But if he couldn’t tap Trethledan House’s natural power since he wasn’t attuned to it…
“Are you safe?” she whispered, forcing the words out through a suddenly tight throat.
“Almost certainly—as long as I stay within its boundaries.” His mouth twisted.
CHAPTER SIX
Emma’s mind whirled in a thousand directions. Trethledan House contained enough power to keep a mage safe? But if he couldn’t leave, or send a message with his magick, what could they do? Two of Grandfather’s carrier pigeons had died before he’d called off any more such attempts. Clearly, Owen would need to try again, but how?
He was pacing the carpet, as if it represented a prison’s boundaries. She shivered slightly, hoping his magick would return soon before he battered himself to death trying to escape.
A brisk knock sounded, and one of the youngest maids entered, twisting her hands in her apron. “Mrs. Sinclair?”
Emma frowned slightly. Why did she look so nervous? “Yes, Simpson, what is it?” she asked, keeping her voice as gentle as possible.
Emma glanced sideways at Owen. His gaze met hers briefly—wary, calculating—before returning to the little maid, looking lost in her starched uniform.
“Mr. Trevelyan has come to call. Mr. Carey put him in the morning room and said I was to bring you immediately.” She curtsied again, her eyes enormous in her white face.
Emma’s jaw fell open. Why was her very well-trained butler treating Trevelyan like a dear friend of the family, instead of a regrettably close neighbor? He’d always helped her fend off Trevelyan’s advances before, but this arrangement would provide an intimate atmosphere to their encounter. To say nothing of having Simpson ask her to come immediately!
“Tell Carey that Mrs. Sinclair and Mr. Bentham will follow you down,” Owen purred, steel shimmering through the polite words. “And instruct him to serve tea in—fifteen minutes?”
Emma raised an eyebrow at him but nodded. “Yes, fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sir.” Simpson bobbed again and fled, her apron’s long ties rippling behind her.
“You shouldn’t come!” Emma snapped at Owen, turning for the door. She could have slapped him.
He firmly placed her hand on his arm. “His arrival means danger.”
“For you! What if he tells whoever the other mage is that you’re here?”
“Do you have any idea who the treasonous mage may be?” His expression was as calm as if they were strolling in a garden.
“No,” she snarled, “and don’t try to change the subject.”
Owen shrugged, still maintaining a relaxed facade. “He shouldn’t be able to tell I’m a mage. There’s more than enough power loose here for me to maintain a glamour, which will hide my magick from anyone except another mage.”
“Owen!” Who cared about whether he could wear a disguise, when there was someone around who would prattle about strangers?
“I won’t allow you to be alone with anyone who might be strong enough to set an attack spell in this house.” He looked at her sternly, his blue eyes brilliant in his harsh face. “Do you understand?”
Her throat worked, but no words formed. Aches and sorrows, piled up responsibilities from years of caring for her grandfather alone, while the rest of her family built their lives elsewhere—shifted and shattered at the first offering of protection from someone else.
She smacked her hand into her fist, but reluctantly nodded and leaned on his arm, settling instinctively into a posture of deep trust and affection. “Of course. But I’ll do my best to protect you, too.”
He made a noise somewhere between a snicker and a snort. They arrived in the blue drawing room, still in perfect harmony—at least for the moment. His obstinacy probably wouldn’t permit that to last.
THE morning room was obviously a gathering place for ladies, its few pieces of fragile furniture designed to encourage intimate conversation. A single table held pride of place, adorned in the fashionable Egyptian style and ready to offer meals, cards, or any other diversion to the lady of the house and a few friends. A settee, a few chairs, and some tables offered opportunities for more casual chats. Elegant silk draperies framed the superb view of the Channel, while delicate wallpaper and superb wainscoting covered the walls. It sang of comfort, money, and a matchless style, all the more superb because it came without effort. It was exactly the sort of room that Owen’s father’s social-climbing wife would have given her entire wardrobe to enter just once—and that Owen had spent a lifetime avoiding.
Now he saw almost none of its beauties, since his skin was crawling with a thousand, tiny worms at the sight of its occupant. His personal wards had gone on high alert.
“Mr. Charles Trevelyan,” Carey announced.
A dark-haired man, well-limbed, of average height with regular features, turned to face them from beyond the table. His attire was ostentatious enough for London’s fancier clubs, with his gaudy waistcoat and intricately tied neckcloth. But his eyes, which had originally been warm, turned flat and cold as soon as they met Owen’s.
A French-trained mage, one of the two who’d authored the gale, and almost certainly the bastard who’d built the land-based portion, damn him. Powerful, too—far more so than Owen.
He stiffened, eyeing Owen with as much warmth as one stallion would survey another sniffing around the gate to the stable.
Without any hesitation, Owen bespelled Carey, blasting through the few remnants of Trevelyan’s original spell.
“Mr. John Smith,” Carey announced and withdrew immediately, as ordered by Owen, not Trevelyan.
Owen nodded very slightly, never taking his eyes off the newcomer. If he’d had a magickal knife handy, he’d have used it. Thankfully, the house loathed Trevelyan, slowing its magickal currents around the traitor until they looked like a swamp to Owen’s magesight.
“Mr. Trevelyan.” Emma curtsied, with a remarkably false smile pasted on her face.
Owen ignored her reactions. As long as he was between her and Trevelyan, he was more worried about the traitor. He could explain matters to her another day.
“Do you mean to stay long in Cornwall?” Trevelyan asked rudely, circling the table to free himself for a move on Owen.
“I’m an old friend of the General’s, if it’s any of your affair,” Owen drawled coldly, closely watching his enemy.
Damn it to hell, why hadn’t he studied advanced magicks at school, including the use of coteries and coalitions, instead of demanding immediate service to the Crown? If he’d claimed more of his blasted mother’s magick, he’d be better able to protect Emma.
The gryphon’s shadowy feathers brushed his palm but didn’t take shape. He bit back his disappointment, recognizing that this was yet another occasion when he’d be the first to take action, not look to an elemental spirit for help.
Emma circled behind him, her skirts rustling against his legs. She settled herself at the table, beside a package cleverly wrapped in crimson silk, and folded her hands, looking extraordinarily civilized.
“Did you travel here from London?” Owen fenced.
The other laughed, the sound coiling through the air.
“Paris, by way of Calais, keeping my boots dry the entire time. Did you travel as comfortably, Bentham—or did your wardrobe suffer through an untimely accident? Such a pity, isn’t it, when ill-managed ships go down in storms.” He took a pinch of snuff, his voice as silky as his words were barbed.
He dared refer to the deliberate destruction of a Royal Navy ship as an untimely accident?
Owen narrowed his eyes, his fingers curling into the first phrases of an attack spell. That settled it: Trevelyan recognized him and had challenged him to open war.
“No, you will finish dashed to pieces on the rocks, Trevelyan. Or should I say—M’sieu Trevelyan?”
The other glared at the open mention of treason. He made a short, jerky wave, and every candle suddenly burst into life, making the room as bright as a midsummer h
igh noon.
Owen’s mouth tightened. It had been a simple spell, yet Trevelyan had needed considerable strength to act against Emma’s home’s hostility to him. Power that Owen couldn’t match, because of his recently healed injuries. Couldn’t have matched on his best day, because he’d never allowed himself to work with other mages. Damn his foolish arrogance and hatred of any connection to his mother.
“Mrs. Sinclair is a charming lady, whom I have had the honor of escorting for some time,” Trevelyan retorted, shifting the basis for combat, with his tones edged in steel.
Owen went cold, his fingers flexing in preparation for spell-casting. Like hell would he allow that damned traitor to announce that she belonged to him!
“Mrs. Sinclair is a remarkable British lady, whose grace and charm must be treated with respect. If she is treated with anything less than courtesy, her gift will disappear.” If you’re arrogant enough to anger and frighten a chalice, especially one of her depth, you’ll never be able to draw from her, you fool.
“Until it is charmed back into life again.” Trevelyan smirked.
Good God, was that the bastard’s game? Did he mean to steal her, even knowing that he wouldn’t be able to personally draw from her magickal reserves? Then sell Emma later, letting the highest bidder seduce her and bring her gifts back to life? Why, that—
“Mr. Trevelyan,” Mrs. Sinclair interrupted. “It is very good of you to give me such a generous gift, but you must understand…” Her voice trailed off.
Owen whipped around and found the embodiment of a foul nightmare.
Emma Sinclair was staring down at a square of crimson silk on the table. An ornate Chinese fan lay in the center, with bejeweled ivory sticks and richly painted silks. The image was of entwined salamanders, bowing to each other and writhing together lasciviously. The French elemental spirits in their mating dance, dammit.
She was completely ensorcelled—and as a chalice, she lacked the means to break free.
She stroked the fan tentatively, and the painted salamanders seemed to reach out to her, the black brush strokes ready to glide up her slender fingers onto her wrist.
Good God, Emma, don’t look at it!
“Mr. Trevelyan,” she choked, still staring at the fan, “it’s very beautiful.”
Owen instantly formed every bit of power he possessed into a dart and hurled it at Trevelyan’s heart.
An instant before it arrived, the traitor languidly waved his hand. A great mirror immediately dropped into place before Trevelyan, which reflected Owen and everything else in the room perfectly—including Emma, where she sat haplessly gazing at the silken lure.
Owen’s dart pushed into the mirror, compressed, and sped back out—toward Emma.
Dear God, no! Owen immediately leaped into its path and gathered it close to his chest. It detonated in his arms, shattering the world into dark shards lit with occasional flames and ripping away his ability to breathe.
He gasped helplessly and rolled on the ground, aching in every bone. If he didn’t protect her, nobody would.
Trevelyan shot Owen a look of pure triumph and almost chortled. “The fan suits you splendidly, my dear Mrs. Sinclair, especially its scarlet and gold.”
“But—but it’s very expensive.” Her voice strengthened slightly on a lady’s instinctive refusal. A little thread of hope slipped into Owen’s heart. His lungs started to work on a more regular schedule.
“It’s quite improper, I’m afraid.” She gulped but didn’t push the fan aside.
Owen was no longer seeing stars. He managed to pull himself up to his knees, using an empty chair.
“Don’t you want to use it the first time you go to a very grand ball?” Trevelyan’s voice tightened with malice, and the painted salamanders slipped onto her fingers.
“I, ah, I,” she gasped, staring helplessly at the fan.
“Damn you, let her go, Trevelyan!” Owen tried to issue an order—but it came out as more of a croak.
“You can’t stop me, now that she’s willingly touched the fan,” Trevelyan snapped back. “I’ll march her out of here, and then I’ll come back for you.”
Hell and damnation! Trevelyan was too well protected by the mirror spell for Owen to attack him, lest any stray shots hurt her. After being blasted like that, Owen had the stamina of a first-year student.
What else could be done? Think, man, think.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” Owen coaxed, racking his brain for what she’d told him. She might not be able to work much magick on her own, but she could still work some.
She paid no attention to him. The fiery lizards slithered up her hands.
“Emma!” He called her by her oldest name, the one her intimates used.
Her fingers stilled on the fan, but she didn’t look at him.
“Be silent, fool,” Trevelyan ordered.
Owen ignored him. His deeds weren’t a direct attack, so the other couldn’t use that nasty shield. But if he tried any offensive magicks, the house’s own defenses should protect Owen. God willing…
“Emma, remember the spell Nurse taught you, the one for true sight of any danger?” He called her, using the magickal command voice seldom uttered by independent mages, lest its tones shatter every cell in their bodies.
She hesitated, her teeth gnawing at her lower lip. The lizards’ tails reached toward her wrists like manacles.
“No!” roared Trevelyan. “You will not break the spell.”
“She has a right to choose,” retorted Owen. “The land here will back me in this.”
A deep hum sounded, below anything his ears could have heard. God help them all, the land had heard him and would do battle for her. But he lacked the magick to be its master; only Emma could perform that role.
Its deep war cry echoed through his bones and lifted him to his feet. Staggering a little, he made his way to behind Emma’s chair.
Trevelyan stiffened, glancing rapidly around the room. Did he have enough magick to tame the ungoverned land?
“I say she has already chosen!” Trevelyan gestured violently. The house acted, pouring more of its delays like a viscous liquid over the intruder, until he seemed to be moving slower and slower.
Owen’s mouth thinned, and he turned his full attention to Emma. God alone knew how much time he still had to dissuade her. At least her true name had reached her through Trevelyan’s spell.
“It’s a very simple spell,” Owen crooned, disciplining himself not to shout at her. They had very little time to act before Trevelyan succeeded in pushing aside the house’s objections.
Emma nodded slowly, still enraptured by the writhing lizards.
“Say it for me, Emma.” Because he couldn’t speak it for her, lest the change in her vision be considered unwilling and therefore not break the spell. “Emma, please.” His voice broke on the last word.
She shuddered slightly, but it was enough to make the lizards hesitate for an instant.
“Goddess bright,” she began and went on, her voice growing more confident with every syllable.
And every word brought more power into the air, until all of Owen’s hair was standing on end. Sparks began to float off the tables and swirl across the room. The house seemed to be holding its breath…
She confidently finished the request for white light and leaned back into his arms.
A blinding flash of brilliant light immediately washed over her hands and the fan, revealing the malicious snakes in all their writhing ugliness. A bitter scent swept across the room, borne on a river of fiery sparks.
Emma screamed and stood up, flinging the fan away from her. It tumbled over the floor to Trevelyan’s feet, the sticks clattering like angry demons.
She collapsed back against Owen. He promptly caught her, his heart pounding at her safety and her proximity. She smelled of lavender and rosemary, of freedom and new beginnings.
“Mrs. Sinclair! How dare you break my beautiful offering?” Trevelyan snarled, his coat awry and murder in his eyes. “Do
you have any idea how much it cost me to create that?”
Owen glared at him, his arms wrapped around the shaking woman. He lifted his hand to strike—and Trevelyan immediately countered with the same move, his mirrored shield springing into life above and around his palm. Damn, damn, damn—he couldn’t break through that bastard’s strength alone.
He forced the bitter taste of failure back and returned to what could be done without risking injury to her.
“You can demand that he leave, Emma,” Owen encouraged her. At least she could move directly. “Emma, you know the spell.”
Her throat worked for a moment before she found the words. “Depart, foul intruder!” she snapped.
Trevelyan finished sliding the fan into the pocket in his coat’s tails and stood up, his ugly expression quickly smoothing into guilelessness. “But, my dear Mrs. Sinclair—”
She came erect, without Owen’s assistance, and her voice rang with determination—and generations of magick-wielders.
The formal chant filled the room, lifting every hair on Owen’s body and sending icy needles dancing across his skin. How the devil was she managing to control so much power? She was a chalice, not a mage trained to work spells. Even adepts might find themselves burned out—or even dead—after an exertion like this.
She flung her hands out and pushed Trevelyan away on the final syllables, her face as stark as any battle goddess’s.
The house howled, echoes of its deep voice ringing through the halls. “Leave, Trevelyan, and never set foot on Trethledan property again.”
Dear lord, the land’s very roots were marching to war for her. Owen fought the instinct to duck and remained upright behind her, lending her all the mage craft he could, hoping against hope it would be enough to keep her alive.
The door to the hallway promptly swung open, untouched by human hands.
Trevelyan glared at it and deliberately turned back to Emma, his hair streaming back from his face.
She was shaking badly, her face white. Owen clasped her by the waist—and fire surged into him. He arched back onto his toes, his teeth clenched, but managed to maintain his hold. My darling, hold on a little longer…
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