He dismounted and helped her take a seat in the cart, his grip steady and reassuring. Miranda’s shaky legs welcomed the rest.
When he mounted again, he brought his horse to the cart’s side.
The sheriff climbed into the cart, and their cavalcade set out.
Riding beside her, Richard thought, If you don’t know the answers, ask me. Grandmère hammered the catechism into me at an early age.
As my grandmother, who didn’t hold with Father’s notions, hammered it into me. I’ll clear myself, Richard, never fear.
I have faith that you will, but if all else fails, I’ll save you myself and damn the consequences.
Henry watched from his coach as the crowd trailed after the sheriff’s wagon. Let Hawkstowe think he’d won this round. He’d arrived in time to save his precious wench, but the time he’d spent on that had been a useful diversion. Soon it would be too late to change England’s fate.
Any claims the wench made at this point would vanish in the wave of new history rolling forward.
In a few days, four or five at the most, the new past would overtake and reshape the present. Even if the Conclave arrested him, they wouldn’t have time to stop it. Then Henry would have his vengeance. He could force the wench to serve him any way he chose, and Hawkstowe wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop it.
Hawkstowe’s timely arrival was unsettling, however. He could only have come via the shadowland. Henry frowned. If the whelp discovered a way to travel there, could he undo the time changes?
He would still bear watching. Nothing must be allowed to stop the changes now surging toward the present.
God’s blood. Henry rapped on the roof trap with his cane.
His coachman opened it. “Yes, my lord?”
“Back to London, Charles.”
“Aye, milord.” The trap dropped shut.
Hawkstowe and his friends likely wouldn’t risk traveling the spectral realm again today. Henry could beat him to London. And to the Protectorate of England.
The sheriff kept a tight grip on Miranda’s arm as he led her into the little stone church. His anger at having the hanging interrupted vibrated in the air around him. It would’ve frightened her if Richard and his friends hadn’t been there.
They followed Miranda and the sheriff. Richard’s anger at the treatment she’d received still boiled within him.
Just a little longer, and she could go to him.
The jurors stood under one of the rounded archways at the side of the chancel. The clerk perched on a bench by the pulpit. The magistrate glanced at the pulpit, shrugged as though thinking better of it, and sat next to the clerk. Hastily summoned, the parish rector lit candles.
Jeremy strode to the front of the sanctuary. Alone of them all, he looked completely at home.
“Take those ropes off her,” he said to the sheriff. “Even if she had the blackest heart in England, she could do no evil here.”
The sheriff silently cut the rope that had bound her hands, and she rubbed her aching wrists.
Jeremy had found a stool somewhere. He placed it at the front of the chancel, directly in line with the altar. Seating her there, he knelt in front of her. Gentle pressure from his fingers turned her head up and to the side. He touched her neck lightly.
“Wait,” the sheriff said. “What about Lord Wyndon, him what brought the charge?”
One of the jurors, a short, thin man with a weathered face, stepped forward. “I seen his carriage headin’ out o’ town. When we come this way, it went t’other.”
Jeremy glanced at the magistrate. “Then we needn’t delay.” He turned back to Miranda. “Don’t try to speak yet.”
Lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth spoke of both self-denial and self-control. A plain silver cross hung from a silver chain around his neck and down to his chest. She kept her gaze on it as he touched her throat.
Warmth seeped from his fingers into her skin. She had a sudden urge to clear her throat. With his back to the watchers, he glanced at her in warning. Instead, she swallowed hard.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Here it is, a slight swelling just where it would create pressure inside her throat.”
“But she had no bruises,” the magistrate said again.
“Sometimes one doesn’t.” Jeremy drew a clay pot from his coat pocket. When he removed the cork stopper, the sharp scent of thyme rose from the greenish salve within. He dabbed some of the salve on Miranda’s neck. Rubbing the ointment in gently, he said, “See if you can manage a whisper.”
She felt as though she could speak, but his choice of words advised her not to. She whispered, “I think—yes, Reverend, I can. Oh, thank you.”
Shock rippled through the people in the church. He took the cross from around his neck and handed it to her. When she wrapped her fingers around it, one of the jurors gasped.
A few quick strides brought him to the pulpit. He picked up the heavy Bible there and brought it to lay in her lap. “Place your left hand on the holy book and hold the cross in your right.”
He strode to stand beside the jury before he turned to face her. When she answered him, she would also be facing them.
“Can you recite our Lord’s prayer?” He asked.
“Our Father which art in Heaven ... ” As she spoke, her confidence rose. So did her voice.
The room was deathly silent.
When she finished, Jeremy nodded. “Now, Miranda Willoughby, on peril of your soul, have you any converse with Satan, his demons, or any of the minions of darkness?”
“No, Reverend. I have not.”
He had phrased the question so she wouldn’t have to lie about magic. Given his own powers, she should’ve expected that.
“Tell us what happened two days ago,” he said.
She took a deep breath and began to talk. The jurors watched her attentively.
When she finished, Reverend Winfield turned to the magistrate. “Do you have any questions, sir?”
The man mopped his brow again. “Let us move to the Guildhall. So folk can hear for themselves, you know.”
As Miranda stood, her glance fell on the tomb marker at her feet.
Josiah Pritchett, born 23 June 1610, died 7 November 1660, during the second year of our gracious Lord Protector Henry de Vere.
Henry de Vere? Lord Protector? Heaven help them all if that came to pass. Richard, look at the stone.
The sheriff led her forward, more gently this time, as Richard strolled casually toward the spot she’d occupied. His expression hardened. So that was his endgame. But how in blazes did he make it happen?
Chapter 25
“What shall I do with your old gown, mistress?” Patience frowned at the torn wool in her hands. She and Miranda were in their chamber at the inn in Croyland, where the landlord had surrendered their belongings.
Burn it hovered on Miranda’s lips, but that would be a waste of good, warm fabric. “Do as you think best, Patience.”
A short time ago, in the Guildhall, she’d again answered Jeremy’s questions and repeated the catechism before the town. She’d been formally acquitted and released. Some people would still refuse to touch the cloth because of the witchcraft accusation, but others wouldn’t be so particular.
“I’ll pack it,” Patience said. “We’ll find a use for it in London.”
Patience stuffed the discarded garments into Miranda’s chest for the journey home. Miranda leaned over the basin in the corner, splashing cold water on her face.
Clean clothes and neatly braided hair were a relief, but she wouldn’t feel truly clean again until she’d bathed. Preferably somewhere far from this town. And she couldn’t seem to feel warm.
“Are you ready, mistress?” Patience asked.
When Miranda nodded, the maid opened the door. Richard waited in the corridor with Cabot, Jeremy, and Robin. The stable lad hurried in to grab Miranda’s chest.
“The horses are put to.” Richard spoke with his gaze fixed on Miranda’s face. While he sounded calm, his face looke
d drawn with weariness. The emotions churning in his eyes echoed deep within her and made her heart pound.
Standing a foot away from her, he said, “We’ve reclaimed all our belongings. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m more than ready,” she told him. You need rest, though. I can feel how tired you are.
I’ll rest when you do, when we’re away from here.
I won’t argue with that.
“I want a word with you before we depart,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers.
Everyone else filed out of the chamber. When the door closed behind Jeremy, Richard’s mask of composure cracked. The strain of the day and the fear he’d felt were naked on his face as he opened his arms and stepped toward her.
Miranda rushed to him. He caught her tightly as she locked her arms around him. On blind instinct, she turned her face upward in time to meet his kiss.
It was deep and searing and unrestrained. The love he’d confessed burned in his kiss, and she returned it full measure.
When the kiss ended, he pressed his face into her neck. “Sweetheart,” he groaned. With the word came a rush of guilt and relief and love that threatened to break her heart.
“It’s all right now,” she choked, fighting back tears. “Everything’s all right.”
He kissed her again, then held her even closer. In his arms, she felt truly safe at last, even warm, almost. She burrowed closer.
After a few minutes he straightened and kissed her forehead. “We should go,” he said, “and travel as far as we can before dark.”
“How is your grandmother?” she asked as they walked out of the chamber.
“Holding her own, but I want to reach her as soon as I can. And we must get word of Wyndon’s endgame to Lucius as soon as we can.”
Being glad Richard hadn’t ridden for London with the Winfield brothers was selfish, Miranda knew, but she couldn’t help it. Cabot and Jeremy could carry the news to London, but only Richard’s nearness kept her nightmare memories of the last few days at bay.
With Edmund standing by to help the Winfields travel, Richard had opened a portal in the woods off a deserted stretch of road. Edmund had promised to coach them on leaving the afterworld, which was easier than entering it.
Richard felt guilty about not going, Miranda knew, but didn’t want to leave her unprotected, and his disappearance would be awkward to explain to Robin and Patience. So he rode back in the coach with her, though Edmund would notify him if his friends needed his aid to emerge in London.
Using their strange mental connection so Patience and Robin wouldn’t overhear, Richard had told her how he’d come to her rescue and about the ancestor who’d helped him.
Held close by his arm around her shoulders, she asked, Richard, what happened? How can we hear each other’s thoughts, feel what each other feels?
He ran his fingers idly along her arm. I’ve never heard of such a thing, so I can only guess. You said you thought you heard me speak while I kissed you goodbye in Croyland?
I decided I must have imagined it.
As I rode south that last day, I felt more and more uneasy. As your day went from frightening to terrifying.
And so he had come to save her. She still had difficulty believing he’d actually managed it. Do you think you picked up my emotions?
I might have. It’s logical, that I can hear your thoughts when I’m near you but sense only your mood otherwise.
But how? She shifted to look at him.
He brushed her hair gently off her temple. I suspect it’s a combination of our different gifts and the awareness that started after we used the water from Morgan’s pool. I didn’t want to leave you. I was worried. So were you, I think, though you wouldn’t admit it. I could see the day ahead when I would leave you forever, and I wanted to hold onto you somehow, even though I knew I couldn’t. If you felt the same way—
I did. She squeezed his free hand.
Then I think we somehow reached through that awareness the pool gave us and made a tie. His fingers caressed her shoulder.
It’s a strange sort of sharing, but I like it. She hesitated. Do you mind?
Never. Fierce possessiveness roared through him and into her, but they couldn’t do anything about it with Patience dozing on the opposite seat.
“Jeremy’s posset should take effect soon,” he said, gathering her closer. “Rest for a while, sweet. You need it.”
So did he, but knowing what Wyndon intended would make true rest difficult to obtain for them both.
They stopped at dusk, well south of Croyland at a small inn on the Peterborough road. Miranda’s modest chamber felt like a sanctuary, but she still couldn’t seem to feel warm. Or to think of anything except that she had a second chance.
Richard loved her. She loved him. That much was beyond doubt. But he’d closed himself off, as though acknowledging what lay between them was as far as he meant to go.
She rubbed her hands along her arms. The place smelled clean enough though a steady draft crept around the single window. A bed curtained with blue hangings stood against one wall. Beneath it, the edge of a truckle bed showed.
Twin wooden armchairs, their seats worn smooth by long use, flanked the hearth. Most important of all, this place was not in Croyland. The sooner she could forget that town, the better.
Richard knelt by the hearth. Rippling from his extended hand, silver magic ignited the logs.
The silence weighed heavily on the air. She caught no sense of his locked-down emotions, but his face was drawn and pale with fatigue, and the tense line of his shoulders betrayed the effort he made to hold them straight.
Somehow, she had to save him from whatever his family curse portended. “I’m sorry you had nothing but trouble from Croyland,” she said. “If I had gained more control over my power—”
“You’re not at fault, Miranda. Besides, coming here let us find that tombstone. Cabot and Jeremy should reach London anytime now and alert the Conclave. For all the good that may do. As for the Chronicle, it was a slim hope.”
Father Gregory had sent them a message saying he hadn’t been able to locate a copy. Given the current hatred of Catholics and Miranda’s witchcraft trial, it had taken courage for him to send word at all.
Richard’s statement required no reply and so closed the conversation. Why would he not unbend, just a little?
Flames crackled around the logs. He stared at them, and Miranda saw that he’d scried his grandmother. Arabella’s color seemed better.
Richard said, “Grandmère is rallying. Still, I’m anxious to see her.” Scowling, he added, “And there’s the matter of Wyndon’s usurpation of power. We should prepare a full report for Lucius, including all that you Saw.”
He rose, his gaze on the fire. “The room should warm soon.”
Why wouldn’t he look at her? He seemed to have withdrawn into himself again.
Patience had left to fetch supper. This might be their last private moment before they reached London.
“Richard, I don’t care about your family curse, whatever it is. I love you. I will love you always.”
Elation surged in their connection, quickly tamped. “Don’t.” He stared at the hearth.
“Don’t feel it or don’t say it?”
With a groan, he took one long stride to reach her. He caught her hands. “I can’t inflict this curse on anyone else, especially you.”
She gripped his warm, callused palms. “I don’t fear it. I truly don’t care about it.”
He freed his hands, his expression hardening. “You should care.” Pain flared in his eyes and in their bond. “Miranda—”
Out in the hall, Patience’s cheerful voice said, “Right this way, lad. This chamber, down at the end.”
Richard stepped away. When the door opened, he was jabbing at the fire with the poker. Miranda sighed. There had to be a way to ease the emotions that jabbed at him.
A young man carried a laden tray into the room. Patience tran
sferred food from it to the table. When she finished, she asked, “Shall I stay?”
“No, Patience, thank you,” Richard said. “I have the chamber across the hall and can help your mistress if she needs anything tonight. You’ve had a bad few days, so go and rest.”
“Yes, milord. My thanks.” Patience curtsied and left the room after the young man.
The chamber across the hall. Of course he’d booked that. Doing so was proper, even thoughtful. Except that without him there would be naught to keep nightmare memories at bay.
He tugged her against him, his arms tight, sheltering her. She clung to him and tried to memorize the way he felt in her arms.
Richard dropped a kiss on her hair. “I booked that chamber for propriety’s sake. I will be wherever you need me to be, for as long as you need me there.” He released her, and they took their seats at the table.
“I will always need you,” she said quietly. As regret darkened his eyes, she added, “I realize that isn’t what you meant, but I wanted you to know.”
Still looking uneasy, he said, “We should eat.”
Patience had brought a feast—oxtail soup, mutton collops, and thick, chewy bread with a plate of Stilton cheese to finish the meal. The food smelled wonderful, but Miranda had little appetite.
Richard, too, picked at his meal. “I failed you,” he said abruptly, laying down his fork. In his eyes and in the awareness they shared, his self-doubt and guilt churned. “Seeing you about to hang—I’ll never forget it. Or forgive myself. I can’t believe you forgive me so easily.”
“You did as I asked. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“Miranda—”
“No. Hush. No more.” She cupped his stubbled cheek. “You and your friends rode through Hell for me. What more could any man do?”
A man could keep you safe. The words rustled in her mind. He drew her hand to his mouth. His eyes blazed. Through her rush of pleasure when he pressed his lips against her palm, she caught a raw surge of his love and regret and frustration.
She gripped his fingers. “Do you not understand that I would do anything, dare anything, for you?”
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