by Sandra Heath
“And it has cost him dearly so to do. There is no profit in the old ways. Sir Conan, and for some time now he has been bolstering this community with his own money. Now, however, thanks to the despicable activities of Mr. Samuel Maine—” She realized how indiscreet she was being, and broke off abruptly.
“Go on, Miss Elcester.”
“I-I shouldn’t say anything more.”
“Why?”
“Because it wouldn’t do for Lord Carmartin to learn too much,” she replied candidly.
“Don’t you trust me even now, Miss Elcester?”
She blushed a little. “It’s not that, it’s ... ”
“It is that,” he retorted. “I promise that whatever you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence. Now then, what were you about to say?”
“That a villain called Samuel Haine swindled my father out of a lot of money, and that is the reason why this match with Mr. Greatorex is going ahead. Elcester Manor needs the money Lord Carmartin is offering, both to keep the village and estate going and to make sure it stays in Elcester hands for the time being. If Lord Carmartin were to discover the truth about my father’s finances, he would insist upon much harsher terms.”
Conan gazed at her. “So that’s why your father has agreed to marry you off to Theo.”
“Yes, just as I imagine Lord Carmartin has linked Mr. Greatorex’s inheritance to agreement to a match that will place most of this escarpment and vale in Carmartin hands. I make no bones about my opinion of Lord Carmartin, for he is a miserly and ruthless man who will not like it at all when he discovers that Elcester Manor is not as profitable as he believes. I am sure he thinks he is acquiring a thriving estate that will not only provide another piece for his grand jigsaw, but will help to swell his already overflowing coffers. The latter could not be further from the truth. Still, my conscience is clear about keeping such a circumstance quiet. The manor and its people are what matters, and this is the best that can be done for them.”
Conan grinned. “Well, I think it fair enough. Caveat emptor, as they say.”
“They do indeed.” She took off her hat and laid it beside her on the cloak.
Conan picked a primrose and twirled it between his fingers and thumb. “Do not fear that I will impart any of this to Theo either, for I will not. Actually, speaking of Theo, perhaps you should know that I haven’t said a word about last night, not even that I was there, let alone you. He has become somewhat upset by events, so I deemed it best to say nothing more to him. Nor will I mention that I have met you, so at dinner tonight, if you—
Ursula gave an incredulous laugh. “Sir Conan, do you imagine I am going to sip my soup and say, ‘Will you please pass the salt, and oh, by the way, I’ve been keeping clandestine assignations with your best friend, and seeing supernatural things from time to time’? I can just imagine how well that would go down with my father! You may rest assured, sir, that not word of any of this will pass my lips to anyone except you. I do not wish to be consigned to a bedlam, thank you very much.”
Conan smiled into her eyes, adoring her sense of humor; adoring absolutely everything about her. “Miss Elcester, I envy Theo his bride,” he said softly, and before he knew it was even in his mind, he leaned forward to put his lips to hers.
She knew she should pull away, but that was the very last thing she wished to do. He had spoken of her lack of trust, but at this moment she trusted him implicitly, his motives, his intentions, everything, so her lips yielded beneath his, and she closed her eyes as a current of desire began to rise through her. Wild joy sparkled over her body, a hungry, warming, sensuous joy that bewitched her senses as surely as any spell, and she linked her arms around his neck and lay back on the cloak. It was the act of a wanton, but not even that seemed to matter. Sweet temptation beckoned, and willingly she followed.
Conan’s die was cast. The honesty of her response fanned an already kindled flame, and the needful heat burned through his loins. He was conscious of an arousal that was infinitely more intense than any he had experienced before, and as he pressed her to him, he knew how very close he was to making ardent, complete love to her. He held her body against his, and as his kiss became a confession that needed no words, it took every last vestige of his self-control not to take her right there among the primroses.
She clung to him, still aware of how very wrong this was, but unable to help herself. She hardly knew him, yet she felt she knew all there was to know. It was as if in him she had found her other half, and all that was needed now to make those two halves whole would be complete surrender. All thought of her betrothal to Theo slipped away into a wonderful, voluptuous oblivion, and it seemed that the earth itself was no longer of substance. She could feel his masculinity, so close and yet so far, so exciting and yet so dangerous, and tumultuous sensations ran riot within her, taking her to what seemed the very edge of consciousness. If this pleasure could be enjoyed from a single kiss, how much more must there be from the act of love itself? Oh, to know the answer now, to share it with this man above all others ...
Conan had to force himself back from the brink. He couldn’t do this, he mustn’t do this! Cold reality stung him, and he scrambled to his feet and walked away a few steps as he tried to gather his senses. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and gazed at the vale, which now seemed to shimmer with colors more vibrant than before, then he turned back to see her sitting up in mortified confusion, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
She met his gaze, but with difficulty. “What must you think of me? That I have no morals? No honor?”
He went to take her hand and pull her up into his arms again. “I think the world itself of you, Ursula,” he breathed, his lips against her hair. “I want you so much that I can hardly bear it, and now I know you want me too ... ” He couldn’t finish the sentence, for knowing that his feelings were reciprocated increased the dilemma of wanting Theo’s intended wife.
“I do want you too, oh, how I do,” she whispered.
“If the saving of Elcester Manor were the only purpose of your betrothal to Theo, I would not hesitate to go to your father with a better offer than Lord Carmartin’s, but I have to consider Theo. His uncle has made him honor-bound to marry you and only you. Carmartin is not a reasonable man.”
The jarring reminder stabbed painfully into her heart, and she drew back immediately, her illusions shattering like glass. She had broken the rules with him, shared tender intimacies never shared before, and now he took refuge in the arranged match she had been able to forget for those few stolen moments.
“Please, Ursula ... ” he began.
“I think Miss Elcester would be more appropriate, don’t you?” she said, trying to sound level. “I also think it best if we forget the last few minutes ever happened.”
“Forget? How can we possibly forget?” he cried.
“It’s all we can do. I’m sure we are both adult enough to know how to behave from now on.” She retrieved her hat and pinned it in place again. “Rest assured that when you and Mr. Greatorex come to dinner tonight, I will be all that is civil and agreeable.”
“Please don’t leave like this,” he pleaded, for once in his life unable to handle a situation with any composure at all. He tried to take her hand again, but she snatched it out of reach and walked quickly over to Miss Muffet. She was hurt and humiliated, and believed she had made a fool of herself. Now all she wanted to do was escape to a small corner somewhere, so that she could sob away the pain and mortification.
She untied the mare’s reins, and suddenly Conan was there with her again. He tried to clasp her hand, to make her look at him, but she wouldn’t. She struggled to mount, and in the end he lifted her up onto the saddle. Then he held Miss Muffet’s bridle. “Ursula, you wrong me greatly by what you believe of me now.”
“I think not, sir. That one kiss is all we will ever share!” she cried tearfully.
Kicking her heel, she urged the mare away from the barrow, and as Conan gazed helplessly a
fter her, there were tears in his eyes too.
Chapter 23
Bellamy Taynton was already in a foul mood when he returned from Dursley, because his chill had worsened, his sore leg had not been helped by the jolting of the pony cart, and he’d had to pay more for his purchases than he liked. On top of that the petals had all fallen off his nosegay, and he’d lost his fine gold pin. His foul mood turned to incandescent fury when he learned the squirrel had gone again, this time without a trace. He vented his spleen upon Vera, who promptly burst into tears and ran to her room, leaving the remaining kitchen staff with the problem of feeding the Age stagecoach passengers, who would shortly arrive. The innkeeper knew he needed Vera’s sure touch with the cooking, and so gritted his teeth to speak sweetly to her through her locked door. She was eventually persuaded to come out again, but only after he promised not to shout at her for the loss of the squirrel. This he did, although with shamefully bad grace.
After a while his temper calmed a little, and he assessed the situation as he sat in his private parlor with his feet in a bowl of hot mustard water, drinking a posset cup of hot gruel laced with rum. The squirrel had been present in the woods last night when he had performed the first, most essential, incantation, and the shooting star had been a sign that the gods were favorable, so if he stayed calm and clear-headed he was assured of victory. Yet while the squirrel remained at large—and if Greatorex was who he seemed to be—the entire strategy might still be at risk. Recapturing the runaway now was out of the question, so the only alternative was to eliminate Greatorex.
Taynton sipped the gruel, wishing Vera had been more liberal with the rum. Then he fell to thinking about Eleanor again. It was tedious that his only attempt at causing someone to shift shape had gone so horribly wrong. Eleanor Rhodes would have been a conveniently inanimate porcelain figurine if that damned red squirrel had not scampered past just as he pronounced the magic words! The presence of another living thing at that crucial second had altered the spell, turning Eleanor into a squirrel that mirrored her actual coloring and clothes. He supposed he could be thankful the gown had not sported a blue sash as well, for how he could have explained away a squirrel with a band of blue fur around its middle he really did not know! For the moment, however, she wasn’t a squirrel, because once she was physically free of him she could be almost herself, an ethereal being who could walk and talk, but never touch or feel anything. To become fully herself again, he would have to be completely defeated, and the wheel of history would have to turn full circle once again.
He glowered at the sun patterns on the parlor’s stone-flagged floor. The setback to that initial shape-changing spell had been the beginning of a series of infuriating obstacles. Next was the sudden and awful realization that time was running out, which had forced him into precipitate action. Gaining possession of the manor hadn’t proved possible in spite of his activities in the guise of Samuel Haine, and then land-greedy Lord Carmartin had made the marriage offer that would allow old Elcester to cling to residence. The rest of the magic depended upon being here, so when the manor could not be acquired, he, Taynton, had forced Jem Cartwright to sell the inn instead. After that it ought to have been plain sailing, even with time so short, but along came the London carriage and its fancy occupants.
The innkeeper finished the alcoholic gruel, and reached for the bell that Vera had placed on the table beside him. He rang it irritably, but she did not come, so he rang it again, and added a peevish yell at the same time. “Vera! Your master orders you here!”
After a moment she looked around the door.
“I want some more of this,” he said churlishly, waving the posset cup at her.
For once she wasn’t prepared to humor him. She was run off her feet with mouths to feed, and attending to her kitchen duties was all she had in mind. “I haven’t time, I’m busy with the Age. It was full inside and out, and they all want everything.”
“But I need some more now,” he whined.
“I will do it as soon as I can.”
“I am your master!”
“Yes, and I will obey. But not right now.” With that she closed the door again and went away.
Taynton was thunderstruck. He had been defied! For a moment he didn’t know what to do, because boldness from Vera was not something he had encountered before. Well, not in this life, anyway. He scowled at the closed door. He would have the last laugh where she was concerned. Severa may have become his wife fifteen hundred years ago, in a ceremony officiated over by her own father, the Black Druid, beneath that very yew that still shadowed the church lych-gate, but she wasn’t about to be his wife again now! Oh, no. Not that she or her fool of a blacksmith father knew anything about all this anyway, for he certainly hadn’t enlightened them—or anyone else—concerning the past. His purpose now was to undo most of what had happened before, not repeat it, and that meant no wife or Black Druid. Taynton smiled contemptuously, for all that appeared to remain of Daniel Pedlar’s previous role as the Black Druid, was his cavorting as a black-clad figure with the Elcester morris dancers. As for the wife, in some ways it was a pity, for Severa was a splendid cook, and her figure was just as he liked best. And there was much about her that he found too attractive for comfort. Taynton gave a wistful sigh.
Had he had but known it, Vera was just on the other side of the door, rigid with shock at having been so impertinent to him. She almost expected a magic dagger to fly through the door and stab her between the shoulder blades, but nothing happened. She walked on hesitantly, and then gathered her skirts to hurry back to the kitchen. There was a smile on her lips and a glint in her eyes. Why had it taken so long to realize she could stand up to him after all? His wedding band would grace her finger yet; she was now more determined than ever that it would!
In the parlor the innkeeper had already put her to the back of his mind as he mulled over the circumstances that now prevailed where his great goal was concerned. He had made it his business to find out exactly what had happened at the inn during his absence in Dursley, and knew that Ursula had called, and that Conan had returned as well, bringing Bran. What further confirmation was needed that a combined force was working against him, a force that was powerful enough to hinder his labors, maybe even overturn them? They were all thorns in his side, and he would have to pluck them out completely now that time itself was at such an unexpected premium.
Time. Oh, how could he, Cadfan Meriadoc, the only one to have remained true to his birthright, have made such an elementary and enormous blunder in his calculations? He had been so certain the relevant period ended at midnight, when May Eve became May Day, 1819, instead of which it was May Eve tomorrow night! Now he was forced to resort to desperate spells and charms in order to be ready for the pivotal moment. If he failed, another five hundred years and a disagreeable number of boring existences would have to be endured before he had his next chance to find a treasure more fabulous and plentiful than most men could even dream of. So he couldn’t afford to let the reins be snatched from him at this late stage.
He picked up the empty posset cup, remembered it was empty, and slammed it down again petulantly. When all this was over and done with, he was going to be waited on hand and foot by a veritable seraglio of fawning maidens who would pander to his every whim! See how Vera Pedlar liked that! She wouldn’t, and that was a fact. But he would. Oh, indeed he would! The knowledge of sorcery he had acquired during various lives over the past one and a half millennia had won him the favor of the gods, and now he only had to wait for riches to fall into his hands. Then there would be just luxury, without a single cloud to darken his horizon. No more chicanery and swindling the gullible, no more false names and hasty departures, no more bowing and scraping to fools at a country inn, just privilege of the sort that should have been his by right all along; privilege such as the likes of Sir Conan Merrydown had always known, and Theodore Greatorex wished to know.
The path to the site of the treasure had been a winding one, and had to be
discovered anew every five hundred years. It had taken his latest self some time to realize that Elcester was the site he sought, and then more time again to work out where exactly in Elcester the High-King Eudaf Hen’s old summer house had been. At first he’d wondered if Hatty Pedlar’s Tump held the key, but had soon been persuaded it didn’t. He’d even wondered if the old yew was an indicator, because it had already been about five hundred years old fifteen hundred years ago, just before the so-called Dark Ages, but now he knew beyond all doubt that the valley would yield the harvest. He had cast the necessary magic and would clear his way of last minute foes, and then discover all he sought.
Taynton inhaled with anticipation. If only they all knew the truth! If the High-King Eudaf Hen had followed the traditional ways by the male line of succession, the throne and treasure should have gone to Kynan Meriadoc—or Sir Conan Merrydown, as he now was. But in the past Kynan had so cravenly accepted the old man’s decision to let Elen of the Ways marry the Roman emperor, that he was owed no allegiance now. As for Theodore Maximilian Greatorex, he might be Macsen Wledig returned, but he had never and would never possess the moral right to the throne, the bride, or the treasure. None of them deserved anything. Only Bellamy Taynton—Samuel Haine—Cadfan Meriadoc, three names, one man, was worthy of the heritage. He would teach them all the error of their ways, past and present. They were about to be trounced, every last one of them, including the infernal wolfhound and the Elcester woman, who had both been in the woods when they shouldn’t have been. Those woods were his domain now, and by the magic he had cast, all else would soon be his as well.
Taynton smiled coldly, for his enemies were almost in his grasp already. He possessed items that belonged to each one of them, including the wolfhound’s collar, for he’d had more than enough of that rabid canine. All he didn’t have was something of Conan’s. The inn and its outbuildings would be ransacked from top to bottom until that missing fob seal was found. If, indeed, it had been lost in the first place. He now guessed it to have been a ruse. Conan Merrydown had been present when the squirrel escaped. It was a suspicious coincidence. Tonight he, Bellamy Taynton, would cut more squares of bark from the yew and go down to the woods to cast the dark ritual spell that was necessary to nullify those who would set themselves against him. He would go alone and take everything he needed with him, including the pieces of bark, Ursula’s ribbon, Theo’s button, Conan’s seal, if found, and Bran’s collar. Would that he could enchant them all tonight, when midnight marked the start of May Eve, but the next midnight, when May Day commenced and the moon was at its fullest, was the time it must be done. It would also be Beltane, but it would be Bellamy Taynton, not witches, who enchanted everything. When the last chime of twelve had died away, and it was May Day, his enemies would cease to be.