Lessons After Dark

by Isabel Cooper

  “Mostly, ma’am,” Michael said. Under her scrutiny, he’d stood up a little straighter and clasped his hands in front of him.

  “Why?”

  “Never wanted to get caught out in the rain, ma’am.”

  A smile flickered across Joan’s face. “Sensible. But now it doesn’t have to rain, so…” She shrugged. “Ever been around animals when you used your power?”

  Michael frowned in thought. “We had a cat,” he said slowly. “When I was little. She never minded, not as far as I remember. I was in the stables once or twice too.”

  “Did you ride?” Joan asked. When Michael nodded, she made a brief thoughtful noise and then turned to Olivia. “Can you?”

  “I—yes,” Olivia said. Once, it had come as naturally to her as walking. That had been before Tom, before London, before Lyddie or Hawkins or Madame Marguerite. “But it’s been quite some time.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. Take him out and have him try a few things on horseback. One of the advantages of natural talent,” Joan went on, “is you can do things quickly in a variety of situations. Or you should be able to.”

  “Absolutely,” Olivia said. For a moment she was simply relieved she could put Michael on a new path before he got bored with the old one. Then she realized what she’d agreed to. “Ah,” she said, “I don’t—”

  “I’ll lend you some clothing. You can get more made in the village later, but this is sudden, I know. I’d do it myself, only I’ve apparently got to deal with Society for a few days”—Joan made a face—“and I want to move quickly.”

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” Olivia couldn’t resist saying.

  Joan laughed. “No, I didn’t think you would be. Let me know how it goes, and good luck.”

  A day and a half of hasty alterations and severe second thoughts followed. Ten years, Olivia realized fairly quickly, was a long time. She didn’t have the reflexes she’d had at sixteen, nor would her bones mend as quickly if she took a fall. And she would have to divide her concentration between riding and observing Michael.

  More than once, she considered making her excuses, but this was her job and she could ride and everything would more than likely go smoothly. Besides, if Joan had to deal with Society, chances were good that Mr. Grenville would be busy too, and the only possible substitute for Olivia would then be St. John. She’d be damned if she let him know she was unsure of herself.

  Therefore, she showed up at the stables on a cold and clear morning, wearing a coat and scarf that thankfully covered the worst alterations to Joan’s riding habit, and allowed one of the grooms to help her onto the back of a small gray gelding.

  Once seated, she found to her great relief her body remembered the right pose. Memories came back along with it. Once she’d cantered down the paths of her father’s estate, leaving cousins and governesses behind. Once, she’d ridden up hills and across streams with no more thought than she’d given to pouring tea. That had been ten years ago, but Olivia thought now she was equal to a calm walk down the flat paths by the gardens.

  Michael sat his bay pony with ease, helped considerably, Olivia suspected, by the fact that he was also sitting astride and wearing breeches. He showed an inclination to trot at first, which Olivia thought best to indulge for a bit. She sent him off to “let the horse get some exercise” and took the opportunity to accustom herself a bit more to her own mount, not to mention her clothing. Joan’s habit had been taken in considerably in some places and let out almost as much in others, and it was still uncomfortably snug across her breasts.

  After a slow walk around one of the fountains and a few deep breaths—not too deep, considering the circumstances—Olivia felt considerably more equal to the task ahead of her. The scenery was an unexpected pleasure too, for all that it was late autumn. The hedges were well kept, framing the graceful fountains and statues in rich dark green. She could smell wood smoke in the air, a cozy, comforting sort of scent.

  A few minutes later, Michael returned, reluctant but not as much so as he might have been in other circumstances. “Do you want me to start now, ma’am?”

  “When you feel ready,” Olivia said. “See if you can make it more or less overcast.” The sky above was mostly blue, the clouds floating across it puffy and white. It was a pity to change it, really. Clear days were rare enough at this time of year, but business was business, and it would clear up afterward if everything went right. “Still no rain, though.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, ma’am,” said Michael cheerfully. “I’m out here, aren’t I?” As Olivia laughed, he looked up at the sky and began to concentrate. The horses, to Olivia’s relief, showed no signs of panic. Both stood still, tails swishing, and Michael’s bent its head to sniff at one of the fountains.

  Overhead, the puffy clouds bloated and grew. It was happening much faster than it had in the past, Olivia thought. Being outdoors did help, then. Not really surprising, given the nature of Michael’s power. She glanced back down at him—

  And saw his face go rigid with fear.

  “Michael?” She spoke calmly, or tried to. His eyes were open now, but Olivia didn’t think he was seeing her. She wasn’t sure he was seeing anything. His stare was glassy, and his face still turned upward.

  The clouds were huge now, blotting out half the sky, and almost black. Around them, the wind picked up, clutching at Olivia’s scarf and hat. The horses’ manes and tails streamed. The horses shied, particularly Michael’s pony, aggravated by its rider’s sudden tension. Somehow, unconsciously, he clung to the saddle.

  Rain began to fall, a rain so cold and stinging Olivia almost thought it was hail at first. Within a matter of moments, her hat and coat were soaked, and the gelding was whinnying in distress. Olivia nudged him in the side, trying to get him over toward Michael and keep him calm at the same time. She wished Charlotte were there.

  The wind was howling now. “Michael!” Olivia raised her voice and let it take on an edge. “Michael, send it away. Now!”

  She saw it in Michael’s eyes when he came back to himself a little. “Mrs. Brightmore,” he said, and his voice was slurred. “Trying…too much…too easy.”

  “Let go, then.” Somewhere in the distance, people were shouting. There might have been figures running toward them. The wind snatched her hat off, sent it whirling away. “Just let go.” God willing, Nature would right itself when Michael wasn’t trying to clutch at it.

  He gulped and nodded, and then screamed. “Move!”

  Instinct alone made Olivia respond, since she had no idea why or, for that matter, where she was supposed to be going. She dug her heels into the gelding’s sides again, dimly feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and the horse bolted forward—

  Then the world went white.

  Some part of Olivia’s mind retained enough control to think lightning, and to know that she and Michael had escaped the bolt. The rest of her just sat, numb, as the gelding reared and bucked. She didn’t have time to feel either fear or pain as she fell, not even when she landed and something snapped in her ankle.

  She simply lay there, in the cold mud, with white and violet spots dancing in front of her vision, and wondered what had happened.

  Chapter 19

  The rain was Gareth’s warning again.

  If he hadn’t known about Fairley’s powers, he might have started to believe in omens. This one would have been particularly bad. The sky had been blue one minute and pitch-black the next, and freezing rain had fallen in a sudden downpour that made Gareth pity anyone caught out in it. As prophecy, it would probably have meant war or some other great disaster.

  As a manifestation of Fairley’s will, it didn’t bode very well either, though the damage would likely be confined to Englefield. Gareth still didn’t like it.

  He was halfway down the hall when he heard a sharp crack. At first he didn’t recognize the sound. Then, as a loud boom followed it, he blinked and thought thunderstorm. Not too surprising, given the clouds
. Very surprising, given November. Surprising even for Fairley.

  The boy was supposed to be getting better. Olivia was supposed to be keeping him under some kind of control. And his power had never gotten away from him as Elizabeth’s had. Gareth shook his head at the empty hallway then started walking again, his boots loud on the polished floors.

  One of the maids was crying somewhere in the neighboring rooms, and the footman Gareth passed looked considerably white around the lips. Someone certainly needed to have a word with Fairley, perhaps a harsher word than Olivia had managed.

  He strode into the front hall, ready to round the turn to his office and slam the door behind him, and then stopped. Froze, really.

  There was a small clump of people coming through the door. Michael was near the front, and Gareth dimly noticed he was paper white, his eyes huge and frightened. Perhaps there was more to this storm than temper, then. The thought was vague. Other things pushed it to the background. Mostly Olivia.

  A man, one of the stable hands, Gareth thought, was carrying her. Rain and mud had soaked through her clothes, her wet hair hung down around her face in dark strands, and most importantly, her face was as blanched as Michael’s. There was pain in her expression, not just fear.

  “What happened?” He was speaking even as he stared at Olivia and moving at the same time to open his office door. “What’s wrong?”

  Michael and the stable hand began to speak at once, looked at each other, then hesitated. For a second, Gareth thought he might give a black eye to one or both.

  “I think my ankle’s broken,” said Olivia. She sounded breathless, but she kept her voice fairly level. The effort that took was obvious. “I’ll explain the rest of it later.”

  “Damn the rest of it,” Gareth snapped and cast a quick look over Fairley. “Are you well?”

  The boy swallowed. “Yes. Sir.”

  “Not really,” Olivia said and then winced, and went back to biting her lip.

  “You shouldn’t be talking,” said Gareth. Somehow they’d made it into his inner office. “Waste of strength when you’re injured. Fairley, get dried off and have something hot to drink. I’ll take a look at you later.” The boy left, moving at half his usual speed but neither limping nor bleeding.

  Olivia grimaced, though Gareth suspected it was as much a reaction to pain as to him. “It’s just a broken ankle,” she said sharply. “They’re not usually—hssst—mortal.”

  It was best, Gareth decided, not to dignify that with a response. He gestured to the long couch against one of his walls. “Put her down there, please. Gently,” he said to the stable hand. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward and slipped his arm under Olivia’s knees. “More stable with two.”

  “Sir,” the other man replied. He didn’t sound as if he understood entirely, but he moved, which was the important thing.

  “Thank you,” Gareth said once they’d gotten Olivia settled. “You may go now.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Olivia added. “Thank you.” She glanced at Gareth as the stable hand left, closing the door behind him. “I can talk, you know.”

  “Well, don’t,” said Gareth. “It’s distracting.” He knelt to examine her ankle, getting both skirt and shoe out of the way without concerning himself with propriety. Olivia didn’t seem inclined to scream or faint, at any rate, not for reasons of etiquette. She did flinch when he touched her ankle, though. “Sorry. You know I’ll have to set this.”

  He didn’t look up. Her quick intake of breath was enough to stab him in the heart and so was the forced steadiness in her voice when she spoke. “Best do it quickly, then.”

  It would have been better, in a way, if she’d cried and carried on, or gotten demanding and petulant.

  Gareth turned his attention firmly to the ankle, trying to consider the injury separate from the woman: one fairly simple fracture, no complications or puncturing of the skin, no apparent blood vessels severed. He took a breath, reminded himself he’d once been used to doing far more complicated and dangerous injuries daily, and brought the ends of the bone in line with each other.

  From further back on the couch, he heard nails dig into fabric.

  He switched his vision then, almost automatically. The lines of force that made up Olivia in Gareth’s magical sight were a warm amber color, mostly. Gareth could spot the rising bruises, oddly enough, paler than their surroundings when he looked at a person this way. And, most importantly, the snapped lines around her ankle. Nothing tangled. He’d done his work well there.

  As he’d done so many times before, he reached with his power for the loose ends. They came to him more easily than he’d expected or he’d remembered from other times and people. Perhaps it was long practice. Perhaps it was that Olivia had more control than most over her response. Perhaps she knew what he was going to do and didn’t fear it. Any or all of those factors could have explained the newfound ease.

  None of them really accounted for what happened next.

  Connection was the only word Gareth could think of for it, particularly in that instant, when he almost froze with surprise. He reached to tie his energy in to Olivia’s, only to find no tying was necessary, no effort. Her life force reached to meet his. His mind interpreted the contact as an unexpected warmth. The whole sensation was like extending a hand for a stiff greeting and finding himself in an embrace.

  Most such embraces, in the real world, would have been uncomfortable. Gareth easily saw how the magical equivalent could be so—worse, likely enough, if the other party lacked scruples. Half-remembered stories came back to him, mentions of succubi and vampires. He’d given his vital energy dozens of times, and the worst he’d ever suffered was three days of lethargy, but he’d always been in control of the process. If Olivia pulled on the connection…

  But she didn’t.

  As close as he was to her, Gareth was certain she wouldn’t. She didn’t give him her own energy either, and so he thought the situation was probably as unexpected to her as it was to him. For a little while they stayed still, simply joined.

  Best not to let his mind dwell on that fact too long. The last thing he needed was to start considering symbolism. He had a job to do. They could sort the rest out later.

  Although Olivia didn’t give him any energy directly, her participation, half-conscious as it might have been, was surprisingly helpful when the healing actually began. There was no sensation, as there usually was, of reaching or pulling, of coaxing uncooperative elements along or nudging them out of the way. Everything went quickly and easily, until Gareth blinked back into normal vision and found himself kneeling by the couch, feeling far less drained than was generally the case for far more trivial injuries.

  To make sure he’d done everything right, he took another look at Olivia’s ankle. It lay straight and unswollen, and the few bruises he could see had already begun to fade.

  Without thinking, Gareth let his gaze travel up the straight, slim line of her leg. Her disarranged and rather badly fitting riding habit left it well outlined, particularly as she lay on the couch. The fabric clung to her, in fact, clearly showing the curve of her hips. It took a moment for Gareth to realize it was damp, and to remember Olivia’s condition when the stable hand had brought her in.

  He was a beast, really. Normally healing would have left him too tired to notice a woman’s figure. He’d have to be careful now. Gareth cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. You must be cold.”

  “No.” Olivia sounded surprised and a little dazed. “I should be. I was, but not anymore.” Then she laughed and started to sit up. “Abusing your furniture horribly, though, I suspect, and probably anything but presentable.” She pushed back her hair absently.

  The laugh had been almost normal, perhaps a little high, nothing at all obvious, but her hand was shaking. “No, stay there for a moment,” Gareth said. Without thinking, he reached out to stop her. His hand landed on her leg just below the knee.

  Beneath his palm, her bare skin was warm and
very soft. They held still for a few seconds, though Gareth’s hand ached to move, to glide up and under the hem of Olivia’s disarranged skirt. His cock just ached.

  Gareth started to back away. He moved too late and too slowly to pretend he was anything but reluctant to stop touching her, even if his body had let him. Still, he knew he should. Then Olivia leaned forward and reached out. One slim hand skimmed up Gareth’s chest, found the lapel of his coat, and pulled him to her.

  The idea of resisting didn’t cross Gareth’s mind until much, much later. He went willingly, bending over her, finding some space on the sofa and getting one arm behind her head. She’d moved, she had to have, but he neither knew nor cared about the exact logistics. Then he took her mouth. It was as hot and as silky as he remembered, and Olivia arched upward against him when they kissed. If it hadn’t been for her damn corset, he could have felt every inch of her through her clothes. As it was, she was soft and sweet and warm, and his erection was right against the juncture of her thighs, all quite enough temptation.

  Then she wriggled against him, caught her breath at the sensation…and did it again.

  Gareth thought he might have sworn, or maybe just growled. He knew he spread one hand over Olivia’s bottom, pulling her closer, yet even as his hips jerked forward, and he heard her moan deep in her throat when he ground against her. Her legs parted, as much as her skirt would allow, and she rocked back up against him, finding his rhythm and matching it

  There were many buttons on the top of Olivia’s riding habit, not to mention everything beneath it. Too much to handle just then, far too much. So Gareth simply cupped one of her breasts in his free hand, hating the layers between his skin and hers, pressing gently and then a little harder as the sounds coming from Olivia’s mouth continued to express pleasure. He brought his other hand up to do the same and rubbed, small circles, just as he rubbed his cock between her thighs—

  Until she stiffened, suddenly, and cried out into his mouth, and a wave of color swept over her face and neck. Her hips jerked against him once, twice, then again, and Gareth nearly spent himself then and there.