Bewitched

by Cullman, Heather;

  Contemptuously deciding it would, she stuck her nose in the air and lifted her hems. Without sparing him so much as a parting glance, she started toward the nearest opening in the foundation of the demolished wall.

  She was halfway there when his hateful voice lashed out. “Stay!” It was an order, naturally, a brusquely uttered one.

  Emily paused, more out of annoyance than in obeyance of his command. Stay indeed! How dare he bark at her like that … like she was a dog or a horse or some other poor dumb creature to be mastered and directed? Though she was sorely tempted to ignore him, to show him exactly what she thought of him and his high-handedness, she couldn’t resist tossing over her shoulder, “If you think that I am going to stay and suffer more of your insults, then your illness has damaged your brain far worse than anyone suspects.” Adding a sniff to emphasize her disdain, she resumed her retreat.

  “Emily, stop.” Another command, this one edged with fury. Or was that frustration?

  Who cared? Rather enjoying her defiance, she continued on her way, making a show of ignoring him.

  “Emily would you … oh … bloody hell!” From behind her she heard the rustle of the tall, dry weeds and the grating of pebbles beneath his boots as he began to stalk after her.

  She quickened her pace.

  Judging from the sound of his footsteps, he followed suit.

  She accelerated a fraction more, practically running now.

  “Damn it, Emily! Will you stop … please? I am trying to apologize.” There was no mistaking the tone of his voice this time: it was frustration laced with a distinct note of pleading.

  Astonished, as much by his tone as by his words, she did as he requested. What was this? The hateful duke of Sherrington pleading to apologize? Impossible! Certain that she had heard amiss, Emily shot him a sharp glance over her shoulder and snapped, “What did you say?”

  “I wish to apologize,” he repeated tautly. “I have treated you abominably, and I am sorry.”

  She remained motionless for a beat, appraising his words, then slowly turned to face him, frowning her consternation. “Why?”

  He paused, as if taken aback by her question, then took several more strides forward, stopping a scant yard from where she stood. His handsome face a mask of impeccable cordiality, he politely inquired, “Why what? Why did I treat you so abominably, or why am I sorry?”

  “Why do you wish to apologize? I mean”—she shook her head, her hands spreading in a gesture of perplexed query—“you made it perfectly clear that you neither like me nor want me for your wife. Why bother to apologize to someone you so clearly despise?”

  Though his expression didn’t change, a shadow darkened his stunning jade eyes, dimming their jewel-like brilliance. “I do not despise you, Emily. I never did,” he softly replied.

  She made a skeptical noise. “You most certainly could have fooled me, your grace. It seems to me that a person wouldn’t speak to another in the manner in which you spoke to me and then banish them from their sight if they didn’t despise them.”

  “A person wouldn’t, no, but a bastard would. Bastards are stupid, thoughtless creatures with a regrettable tendency to utter asinine things that they usually do not mean and inevitably live to regret.” A wry smile tugged at the corners of his exquisitely sculpted lips. “And as you, yourself, pointed out, I am a dreadful bastard.”

  “Yes, you are,” she readily agreed, not about to be mollified by his display of charm. “However, being a bastard is no excuse for your behavior, nor does it explain why you wish to apologize now, a full month after the offense.”

  He stared at her for several beats, as if grappling for a response, then heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. Pressing his fingers against his forehead, as if his thoughts had made it ache, he murmured, “What can I say? There is no defense for the way I acted. I was angry and resentful over being forced into this marriage, and I unfairly took my bitterness out on you. It was a vile thing to do, I know that, and I shan’t blame you if you never forgive me. However, if you do choose to hate me for the rest of your life, please know that what I said and did on our wedding day in no way reflects my true feelings for you.”

  There was an oddly frayed quality to his voice, a note of weary, almost dejected resignation that thawed the icy edge of Emily’s hostility. Nonetheless, she was nowhere near forgiving him, so she kept her tone deliberately frigid as she inquired, “Oh? And what, pray tell, are your feelings for me?”

  He sighed again and dropped his hand from his forehead. Opening his eyes to meet her suspicious gaze with one of naked candor, he softly confessed, “Quite simply, I admire you.”

  Of all the things he might have said, that he admired her was the last one she expected to hear. Drawing back slightly in her incredulity, she demanded, “How can you admire someone whose beliefs you hold in such contempt? And do not insult me by trying to tell me that you actually respect them, not after the viciousness with which you attacked them.”

  “Again, what can I say?” He shook his head, his upturned palms extending in a gesture of helpless supplication. “I am a bastard. Someone should have done the world a favor and shot me years ago.”

  “So we have established,” she tartly countered, though something inside her softened at the sight of him dining on humble pie.

  “We have also established that bastards are stupid, thoughtless creatures who have a tendency to say things they do not mean, remember?”

  She nodded.

  He nodded back, his lips crooking into a sheepish smile. “Well then, there you are. I was simply doing what bastards do best. And like most bastards of my ilk, I genuinely regret my words. The truth is … and please do not take this as an insult, for I have quite enough to apologize for as it is … I honestly do respect your beliefs.”

  “Indeed?” she murmured, his unorthodox apology thawing her another degree. For all that he was a bastard, he could be rather engaging when he put his mind to it.

  Another nod. “Oh, I admit that I do not share your views in some matters, but I do respect your right to hold them. Truly. And should you ever learn to trust me enough to discuss them again, I promise to listen thoughtfully and respond in a civil manner. If you wish proof of my sincerity, you may have my pistol and my permission to shoot me should I transform into a bastard during any conversation you choose to grant me.”

  Emily started to smile at the charming absurdity of his offer, catching herself in the very nick of time. No! No! She couldn’t forgive him yet. She wasn’t ready to do so, not after all he’d said and done. Besides, he had yet to explain his sudden wish to make amends. Until he did, how could she possibly trust him enough to befriend him? Firmly ignoring the softening of her heart, she coolly replied, “You may rest assured that I will take you up on your offer should I ever decide to engage you in a tête-à-tête, though I think it only fair to warn you that I am quite adept with a pistol.”

  He grinned in a way that reduced the remaining ice of her hostility to a rapidly melting slush. “Excellent. You shall be far more inclined to chat with me if you aren’t worried about missing your shot.”

  “I am afraid not, your grace,” she retorted, shaking her head. “The only thing that could induce me to chat with you is trust, something I cannot even begin to feel until I understand your reason for wishing to secure my forgiveness. Even you must admit it odd for a man to have such a sudden change of heart.”

  His smile faltered at her words, though it was apparent from the strain around his lips that he was trying hard to maintain it. “If you must know, the change wasn’t so very sudden. I have wished to make amends for some time now.”

  “You have?” She drew back, staring at him in astonishment.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you do so? I mean …” She shook her head, frowning her incomprehension. “Your apology would have been ever so much easier for
you to tender and for me to accept had you not allowed the animosity between us to fester.”

  He managed to preserve his smile for a beat longer, then let it slip with a sigh. Looking suddenly weary and defeated, he admitted, “I did not apologize simply because I didn’t know how. There seemed nothing I could possibly say or do to make up for the way I treated you. As I said, I admire you immensely, which made what I did seem all the more deplorable.”

  The slush of her once-frigid wrath dissolved completely in the face of his humility. Tempted to forgive him, but wishing to understand and solidify the terms of their truce before doing so, she countered, “You admit that you disagree with my views, yet you claim to admire me. How can that be?”

  “Just because we differ in our beliefs regarding witches and curses doesn’t automatically doom us to disagreement on every other subject. Indeed, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that we agree on a great many matters.” He nodded once, smiling in a way that left little doubt in her mind as to his conviction in what he said. “In fact, it is one of those many other matters, your view of life to be precise, that prompted my admiration.”

  Again he took her aback. “What?” And again she frowned, this time eyeing him as if he’d taken a leave of his senses, which at that moment she rather suspected he had. “I do not recall discussing any such view with you. Ever.”

  He shrugged. “You didn’t have to. It is obvious. It was from the very moment we met.”

  “It was?” Her frown deepened, as did her bewilderment.

  He nodded. “By your willingness to make the best of our marriage, you demonstrated a remarkably optimistic outlook on life. That you were able to maintain that outlook in the face of what I know was an immensely difficult situation for you illustrated both courage and an amazing strength.”

  “Do you really think so?” she murmured, reluctantly flattered by the portrait he painted of her character. No one had ever referred to her as strong and courageous before, both traits she had always considered highly laudable.

  Another nod, this one adamant. “I know so. Why, I can only imagine how daunting it must have been for you to be shipped off to a foreign land and forced into marriage with a stranger … especially when that stranger turned out to be me, a man who even I must admit is no bargain. That you were willing to accept me and my shortcomings, and still hold out hope for a successful marriage, well”—he shook his head—“it leaves me breathless with awe every time I think of the courage it must have taken for you to do so.”

  “It really didn’t take all that much courage,” she demurred, remembering her own breathless awe of his beauty the first time she saw him.

  He snorted. “It took more than I can claim, obviously.”

  So bitter, so full of pain and self-loathing, was the utterance that Emily, whose heart had always been too tender for her own good, was moved to show him compassion. Resisting the urge to reach out and take his hands in hers, she gently replied, “I daresay it wasn’t so much a want of courage, but a lack of health that made you behave as you did. No doubt you would have handled matters differently were you not so ill.”

  “Were I not so ill, neither of us would have been forced into this marriage. I would have remained free to choose my own bride, and Euphemia most probably would have allowed you to wed whomever you pleased.” He shook his head, chuckling harshly. “Do you want to know the real irony in all of this?” Apparently it was a rhetorical question, for he answered without pause, “Given the choice, I would have chosen you.”

  “What!” she gasped, stunned.

  He nodded. “It is true, Emily. If I were still in the position to choose and you were offered as a choice, I would take you in an instant. How could I not? You are brave, strong, kind, intelligent, and gracious, not to mention more beautiful than any woman has a right to be. It would be an honor and a pleasure to court you. Who knows? Were I still the man I once was, you might even look upon me with favor.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say,” she stammered, rendered utterly speechless by his flattering disclosure.

  He shrugged. “There is nothing left to be said. That being the case, I will take my leave and let you enjoy the remainder of your walk in peace.” After sketching an elegant bow, he turned on his heels and started back in the direction from which he had come.

  Dumbfounded, Emily stared at his retreating back, an odd sense of longing tightening her chest as she watched him go. She forgave him. Oh yes, she forgave him … with all her heart. Suddenly desperate to tell him so, she blurted out, “Your grace?”

  He halted, then slowly turned, his face a study of urbane politeness as he waited for her to continue.

  She swallowed hard, silently cursing as her already warm cheeks flamed. Feeling strangely shy and uncertain, she stammered out, “I just wanted to say … um … that … that …” What? What should she say? What could she say? She struggled to think of something, anything at all to express what she felt. When nothing came to mind, she forced herself to begin again, making up the words as she went along. “I mean … uh … I was wondering if … if you would … er … care to walk with me a bit?” So what if the utterance wasn’t a gem of eloquence? It conveyed her forgiveness.

  To her gratification, he smiled, really smiled, the first time she’d ever seen him do so. The effect was dazzling, making her already skipping heart turn giddy cartwheels across her chest. Beaming as if she’d just granted him his fondest wish, he huskily replied, “I can think of nothing in the world that would give me greater pleasure.”

  Chapter 9

  Ah, yes. These would make perfect angel wing feathers.

  Emily separated the six gold-shot sheets of white tissue from the thick folio before her, nodding her satisfaction with her selection. The folio, which held what she estimated to be at least a hundred sheets of exquisitely colored and printed Chinese paper, had been a parting gift from Daniel, along with a chest containing all the other necessary tools and materials required to continue her kite making.

  It was a marvelous gift, the best one he could have given her, for designing and making, not to mention flying, kites was her greatest delight. Indeed, nothing raised her spirits quite like building a new kite, which was why she always turned to the pastime whenever she felt sad or lonely, or was troubled and needed to think. In view of that fact, she had spent much of her time since her wedding day ensconced here, at the long sewing room cutting table, building kite after splendid kite, each design more ambitious than the last. The one she currently constructed, an angel built on the principles of a Chinese bird-kite, was without doubt the most impressive yet.

  After pausing a moment to consider how best to simulate feathers, Emily picked up her shears and began cutting the delicate tissue into long strips. What occupied her mind as she worked, however, wasn’t her project, but her husband.

  Though he had flitted through her thoughts frequently over the past month, despite her best efforts to keep him at bay, he now firmly possessed her mind. How could he not? After a month spent ignoring her, he had made a sudden, but what at the time had struck her as a sincere gesture toward friendship, only to resume avoiding her immediately afterward.

  Or so it seemed. Emily frowned, not quite certain what to think. Despite her machinations to contrive another meeting, she hadn’t so much as glimpsed her enigmatic husband in the two days following their initial encounter. Why, she’d even spent several hours of both those days lingering about the ruins, where he’d said he walked daily, but he had never appeared. That he would remain so conspicuously absent after taking the pains to mention his strolls had to mean that he was avoiding her … what other explanation could there be?

  None, she decided for the tenth time that hour. At least none that made a whit of sense. She shook her head, sighing over her conclusion. What made his absence all the more confounding, not to mention exceedingly disappointing, was that he had been so
charming during their brief walk. In truth, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a man’s company more. He’d been so warm, so very unaffected in both manner and conversation.

  Indeed, unlike most men in her acquaintance, whose idea of conversing with a woman was to pretend to hang on to her every word and respond with banal pleasantries, Michael had listened, really listened to her. He’d thoughtfully considered everything she said and had replied in a manner that paid homage to her intellect, something as refreshing as it was flattering. Best of all, he had patiently answered her questions about the legend, explaining the tale with an engaging logic that had had her smiling at her own foolishness in ever believing it.

  The story of the hanged monks, it seemed, had come about as a result of the abbey’s lay-brothers’ custom of drying laundry on the branches of the infamous oak tree. On the authority of an account written by the abbot of the time, one which Michael had said still remained in the abbey library and that she was welcome to read any time she so desired, the legend was started by two local youths, who had sought shelter at the cloisters after being caught in a storm while hunting on the moors.

  Because the monks lived in seclusion and little was known about their activities, they had taken on a mysterious, almost sinister aspect in the primitive minds of the neighboring peasants, thus prompting rumors of nefarious goings-on behind the forbidding monastery walls.

  The truth of the matter was that this particular abbey was devoted to the care of the order’s elderly and infirm members, which was why the cloisters had been built a distance from the main monastery buildings, something that Michael had explained was highly irregular. The intended purpose of this separation was to allow the ailing brothers to spend what was often their final days in peace and quiet, away from the normal hustle-bustle of the ever-industrious Cistercian monks.