if a shadow had fallen over them. "But the magistrates from Boston… Mr. Corwin… Mr. Hathorae…"

  Becca caught Arian's chin in her bony hand, her grip surprisingly firm. "No fine magistrates from Boston, lass. Just the mob and the rope and ye. Summon this lover, demon or no, before 'tis too late."

  Arian followed the old woman's gaze skyward. Between the brittle branches, the moon was materializing as little more than a sliver of ivory in the afternoon sky.

  34

  The bruised veil of the sky rippled and tossed. A chipmunk prowling the damp leaves stood on his hind legs, his nose quivering with curiosity in the eerie silence. With a rending tear, the fabric of the sky split, sending the tiny creature scurrying for safety.

  Wrapped in a gush of winter wind and New York smog, Tristan spilled through the gaping hole, his limbs flailing wildly as he crashed through a latticework of bare branches. He slammed into the ground, cursing the fallen leaves for not being as soft as they looked.

  Just when he was about to catch his breath, Copperfield appeared, plunging out of the sky with alarming speed. Tristan flexed his body to roll, but before he could, Cop landed on his chest. When Cop finally recovered enough to roll off him, Tristan grunted out an oath.

  "Cheer up," Cop said. "If I'd have landed a foot lower, you wouldn't have needed Arian – or any other woman."

  Tristan sat up, tossing a handful of leaves at his friend's head. A faint wind whispered through the trees.

  The hole in the sky had closed, sucking in the last traces of industrial pollutants and exhaust fumes. In its place hung a chill canopy of darkness, devoid of all but a few stubborn specks of light. The moon was nowhere in sight.

  Tristan wondered if Arian had felt this bereft when she first arrived in New York City. He wasn't sure what he missed the most – the noise pollution or the air pollution.

  He checked his pocket to make sure Warlock had survived the jolt while Copperfield pawed through the leaves. "Damn. I can't find my tomahawk."

  Tristan joined the search. "It's made out of rubber. What good could it possibly do us anyway?"

  Cop sniffed. "That's easy for you to say. You didn't have to comb through every theatrical store in New York trying to find costumes for a Pilgrim and an Indian. If we don't have these things back by Monday, the owner's going to charge us double." He grunted with satisfaction as he found the missing prop.

  Tristan clambered to his feet. "I think you should demand your money back. You look just like Tonto."

  Cop adjusted his leather headband, grinning rakishly. "I am Tonto. And you, kemosabe, are Miles Standish."

  Tristan tugged at his starched collar, thinking it was no wonder the Puritans were so repressed if they always had to wear this many layers of clothing. The only possible advantage would be in allowing Arian to gently strip away each layer with her graceful fingers until…

  The wistful image provoked a fear so terrible he could only whisper it. "What if it's November the first, Cop? What if we're too late?"

  Copperfield clapped a bracing hand on his shoulder. "I see a light up ahead. It might be a house. Shall we go take a look?"

  Thankful for his friend's matter-of-fact demeanor, Tristan nodded. He, too, could just make out the faint glimmer barely visible through the trees. Copperfield ducked beneath the maze of branches and Tristan followed, swiping stray twigs out of his hair. At the edge of the woods, they paused, mesmerized by the sight of a charming little clapboard cottage. A cozy arc of light shone from its front window, holding the dark at bay. Two doll-like figures were framed by the glass expanse.

  Exchanging a wary glance, they darted across the damp grass in one accord and sank to a crouch beneath the lumbering branches of an oak.

  The scene inside the parlor could have been a primitive painting, so still were its players, so cozy its props. Steam rose in merry puffs from an iron kettle hanging over the hearth. The pewter candlesticks on the mantel gleamed as if they'd just enjoyed a vigorous buffing. A man sitting in a straight-backed cane chair dipped into a wooden bowl and brought a handful of fluffy popcorn to his mouth, his gaze never straying from the black book resting in his lap.

  "Such a portrait of domestic bliss," Tristan murmured, his hand curling into a fist against the oak's trunk.

  In a rocking chair across from the man he'd once known as Arthur Finch sat Arian, her dark head inclined toward a scrap of embroidery. She worried her bottom lip between her pearly teeth, all of her concentration centered on drawing a delicate needle through the thick linen. A modest white cap perched atop her frizzled curls, covering all but the most rebellious of them.

  Tristan's first sight of her – vibrant, alive, and keeping what appeared to be a most agreeable company with his sworn enemy – struck a massive blow to his heart.

  As they watched, Arthur lifted his head and spoke. Arian rose, smiling her sweetest smile.

  "I'll kill her," Tristan said evenly. "They won't have to hang her. I'll strangle her with my bare hands."

  He started up. Copperfield caught his coattails. "Would you hold on just a minute? Watch!"

  Tristan dropped back to one knee, stroking his jaw, and watched Arian glide to the hearth. She wrapped a towel around her hand and unhooked the heavy kettle. Steam flushed her face just as his loving had once done, making his gut knot with a longing doomed to go unrequited for all eternity.

  Arthur laid the book aside and favored her
with a paternal smile. Tristan growled beneath his breath.

  The unrelenting sweetness of Arian's smile should have warned him. Arthur held out his mug. Arian upended the kettle and cheerfully dumped a golden river of hot apple cider over his head.

  Tristan grinned.

  Arthur jumped to his feet, his face purpling with rage. Arian backed away from him, clapping her hands to her cheeks with an expression of dismay that could have softened even the flintiest heart. Her lips flew and Tristan could well imagine her mocking apologies.

  Arthur flung his chair away and stalked her with a mute snarl. He cornered her against the hearth and drew back his fist.

  Tristan didn't realize he was halfway across the yard until Copperfield's weight slammed him into the dew-dampened grass.

  Cop's breath burned hot with desperation against the back of his neck. "He didn't hit her. Do you understand? He wanted to, but he didn't do it."

  They both held their breath as a door slammed a short distance away and Arthur's shoes clattered on the stoop. He passed within a few feet of them, muttering a steady stream of curses, the black book still clutched in his hand.

  When he'd disappeared down a narrow path, Tristan rose and gave Cop a shove. "Follow him," he whispered. "Don't let him out of your sight and make sure you stay out of his."

  Rubber tomahawk in hand, Cop obeyed, darting through the shadowy trees with the fleet grace of his Cherokee ancestors.

  Tristan's heart contracted as he turned back to discover Arian standing at the window only a few feet away, her fist pressed to her mouth. Her gaze searched the murky sky as if any scrap of starlight might cheer her. Her silent sigh fogged the glass, then she was gone, leaving the parlor in a sprawl of overturned chairs and spilled popcorn.

  Arian's tread was weary as she climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She'd been banished to Linnet's sparse bedstead after her first night in his care. He preferred to have his secret attic with its perfumed candles and satin sheets readily available if he chose to return from the village with one of his whey-faced chits in tow.

  She rested her candle on the table and sank down on the stool in front of the mirror. Her own spitefulness had exhausted her. She plucked off her cap and ran a brush through her hair. The warped glass threw back her reflection in foggy waves. Was it her imagination or was her image growing more blurred around the edges? Even the mirror seemed to know her time was running out. The sliver of moon that had kept her hopes alive throughout the week had finally waned to darkness.

  Even making her father's life a private hell was losing its charm. The wolfsbane she'd slipped into his broth last night had failed to provoke even a tiny thrill of excitement. Perhaps she was becoming as wicked and jaded as he.

  The brush tangled in a stubborn curl. Arian blinked back tears, terrified of losing her reflection in their mist. She laid the brush aside, too heartsick to lift it for another stroke. Preying on her weakness, Tristan moved through her mind like a shadow.

  She closed her eyes, her longing so miserably keen she could almost smell the wintry scent of his cologne drifting through the open window, almost feel his warm fingers brushing her nape. A familiar weight settled between her breasts.

  Her eyes flew open. The emerald amulet nestled against the stark bodice of her dress, glittering with brilliance even in this dim light. She lifted her astonished eyes to meet Tristan's gaze in the mirror.

  He stood behind her, yet did not touch her. Arian's hands began to tremble. Encroaching madness must surely have conjured such an impossible vision. Tristan with the close-cropped hair of a Nordic prince. Tristan with gaunt hollows beneath his cheeks that spoke of endless days and sleepless nights. Tristan with a sandy beard framing his sensual mouth. Unable to resist the temptation, Arian reached behind her to touch it.

  It felt prickly and soft and indisputably real to her disbelieving fingertips.

  He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "Now, love, you're free to use Warlock to blast me into infinity if you'd like. I can't say I don't deserve it."

  Arian sprang to her feet, snatching her hand back. "How nice of you to drop in!"

  His mocking shrug was endearingly familiar. "I was in the neighborhood."

  To occupy her shaking hands, she marched over to the window and slammed it. She hugged herself in the lingering pocket of chill air. All the tender reunion scenes she had envisioned in the past month seemed to have gone up in a puff of smoke at Tristan's abrupt appearance. Instead, she felt feverish and contrary, much as she had after surviving a bout of cholera as a child.

  The man had just crossed three centuries. The least she could do was offer him some common courtesy.

  Tristan watched in helpless bewilderment as Arian twisted the window curtain into a useless rag, her shoulders even stiffer than her collar. "I'm afraid my father has stepped out. You may wait for him in the parlor if you like. I'll fetch you some cider."

  "No, thank you," he replied, a smile spreading across his face as he realized what was troubling her even before she did. "I've seen you pour." He dared to draw nearer, near enough to inhale the intoxicating scent of woodsmoke and cloves from her hair. "I didn't come for Arthur, Arian. I came for you."

  She blew her nose on the curtain, her voice suspiciously muffled. "Well, you took your own sweet, bloody time about it, didn't you!"

  Groaning, he slipped his arms around her waist and rubbed his bearded cheek against her smooth one. "Oh, Arian, turn me into a frog or fry me with a thunderbolt, but for God's sake, please don't cry. I don't think I can bear it."

  She melted into the cradle of his arms. "I hope you don't think I'm going to forgive you just because you hold me this way. You can kiss my ear and rub your face against my throat all you want, but I'm not…" Her voice faded to a breathless sigh. She lifted her head, baring her throat to the prickly caress of his beard.

  "Arian?"

  "Mmmmm?" she murmured as his lips found hers.

  "I love you."

  Tristan drew her into his embrace, kissing her sweetly parted lips before they could utter a protest. He spread his palms against her slender back, caressing her warmth beneath the scratchy homespun. Her hands crept around his neck. He tasted salt in their kiss and knew that one, or maybe both of them, was crying. They might have kissed like that for the next three hundred years if a rock hadn't crashed through the window in a shower of leaded glass.

  Tristan hurled her to the floor, shielding her with his body.

  "Come out, devil's whore! Come out and bring your demon lover!"

  Bits of glass tinkled from her hair as Arian lifted her head. "Oh, no! Not Goody Hubbins!"

  Tristan dove for the candle, extinguishing it between two fingers before peering around the edge of the curtain. Even from where she huddled, Arian could see the sea of torches bobbing on the lawn below.

  "Join us, witch, and face the righteous wrath of God!"

  Arian saw Tristan's face stiffen with raw hatred at Linnet's sanctimonious shout. She crawled to the window, her knees cushioned by her thick skirts, and tugged at his pants leg. "Let's go, Tristan. Now! We'll use Warlock to flee to the future. Back to New York, where we both belong."

  "We can't," he said flatly.

  "Why not?"

  "Because the bastard has Cop. He was supposed to follow Arthur without being detected."

  Arian peeped over the window ledge. "And a fine job he's doing, I'd say."

  Copperfield hung next to Linnet, caught in the burly embrace of a tanner. The man's meaty fingers were poised at Cop's throat, as if he'd like nothing better than to snap his neck like a twig.

  Arian rose, gazing up into her husband's shadowed face. "So you weren't interested in Arthur, eh? Only in me?"

  He shot her a guilty glance from beneath his gilt-dusted lashes. "I had to know when he was coming back to the cottage, didn't I?"

  She tightened her lips. "You have an answer for everything, don't you? Well, why don't we give your precious Arthur a taste of the wrath of God
?" She stroked the amulet, its familiar contours imbuing her with courage. "I daresay a lightning bolt between the eyes would singe that smirk off his face."

  Tristan drew her away from the window, his grasp on her shoulders both firm and gentle. "Can you guarantee you won't accidentally singe off Cop's ponytail? Or turn that hulking thing that's got hold of him into a man-eating crocodile?"

  She nodded hopefully, then shook her head, knowing Tristan was right. They could hardly afford to trust Cop's life to the erratic performance of the amulet.

  Tristan's eyes narrowed as he considered their dilemma. "I want you to go to the window. Tell Arthur you'll surrender peacefully if he'll come and escort you down. Alone."

  Unable to bear the thought of losing Tristan so soon after finding him, Arian gripped his coat in her frantic hands. "But if he knows Copperfield is here, he must suspect that you're here."

  "That suits me just fine," Tristan replied, sliding his hand beneath his coat. It emerged gripping Sven's sleek Glock 9-millimeter. The modem weapon looked as out of place as he did in this provincial time.

  "What about Warlock? We can't risk him getting his hands on it again."

  Tristan assessed the sparse room, his gaze brightening when he spotted a loose plank in the floorboard. "Hide it under there. We'll come back for it as soon as we rescue Copperfield. It shouldn't take very long. Those self-righteous prigs will probably scatter once we expose Linnet for the miserable fraud he is."

  Arian obeyed, feeling a twinge of loss as she tucked the amulet beneath the board. But Tristan was there to press a fierce kiss of encouragement to her trembling lips.

  Drawing in a bracing breath of his cologne, she stepped up to the window.

  "Saucy bitch!"

  "Demon's concubine!"

  "Satan's whore!"

  "She flinched as she recognized Constable Ingersoll's bellow. Behind Linnet, Charity Burke fell to the ground, her nubile body writhing and twisting in a convincing travesty of a fit. The curses swelled to screams, then died abruptly as Linnet cut his hand through the air, demanding silence.