Beyond Secret Worlds: Ten Stories of Paranormal Fantasy and Romance
Page 10
Even if she had a chance to escape, she didn’t deserve it. Moira had broken the most important rule her mother had taught her about her gift—to do no harm. Their magic was meant to heal, to help the sick and ease the torment of those poor unfortunates beyond their skill. Moira had forgotten that in her pain. Maybe she did deserve to die because of it.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t stop and surrender herself to Boyd. It had only taken one meeting to know that he was a man without mercy. She shuddered to think what he would do to her if he caught her.
Her only option was to escape in a manner of her own choosing. The rocky cliffs were high above the shore. With luck, she would die instantly. Especially if her head struck one of the many rocks littering the water's edge. It would be a kinder death than letting Boyd get his hands on her.
Don't think about it. Whatever you do, don't think. Keep moving.
Tears ran down her face when she thought of never seeing her family again. Not her mother or sister. And she wouldn't be there to watch her niece, a brilliant little girl with hair the same color as her own, grow into womanhood. Her life was over, all her dreams shattered by her own hand.
Ahead of her, the uneven ground ended abruptly. Beyond it there was nothing but sky. The cliffs. Slowing down, she leaned on a tall boulder a few feet from the edge. Her limbs were shaking, the muscles in her legs twitching and leaping independently as she struggled to stay on her feet.
She was bent nearly double when she rounded the tall rock—which was why she didn't see the man waiting on the other side.
When his arms came up around her, trapping her against his chest, she couldn't scream. That required air in her lungs. Instead, her legs gave way and she slumped over in defeat.
I've failed.
How was she going to die? Would they hang her? Burn her at the stake?
"Moira, look at me."
The voice was familiar, although the accent was jarring. She cracked open an eyelid and met the pale blue eyes of Nigel Smythe, Duncan's English cousin. He was a poor relation of the Fraser family, up for a visit before he moved away from his home in the north of England, although she couldn’t remember the reason for the move. Moira had only met him once, shortly after arriving in Stonehaven with Duncan.
Nigel was a minister in his country. He was supposed to officiate their wedding. No doubt he would be asked to preside over the new one if Duncan's new fiancée was still willing to have him.
"Let me go," she pleaded, deciding to throw herself on his mercy. "I'm going over the cliffs. I will never hurt anyone again, I promise. Just let me go."
Nigel's pale handsome face contorted in a sympathetic wince. "I can't do that. You see, I'm here to save you."
***
The inside of the hired carriage was very dark. She sat in the corner of the bench, trying to ignore the jostling movement while she studied Nigel sitting across from her.
"I did it."
Perhaps she shouldn't have admitted that, but he didn't look surprised.
"I know," he said quietly.
"Then why are you helping me?" she asked, despite being afraid to hear the answer.
Nigel looked away, his attention fixed on the small sliver of rolling green that was visible between the gap in the curtains. He had a handsome face now that she was looking at him. But there hadn't been much of a reason to before. Not when Duncan had been in the room.
Nigel was slighter than his cousin, his features just as defined and attractive, but in a setting so pale as to look ghostly. His ice blue eyes were nearly colorless in the weak light, and his pale blond hair did little to call attention to the fineness of his visage. His coloring combined with his quiet manner ensured he would blend in at gatherings.
When he didn't answer, she repeated her question.
"I'm not sure," he said finally.
"For what it's worth, it wasn't supposed to be that severe. I just wanted to hurt him as badly as he hurt me." She paused. "Don't you want to punish me? Burn me alive? You're a man of the cloth. It's what you're supposed to do."
"I...I believe that God put people like you on this earth for a reason. And it's not to be an evil we must fight."
That sounded like he'd had experiences with others of her kind. "Have you met anyone with magic before?"
He nodded. "There was an old man who lived outside my village. We...used to throw stones at his house. When I grew into manhood that troubled me. It still does. He was harmless."
"I'm not," she whispered.
His eyes narrowed. "No, you're not. But you won't hurt anyone again, will you?"
"No," she admitted.
Her guilt was flaying her alive, and he could probably see it. She couldn't live with herself if she harmed someone again.
"They won't stop looking for me," she warned him.
"Uncle thinks you’re dead."
Her eyes widened.
"When you changed into the clothing I brought you, I tore your old dress and took pieces of it down to the bottom of the cliff. Part of it will be caught in the rocks along with some blood. A larger part will be found in the water, if at all."
Her mouth fell open. "Whose blood is it?"
"A pigeon."
"Oh."
"I didn't kill it," he said with an ironic twist to his lips. "I bought it from the butcher, fresh this morning. He thought I was making a pie."
He had spent a considerable amount of time on the details.
"You thought of everything."
He frowned and shrugged. "I had all night to plan after Uncle Boyd gathered his friends. He expected me to come with him this morning, but I told him my patron had recalled me."
"Your patron?"
“The Viscount Anders. He has given me a living in my hometown, near the border, but I am going to ask him for one farther away, on his southernmost property."
"Why?"
He stared at her for a long moment. "Because, although my Scottish relations would have little reason to visit me in Northumberland, they will definitely not be visiting as far south as Eastbourne...so they would have little reason to meet my wife."
"Your wife?"
Color crept up into his pale cheeks. "It's one idea. If you would prefer to strike out on your own, I can help you disappear. You can travel with me as far as London, and I can give you a little money to help you on your way."
"I thought you didn't have any," she said quietly, staring at him in wonderment.
Why would he offer marriage after what she had done?
His fingers drummed on the seat next to him. “I’m not wealthy. Not compared to my cousin," he admitted. "My father was a fourth son, but I have a little saved. I realize that your prospects were considerably higher before Duncan came into your life. I couldn't offer you riches, but you would have a home and eventually a family."
Feeling slightly dizzy, she sat up straighter. "Don't you believe I'm going to burn in the fires of Hell for witchcraft?"
"Duncan will live,” he said, in a tone that suggested he wasn’t sure if he was happy about it. “His leg was set yesterday. He may be lame and will most likely require the use of a cane, but he will live. You didn't kill anyone. Even his eye may recover. Only time will tell."
More relieved than she could say, she nodded and then slumped slightly in her seat. Her throat was thick, and her eyes stung. "That still doesn't explain why you would sacrifice yourself to marry me. You're a man of the cloth, and I'm a witch. Don't you believe I'm damned?"
He coughed slightly and turned very red. "I don't believe God would create something so beautiful and make it evil."
Her stomach gave a funny little flutter. "You think I'm beautiful?" she asked slowly.
His smile was a touch too wry for a minister. "My cousin would hardly propose to a homely woman. Although his new fiancée is only passable, in my opinion, but I suppose her considerable fortune enhances her charms."
Moira’s brows drew down. "You're not like any priest I've ever met before."
Shame flooded through her. He knew. Of course, everyone did. She was a fool to believe otherwise.
"And you still want to marry me?"
A would-be husband had the right to expect a virgin on his wedding night. That a man of the cloth would willingly marry a woman who had lost her honor—it was unthinkable.
"Yes," he said simply, his pale eyes gleaming with a silver edge.
Something about that look made her very warm inside. Sure that her blushing face matched her hair, she looked away. Dropping her eyes down to her lap, she admitted something she hadn't wanted to acknowledge, even to herself.
"I didn't want to," she whispered so quietly her voice was barely audible over the sound of the horses’ hoofbeats.
Duncan hadn't forced himself on her, but he also hadn't given her much of a choice. He'd said it didn't matter because they were going to be married soon anyway, and then wouldn't let her leave the room at the inn unless she submitted to him. Rationalizing that he was right, she would soon be his wife, she had allowed herself to be pressured into acting against her own judgment. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, and remembering it now made her angry all over again.
When she finally looked at Nigel, he was watching her sorrowfully. "I figured it was something like that. I am very sorry. But there are things that I know about my cousin that you do not. You see there was this other young lady, very poor and pretty. I...I think he got what he deserved."
So many things suddenly made sense. Had Nigel loved this girl? Why else had he been willing to save her, crossing his own family? Reading the stiffness in his expression, the firm set of his lips, she knew her guess was true. He had loved another girl. And he had lost her.
Was this poor and pretty girl dead? Moira guessed that she was, or Nigel would be married to her now. He was that kind of man. That was as clear to her as daylight. She could feel his goodness with every fiber of her being.
Why hadn't she had this kind of insight about Duncan? She could have spared herself so much heartache simply by staying away. Shutting her eyes, she pushed away the painful regret. It hurt too much to dwell upon what might have been. This was her new reality.
She was going to be Nigel's wife. Even if he was simply doing it to get back at his cousin, or if she was to be a replacement for the woman he had lost, this was her best option. Perhaps in time, she could repay him for his kindness.
"I don't want to disappear,” she said. “I would prefer to marry you, if you're certain that's what you want."
He didn't look pleased exactly. It was more like satisfaction, but there was only a brief flash of emotion and then he sobered.
"I should warn you it will not be easy. We won't have many comforts. The living down south is rather small. And there is another thing to consider—you won't be able to contact your family. Not ever. My uncle Boyd is a vindictive man. If your family knew you were alive, he would hurt them to find you."
Oh Lord, he was right, she realized with a sickening pang. She could not endanger her loved ones in that way. Not on top of the shame her actions had already caused them. As it was, they might not want to speak to her again, anyway.
The carriage hit a bump, and she braced herself against the wall before answering. "I understand," she said hoarsely and then tried to decide what else to say. How did one thank a man for saving your life?
"I will try to be a good wife."
A corner of Nigel's mouth quirked before he stepped across the carriage to seat himself next to her. He held out his hand. Tentatively she reached out and touched his palm with her fingers. His hand closed around hers.
"I believe you," he said quietly.
***
Moira hung the clean sheets on the line, savoring the sun on her face. Though she missed Scotland, this little hamlet near Eastbourne was like some sort of dream. The weather was so much warmer in southern England, and the sun shone so often they could hang the wet linens outside this late in the year.
Though it was out of necessity, Moira didn’t mind doing the washing herself. They only had a cook and a part time maidservant, but she enjoyed contributing to the housework. Working hard kept her mind occupied. It helped alleviate some of the guilt she felt in letting her family believe she was dead. Someday she hoped to be able to contact them and let them know she was still alive.
Truthfully, she also felt a considerable amount of satisfaction in her domestic accomplishments. Her new life was nothing like she'd imagined.
When she'd decided to marry Nigel, she pictured a life of quiet solitude, one where she had to be vigilant of discovery every second of every day. That had been the case for the first few months. However, over time she had relaxed. And now, in addition to a small but comfortable home, she had a role of prominence in the community and, surprisingly, a few friends.
She also had Nigel.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she thought of her husband. Her marriage was different from others she knew. Though their lives were simple, Moira was happy. More than she had any right to expect.
There was only one thing missing, a secret longing she buried down deep and only acknowledged late at night—once her husband was asleep lying next to her.
She wished Nigel loved her.
No, I don’t need that. She already had more than she deserved. Nigel did everything he could to make her feel cared for and protected. And she wasn’t some substitute or tool for revenge. Now that she knew him better, it was obvious to her. Nigel had saved her because he was a decent and brave man. He couldn’t stand by and watch as others suffered. It was what made him such a skilled minister and an even better husband...although there were many reasons for the latter.
In addition to the thousands of small kindnesses and courtesies he extended to her as his bride, theirs was also passionate union. For a man of the cloth, Nigel was surprisingly carnal—and a generous lover. She had come to enjoy the marriage bed.
Although, enjoy seems too weak a word for it, she thought, her body tightening in anticipation when her husband's light step alerted her to his presence.
Nigel's arms came around her, embracing her from behind.
"Hello, wife," he murmured, pressing a hot kiss to her neck, just below her ear.
Reaching up, he fingered a lock of her black hair.
It was one of the safety measures she and Nigel had decided on when they married. He called her Mary in company, and she had darkened her hair with a dye solution of her own creation. More importantly, under her husband's tutelage, she worked at disguising her accent. Since most people this far south had never heard a Scot, she muddled along by staying quiet until she was certain how to pronounce the words she had difficulty with.
"Hello," she whispered huskily when he continued to press kisses down her neck.
She wasn't capable of further speech. He had learned very quickly how to derail her train of thought. But right now they were outside, in full view of anyone that might walk by.
"Um, darling, if you don't want to shock your parishioners, perhaps we should go inside."
Nigel lifted his head. "I'm disappointed you were capable of such a long sentence. You can't usually think when I do that."
She blushed and glanced around, searching for imaginary observers. "It is difficult, I assure you. But I don't want you to scandalize your flock and possibly lose your living."
He laughed with a wicked little gleam in his eyes. "Then by all means, let’s go inside."
"But the washing—"
Her words were cut off as she was swung bodily up into his arms. Suppressing her naturally loud laughter with a hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes and prayed no one had seen them.
When he carrie
d her into his library, she protested. "Nigel, the maid!"
"I sent her to the village to buy some ink," he said, busy undoing her bodice as he kicked the door closed behind him.
"And the cook?"
"Will stay in the kitchen if she knows what's good for her."
Moira giggled and then sighed as he kissed her. Deciding to help her husband undress, she reached for the placket of his breeches. Her hands were too slow, however, so he tore them open himself before spinning her across the room. Sitting, he urged her down on top of him on the little sofa where he liked to sit and read.
His hands ran up the smooth skin of her legs, moving aside layers of cloth with deft fingers. Teasing and probing, he coaxed her into readiness to receive him. She stared deep into Nigel's eyes as his thick member began to penetrate her slowly from underneath. He had to do it cautiously because, as he teased, the powers that be had been overly generous with his endowments.
She loved watching him possess her. His normally pale cheeks flushed red, and his eyes gleamed like molten silver. Sighing as he slid home, she wrapped her arms around his head as he began to thrust and grind with rough motions that eroded her self-control.
Instinctively she tightened on him, trying to hold on to the tight center of pleasure hidden deep inside her, the one only her husband seemed able to find. He groaned in response, moving his hands to her back. Urged forward with gentle pressure, she closed her eyes in ecstasy when his mouth closed over the swollen tip of her exposed breast.
Heat built on heat and soon she was overcome, weakly holding onto his shoulders as they rocked together in a rhythm older than time. One of his hands moved up to tighten on her waist, and she threw her head back as he laved her nipple in time to his measured thrusts. A few heartbeats later, and she was in paradise.
The helpless flutter of her inner muscles drew Nigel into his own climax. Inside of her, his cock swelled and jerked, spilling his hot seed in powerful bursts that she could feel. The weight and friction of him extended her orgasm, drawing it out until she was drained.