Myths & Magic: A Science Fiction and Fantasy Collection

by Kerry Adrienne

  Her eye caught upon a break in the underbrush. The packed dirt of a path. She ducked beneath a branch and entered the forest.

  Whatever ate at Evan’s conscience, it must be serious, or even now his ring would be on her finger. Opal and diamond. His mother’s ring. The ring he’d presented her on bended knee all those years ago. She’d wanted to accept, to announce to all the world that they would be husband and wife. But the dreams they both pursued were about to drag them into separate hemispheres for four long years. Any number of things could happen to drive a wedge between them.

  And, indeed, something had.

  Evan had nearly caught the blasted amphibian twice. The first time he’d been too slow, the second time his net had snagged upon the underbrush. Half the night he’d sat awake upon the cold, hard stone wall, staring into the bubbling spring. Pointing his bioluminescent torch at one likely crevice after another, he’d tried to search out the wee beastie’s new home. Then, like an ember jumping from a freshly stoked furnace, it struck him hot and burning between the eyes. He was an idiot.

  Tree frog.

  He’d turned the beam of his torch upward, searching the overhanging branches. The frog must have been snoozing comfortably, tucked within a cluster of dew-damp leaves, for it wasn’t until the first rays of sunlight fell upon the leaf canopy that he caught a glimpse of something blue and shimmery.

  Scaling the tree, he wriggled out onto the branch, holding the handle of his net tightly as he stretched his arm ever so slowly and carefully toward the frog. But despite his stealth, the amphibian turned about, blinked at him—once, twice—then launched itself into the pool.

  Grumbling about frogs and trans-Atlantic voyages to vacation at a mineral spring in Wales, Evan dropped back to the ground. The cold shock of the water must have been too much, for the critter now hopped about in the weeds edging the water. Evan lunged, almost catching him.

  Now the blue frog was somewhere between the stones of the low wall. On hands and knees, he crawled through dew-damp grass, peering into one crack after another.

  “Much as I can appreciate the posterior view you present,” Piyali said behind him, her voice full of smothered laughter, “wouldn’t it be easier to admit you need help catching a certain blue frog?”

  Evan scrambled to his feet, nearly pitching himself into the pool in his haste. He dragged a gloved hand over his hair, then cursed silently, remembering he’d just been on all fours in the dirt. Closing his eyes a moment, he swallowed his pride. It was for the greater good. “Will you help me?”

  “Fine.” She set down her bag and picked up a long stick. “But if I find him first, I won’t share unless you tell me what’s going on.”

  “No.” Absolutely not. Under no circumstances could the frog be allowed to leave Aberwyn. The poor creature would have to be destroyed.

  “No?” she scoffed, poking into a crevice. “You’d rather see the frog dragged back to London, poked, prodded, its every secret extracted? That lesion of Miss Price’s? Still there, your ointment notwithstanding. What becomes of her if I don’t discover the cause of her skin infection?”

  “The lesion needs to be excised,” he stated. The ointment would only slow the spread of the discoloration, not eliminate it. Better a doctor perform the surgery, but if necessary he would lift a scalpel and do his best.

  “Oh?” She threw a challenging glance over her shoulder. “What brings you to that conclusion? Such a surgery risks an infection of another kind.”

  The sunlight filtering through the leaves overhead accentuated her thick eyelashes, the curve of her cheek and the graceful arch of her neck. The pistol at her hip. She was a Queen’s agent now. Even if he told her everything, her loyalty was to Britain first, him… at best, second.

  But if he didn’t tell her, she was going to keep digging. If that frog bit her… if what had happened to him, happened to her… His gut twisted. He couldn’t bear it. She could help. Together, they might just be able to solve—

  The air shimmered. Odd. Nothing sat there upon the rock wall. Or did it? He swept his net across its surface and felt something catch in the mesh. A small weight, about that of a small, shimmering tree frog. Quickly, he tied off the opening.

  “Did you catch it?” Piyali asked, crossing to him to stare into his net. “There’s nothing—”

  There was. Tiny and thrashing and barely visible, the once-blue frog reflected the light of the forest around them. A near-perfect camouflage. No wonder he’d had such a difficult time locating the creature.

  “I’ve a glass terrarium,” he announced, partly to her, party to the frog. “No more hopping about biting the ankles of young women.”

  “Evan,” Piyali’s voice was soft as she wrapped a hand about his wrist. “You have to tell me what’s going on. Don’t make me summon Mr. Black.”

  “Mr. Black,” he repeated. He’d met the man only once, but once had been enough to cement the man in his mind. If Mr. Black was involved, the situation was worse than he thought. “He sent you?”

  “He did. I’m to solve the mystery of the blue lesion and evaluate your competence.”

  “For?” Worry twisted in his stomach.

  With a deep breath, she dropped an artillery shell, exploding his calm resignation to his fate. “Mr. Ranunculus has taken ill and is not expected to recover. They’re searching for a new Director of Tropical Plants to work in the Lister Botanical Gardens and Greenhouse. Your name was put forth.”

  “Mine.” The depth of resources they possessed alone was enough to turn his head. To be a member of that institution—one that collected the greatest minds and the most obscure botanical specimens from all over the globe—would be an honor. To become one of its directors? He hardly dared hope they would ever consider him. His pulse jumped despite the impossibility.

  Piyali shifted closer and the silver, metallic threads sewn into her bright skirt shimmered. Only then did he realize how overdressed she was for a walk in the woods. The moment he’d met her, his life had exploded into vibrant color. Without her, the intensity had slowly washed away… until now. He yearned to accept the offer, both her unspoken one and the directorship.

  “I’m told your papers on the medicinal value of Brazilian flora are groundbreaking,” Piyali cajoled.

  They were, but he would never pass the interview process. They would note his reluctance to remove his gloves, to dig into the dirt with bare hands. No, he’d not be offered the position. Instead, he would find himself installed in the biological research laboratories as a specimen himself.

  His stomach churned. He could not allow them to discover his secret. Notes scribbled as the shaman spoke about the curse indicated that Evan had a year. Perhaps two. In that time he needed to make arrangements for the support of his sister and grandmother, to explore the medicinal properties of the eighty-one novel plants he’d so carefully transported to Wales. To publish his results. He would not survive the intense scrutiny of Lister Laboratories.

  As if she read his mind, Piyali said, “I’m afraid the clamor for one particular pharmacobotanist is loud. If you refuse, they may insist.”

  Imagining an entire suit-clad committee arriving in Aberwyn to inspect both him and his greenhouse painted a grim picture. His secret would be discovered. Better to trust one particularly insistent Lister University physician. He barked a laugh. Was defeat inevitable? “Come then, Piyali. Grab your bag.”

  Chapter 4

  The moment Piyali entered the greenhouse, humidity began to curl the tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid during the frog hunt. Moisture gathered at her temples. “It’s amazing.”

  She’d stepped into a traditional Welsh cottage of stone, through the large room—kitchen and living space—barely taking note of a large desk stacked with texts and papers, of a table and shelves covered with glassware and plant cuttings and chemicals. She’d hurried through to the back of the cottage, intent upon seeing the greenhouse Evan had described when they’d strolled the streets of London benea
th the moonlight, speaking to each other of their pasts, of their hopes to balance careers and family in the future.

  Slowly she turned about, staring in amazement. Great sheets of glass supported by an iron framework let in the fading beams of afternoon sunlight, and in the center, a leviathan of a stove burned large blocks of peat, churning out heat, intent upon defying the chill of a Welsh spring day. All about her, trees stretched their branches upward as vine upon vine twisted about their trunks, also stretching toward the sun. Exotic bushes and shrubby plants covered every inch of the ground, all but a narrow walkway that meandered between them. It was a lush, tropical paradise. Particularly as it came without the usual accompaniment of biting insect life. Her enthusiasm was dampened only by the knowledge that this must be where the blue frog with the toxic bite originated.

  “It’s far more wonderful than you ever described.” She reached out with gentle fingers to stroke the soft petals of a beautiful, orange flower.

  Catching her fingers, Evan shook his head in warning. “This one is safe. But remember my assignment was to collect potent flora. Not everything here is harmless, even to touch.”

  “Much like its curator.” Her heart jumped as her eyes fell on his rumpled cravat, and her fingers ached with the memory of the last time she’d untangled its knot, pulling on its loose ends to bring his lips to hers. Did she dare? She lifted her gaze to his face. The corners of his mouth twitched with a suppressed smile. Progress.

  “You smell of orange blossoms.” His gloved fingertip touched the glass vial that hung from a loop on her corset. “You kept it.”

  Now was the time to revisit the past, before darker topics stole the moment. “Always,” she said, moving closer to rest her palm against the hard plane of his chest. “It’s my favorite scent. Ever since you gave me my first vial and informed me it was an aphrodisiac.” She tipped her face upward. “Is it working?”

  “Too well.” His gloved hand tightened about hers. “It’s driving me insane.”

  “Once you wouldn’t hesitate.” They’d shared stolen kisses in shadowed alcoves at any and every opportunity. She walked her fingers up his chest. “What happened? What could possibly be so awful that you would rather chase me away than confide in me, a woman you once asked to share your life?”

  “Piyali,” he growled. “I can’t make promises anymore.”

  “I’m not asking for one.” She slid her hand over the rough stubble of his cheek, its rasp triggering a flood of cherished memories. “Just a confidence, perhaps a kiss.”

  Something deep inside him seemed to snap. Cupping the base of her skull with both hands, he dropped his lips to hers. Soft, warm, sweet. A gentle kiss that spoke of a longing ache finally satisfied. Then she parted her lips and reminded him that for too long, their hunger, their thirst for each other had gone unsatisfied.

  His tongue dove into her mouth, devouring her, consuming her. Wrapping her arms about his waist, she pulled him closer, moaning encouragement as she pressed her breasts tight to his chest until she could feel his heart pounding.

  Sparks flew. Five long years with an ocean between them. Not a single man compared to Evan. Not one of the many men who once pursued her had managed to hide his horror at the idea of a working wife. Not one had eyes that saw into her soul, causing her breath to catch, her heart to race in anticipation. This was why she’d waited.

  “God, I’ve missed you,” Evan rasped as his mouth left her lips, trailing kisses along her jaw, her neck, sending shivers across her skin and a rush of warmth between her thighs. He slid his hands down her back to fall on her hips, yanking her tight against his own. Whatever it was that had kept him from her, it wasn’t a lack of attraction, for there was firm evidence of that.

  Encouraged, she smiled against his neck. “We’ve waited forever,” she whispered, “to be alone like this.” She nibbled his earlobe. “Perhaps we could try a bed this time?”

  A low rumble sounded in his chest. “Piyali, it’s near impossible to refuse you.”

  “Then don’t.”

  His hands loosened on her hips as he took a step backward, refusing to lift his eyes to meet hers. “We can’t. Not until—”

  A loud knock sounded, and his head swiveled. Piyali wanted to scream in frustration. Not merely because she wanted to explore the advantages of a feather mattress with Evan, but because he’d been about to tell her what was wrong. If she knew what was broken, perhaps she could make repairs. She caught the edge of his chin in her palm. “Tell me. Until what?”

  More knocking, this time louder and more frantic. “Mr. Tredegar!”

  “Don’t,” she pleaded even as he turned toward the door connecting the greenhouse to the more traditional Welsh cottage.

  “It’s Tegan,” he said. Regret softened his voice. “I can’t ignore her. The frog bite, it’s my fault. Or perhaps there’s been some injury to another within the village… Stay here. Don’t let her see you.”

  Her face burned. “I won’t have what’s between us hidden away, Evan. Not this time.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” he said. “I never was. But she’s a spiteful girl, always has been. Would you have the whole village know of our past before we sort out if there’s to be a future? It would compromise your entire investigation.”

  Bang. Bang. “Evan!”

  His fault. He’d said the frog bite was his fault. “You’ll tell me everything?” she asked.

  His mouth opened, then closed. “I promise.”

  For all that was worth.

  Managing a tight nod, she conceded his point. “Fine.” She spun on her heel and moved deeper into the foliage, hiding like a shameful secret.

  Evan opened the front door, and Tegan pushed past him, stomping into the small cottage. “What can I do for you, Miss Price?”

  “A headache powder for Mrs. Lewis,” she answered, pacing about the room, stopping before his worktable to stare at the miscellaneous equipment—flasks, alcohol burners, glass distillation tubing, among others—gathered together, along with a number of various compounds extracted from tropical plants, ready for his next experiment. She waved at a mortar and pestle. “No, make that two.” Tegan pressed her hands to her temples.

  Worry flared. He closed the distance between them to study her face. She seemed rather flushed, her eyes shadowed. What if the infection had spread to her blood? “Are you sick? Feverish? Does your ankle pain you?”

  “I’m fine.” She waved a hand. “What pains me are the games we play, Evan.”

  A whisper of worry snaked its way down his spine at the use of his given name. Rouge, not fever colored her cheeks and lips—and was that coal dust upon her eyelashes? Immediately, he regretted unlatching the door. “Games?” he repeated. “Miss Price, this is most improper.”

  “It wouldn’t be improper,” Tegan fluttered her eyelashes in what must be an attempt at seduction, but only served to remind him that she was barely old enough for long skirts, “if you’d drop to one knee and offer that opal ring to me.”

  He bit back a curse. “I—”

  “I know you intend to offer for me.” She lifted her face. “You’ve been so patient, so solicitous of my fragile health, rushing to my side with a special ointment when that awful creature assaulted me in the woods.”

  The bite of a frog was an assault? It sounded ridiculous, but given how the blue blemish would spread…

  A strangled snort from the greenhouse had him reaching for Tegan’s shoulder to steer her away from its entrance. “I’m sorry, Miss Price, if I’ve given you the wrong impression, but—”

  “I’ll make you the perfect wife, Evan.” She lunged, flinging herself at him, and he was forced to catch the girl in his arms. “We shall run the most prosperous pharmacy in all of Cardiff. The sooner the banns are read, the sooner we can be together.”

  Aether, he’d sorely misjudged the love-sick glances she’d tossed him, chalking them up to a youthful infatuation that would pass. Gripping both of her shoulders firmly, he pushed her awa
y. “I’ve no plans to marry. We cannot be together. You ought to go now, unless you still require headache powders?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. Tears! How could he fix this?

  “No,” she sniffled. “No powders. Unless you’ve one for heartache?”

  “Er.”

  Tegan ran for the door, flinging it wide. “When you realize your mistake, I’ll be waiting. Waiting for you.” With that dramatic aside, she ran from his cottage into the woods.

  Strangled laughter burst from the greenhouse. Two dark eyes peeked around the door frame. “Oh you cruel, cruel man. How could you turn down such an impassioned plea?”

  “Not funny.” He ran a hand over the back of his stiff neck. “How am I to ever present myself at the town store again? Let alone examine her lesion?”

  “You won’t have to.” Piyali glanced about as she stepped into the one large room that served as kitchen, living space and laboratory. What must she think of his primitive cottage? Of the uneven flagstones upon the floor, the cast iron stove crammed into an ancient hearth, little furniture beyond a desk, a rough wooden table and chairs? “I’ll examine her lesion,” she said. “And you need not stay in Wales. I hear there’s a position available for a pharmacobotanist in London. That it’s practically his for the asking.”

  She looked at him from beneath long eyelashes, and his mind flashed to his thick, feather mattress. There was nothing he’d rather do more than slide an engagement ring onto Piyali’s finger, carry her upstairs to his bed. Then leave with her for London on a hunt for a special license followed by a visit to Mr. Black to accept the invitation to interview. Once she saw his hand, however… His stomach hurt as if he’d swallowed a solution of quicksilver salts.

  Two paths lay before him.

  Refuse to confide in her, and Piyali would summon Mr. Black. That would bring him under intense and unwanted scrutiny. It would, however, leave him time to excise Tegan’s lesion and destroy the frog.