“You’re pathetic,” Larissa snapped. “Weak, desperate and pathetic! Scratching at the leavings of your mother’s affections… and your brother’s! How many times did you watch him bed your other sister?”
Agatha whirled on her and raised her hand. Pain exploded in Larissa’s skull. She felt blood rush from her nose, trickling over her lip. Immediately, it ceased, and Agatha wailed in misery. She fell to the floor as she clutched her skull. Blood trickled from her ears and nose and she sobbed piteously.
Finella did not even spare a glance for her. “What a clever little dabbler you are, Larissa! Given time and proper training, you’d be an impressive foe. That little spell you cast… it only works with magic. Any other method I choose to cause you pain will not have the same result.” Finella turned to Fergus, “Take her to the library and make her pay for what she’s done to your sister.”
Spencer grasped her hand before Fergus reached her. She turned to him. “I’ll be fine… Do you remember what you said to yourself when the hallucinations were upon you?”
“It’s not real,” he replied.
“Anything Finella does to you… it isn’t real. It’s only your belief that makes it so.”
“Is that how Agatha bloodied your nose, then?”
“Agatha’s power is different… She was like me,” Larissa answered. “When I was in her room, I sensed nothing. It was void of emotion of any kind. Her gift is—was, psychic in nature, not magical.”
“Shut your gob!” Fergus said and grabbed her by the arm. He twisted it painfully as he hauled her away toward the library. Larissa looked back at Spencer and saw him face off against Finella. For the moment, with Fergus, she would be on her own.
When he shoved her into the room, she landed on the floor in a heap. Beneath the desk, she saw the gleam of a silver flask. No sooner had she laid eyes on it than a skinny hand struck out and retrieved it. Larissa was halfway to her feet when Fergus grasped her hair and hauled her up. “None of the servants can hear your screaming. Between his lordship,” he sneered the word, “sending half of ‘em off for the day, the ones that remained were easy enough for her to control. A few herbs in their food, most of them take it like a tonic… think it’s for protection.”
“Where’s your fine accent, now Fergus?” Larissa demanded, scathingly. “Your low birth is showing!”
He slapped her, hard. Once again she sprawled to the floor. This time, it wasn’t the flask that had escaped from beneath Spencer’s desk. It was the letter opener. Larissa could see Dorcas’ face pressed to the floor under the desk as she watched the drama unfold. She marveled that it was the quietest the woman had ever been. A slight giggle escaped her. She was quite nearly hysterical she realized, but it was better than weeping.
Placing her hand over the letter opener, she managed to tuck the blade into her sleeve as she climbed back to her feet. Fergus was behind her, shoving her against the desk. He gripped her hair and pressed her face down against the desk as he tugged at her skirts. “You can say you’ve been with two Earls of Kinraven now,” he sneered.
Larissa screamed because it was what he expected from her. At the same time, she worked the blade from her sleeve to her hand. When she could grip the hilt of the letter opener firmly, she brought her arm back in a swinging arc. The blade sank deep into his thigh. She didn’t stop, but withdrew it again. As he clutched the wound, he was no longer pinning her to the desk; she whirled free and with a fierce strength that shocked her, she brought the weapon down again. It sank into his shoulder clear to the hilt. The blade wedged between bones so firmly she could not extricate it again. Instead, she reached back on to the desk for something else.
Dorcas popped her head up over the edge and shoved a small marble bust at her. “Hit ‘im with that!”
Larissa did as her companion suggested. Fergus attempted to fend off the blow, but with one bad leg and his arm hanging uselessly from his side, he was unable to do so. The corner of the marble base smacked against his skull with a thud. Blood welled beneath it and as Larissa dropped the makeshift bludgeon to the ground, Fergus sank on top of it, a crimson pool forming about his head.
Dorcas rose to her feet then and perched on top of the desk. “That’s how I did in my late husband… well, without the stabbin’. Weren’t no need for that, just waited till his back was turned.”
Larissa looked at the small woman. “Is that true?”
Dorcas shrugged. “Maybe. But you’ll not cast no stones, will you?”
Larissa looked down at Fergus’ crumpled form. No. She would not.
Spencer moved cautiously toward Finella. With every step he took, her hand moved through the air, her fingers dancing in an intricate pattern. As she did so, the dark mist began to swirl about him. Shadows on the floor began to writhe and move. “I thought that was the Devil’s Trumpet?”
Finella smiled. “It helps… Suggestion is but a seed, and the herbs help them to take root.”
“Oh, shut up!” Spencer admonished as he stepped toward her. As her fingers continued their movements, he saw the Frenchman. The apparition raised its hand, a gun pointed directly at him. Not real, he reminded himself.
Finella laughed. “Having a nice chat with an old friend?”
“I have no friends in this room… Only living enemies,” he replied and further closed the distance between them. She stepped back, but the staircase was behind her.
The wall to his left exploded in fire. He flinched but didn’t move away from it. Even when he could feel the heat of it on his skin, he reminded himself of what Larissa had said. None of it was real. “None of this is real,” he said, as if uttering the words aloud would give them more power.
“How long can you convince yourself of that?” Finella demanded angrily as she stepped over Agatha’s fallen form. The other woman groaned but did not rise.
Spencer closed the distance between them and lifted the knife he’d concealed. Finella lunged away from him. As she fell backwards, she reached out for the bannister to catch her fall. Spencer brought the knife down and the blade sank though her hand. Her fingers stilled immediately as she screamed.
The front door burst open and Rhys and Michael entered. Immediately, they halted and took in the carnage. “What the hell happened?” Michael asked.
“I’ll explain later,” Spencer said. “Tie her hands and god above, gag her. The woman is a menace!” he called behind him as he took off toward the library.
When he opened the door, he too stopped dead in his tracks. Fergus lay on the floor, his sightless eyes directed at the hallway and a pool of blood beneath him. Larissa and Dorcas sat on the desk.
“I did it,” Larissa said. “Dorcas helped, but I did it.”
“I just handed her the blade… and I don’t know who that was supposed to be,” Dorcas said pointing at the small bust of Julius Caesar now covered in Fergus’ blood, “But he came in right handy.”
Spencer nodded. “He would appreciate that, I’m sure. Are you alright?” he asked Larissa.
“Yes… I believe I am. What of Agatha and Finella?”
“Finella is alive, but will likely never use her hand again… I don’t know what you did to Agatha, but she’s still collapsed on the floor and I’m not certain she’ll ever be able to speak again, much less cast spells,” he replied, as she stepped over Fergus’ body.
“And Moreland?” she asked.
“He’s out there, but so are your brother-in-law and Michael. Moreland won’t be getting away with anything this time,” he vowed. “About this thing with Agatha… what did you do exactly?”
Larissa looked up at him and her wide blue eyes were free of all shadow. “I think, Spencer, that I might be rather good at casting spells of my own.”
He let that sink in for a moment. In the end, he decided it simply didn’t matter. She could have told him she wanted to raise the dead and he’d happily put up with it to be with her. “Well, your sister does talk to the dead.” He reached out and gathered her to him. “Do
witches still dance naked under the full moon? If that’s on the agenda, I might be persuaded to cast aside my misgivings.”
Larissa smiled up at him then. “In that case, let’s go face down Rhys and try to keep him from killing you. Far too many people have tried that today already.”
It was hours later that they all gathered in the small drawing room. In light of recent events, the library and the great hall were off limits to everyone at Kinraven. The bodies of Fergus and Stydham had been removed. Moreland, after having been informed that Michael and Rhys now owned all his markers, chose the option of seeking his fortune in the West Indies rather than face the ruin that awaited him when he was dragged before the House of Lords for his debts of honor. Agatha was in the small room off the kitchen under guard, though it seemed an unnecessary precaution. Katherine had been buried quietly in the family plot nearby, and Finella was occupying the same cell where Fergus and Agatha had locked Mary up to die.
It was strange to think that of all of them, with her nasty temperament, conceit and greed, Katherine had actually been the least evil of all of them. Both Agatha and Finella would be transported to Bedlam; a fitting end for them since the machinations of their twisted family had nearly sent him there.
“So, let me get this straight… your cousin, Finella, was the granddaughter of a man who tried to have his wife burned at the stake after having their marriage annulled. But she gave up her body and became one with this house?” Michael asked as he sipped his brandy.
“That’s what Finella said,” Larissa replied. “I tend to think someone either let her out, perhaps a guard she might have been intimate with, or maybe those grates that were placed over the drain openings weren’t intact at that time. Suicide by drowning in the loch would be a better option than being burned alive.”
Michael nodded his agreement, though he still appeared perplexed by the entire thing. He took another drink.
“And Finella had three illegitimate children of her own, sired by various heirs to the Kinraven line to insure that at least one of her children would be able to gain access to the title again, either through marriage or through murder,” Spencer summed up.
They’d scoured the documents found in Agatha’s room, but Agatha’s name had not appeared on any of the family records. She’d been Finella’s dirty secret to the end. Finella’s sister, the one reported to have been Katherine’s mother, had actually died in infancy.
“And they were all given to a somewhat unnatural closeness in their family relationships,” Rhys added as he too drank deeply from his brandy snifter.
“So it would seem,” Larissa replied.
“I still don’t understand,” Rhys said, “How you came to be here?”
Spencer refilled glasses for all of them. “I wrote to you asking for help… but Larissa intercepted the letter and decided, for better or worse, to come in your stead.”
Rhys took another sip. “And what happens now?”
“Now, Larissa and I will get married as soon as possible.”
“No. We will not get married as soon as possible. We will get married when we are back in London, the banns have been read, and my mother and sister can be in attendance,” she declared. “I’m done with hiding from society. If they wish to whisper and gossip, let them.”
Rhys raised an eyebrow at that. “That’s quite a turn around. And if Moreland should reappear again?”
Spencer answered for her. “I think if today has proved one thing, it is that Larissa is quite capable of taking care of herself… though I shall be eternally grateful that she’s granted me the privilege of assisting.”
“When do we leave?” Michael asked. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’d rather not spend the night in a house that might or might not house a dead witch, a mad witch, a broken witch… and what are you now, Larissa?”
“I cast one spell! Only one! I can’t help that it was rather frighteningly effective.”
“I want out of this house before dark,” Michael reiterated and pointed to Rhys for emphasis. “Use all your ducal glory and make it happen.”
Spencer waved his hand. “There are fresh horses in the stables. The coachman Stydham and Moreland hired is still here somewhere, drinking with Dorcas, I believe. Do you want to return to London now?” he asked Larissa.
“I think we ought to,” she replied. “Emme will be worried. And we do have a wedding to plan. Also, there’s still a great deal of power in this house, Spencer. I think before we attempt to stay here, it needs a thorough cleansing.”
“You’ll never get the blood out of the carpets,” Michael offered.
Rhys closed his eyes. “That isn’t the kind of cleansing she means, Michael. Spiritual cleansing, I take it?”
“Something to that effect,” Larissa replied. “I’ll go pack my bag, and Dorcas’. She’ll be too drunk to fold anything properly. What of the servants?”
“I’ll offer them positions in other houses for now. I’ll have some stay behind to close the house up. I might offer Seamus and Gertrude the gamekeeper’s cottage and let them stay on here,” he said. “Perhaps with John and Mary. He’s still a long way from being recovered.”
Larissa nodded her agreement and left the room.
When they were alone, the three men faced off. “Did you coerce her into marriage?” Rhys demanded.
“Define coerce,” Spencer asked.
“Did you seduce her into your bed for the purpose of forcing her hand in marriage?” Michael clarified. “Rhys is worried your affections aren’t genuine.”
Spencer met Rhys’ gaze with a cool and assessing one of his own. “No, I did not. In fact, I refused to take her to my bed until she agreed to marry me.” He saw no benefit in admitting that it would have been a return trip.
“You swore you’d never marry,” Rhys stated emphatically. “What happens to her if you regret your choice?”
Spencer answered as honestly as he could without revealing the exact nature of events that had transpired. “I have loved Larissa for years. I have refused marriage till now because in my heart I knew I could never love anyone else… I would ask that you be happy for us. For she loves me, as well, though it took many years for her to be healed enough to consider such a thing. We have faced things here at Kinraven that you cannot imagine, even given the unusual nature of your courtships with your own wives. If we can get through this we can get through anything. My only regret will ever be that it too so long to make her my wife.”
“If you hurt her,” Rhys said, “I will kill you. Also, welcome to the family.”
Epilogue
Larissa met her husband’s knowing gaze as scandalized members of society listened to the woefully inaccurate usage of words in Dorcas’ wedding toast. Of course, no one had mentioned to her that it was not her place to make the wedding toast, not that it would have mattered if they had.
“And that’s why they belong together. Their love is invenerable!”
“Do you mean inevitable?” one of the ladies next to her asked.
“That’s what I said, ain’t it?”
The woman apparently sensed from Dorcas’ tone that disagreement was not an option. “Certainly, madam. I must have misheard.”
Spencer leaned over to whisper in her ear, his breath fanning against her neck in that same familiar way that made her shiver. “How long before everyone leaves?”
“The wedding breakfast has only just started,” she replied and took a small sip of her champagne.
“Do these people not understand that you have been locked away from me, under the roof of your watchdog of a brother-in-law, for weeks? I’ve barely even kissed you,” he protested.
She smiled behind her glass. “You kissed me at the church.”
“If I’d given you the kiss I wanted in that church it would have caught fire… all of London might have burned,” he said.
“If you’ll wait at least half an hour,” she said softly, “We won’t have to wait for them to leave. We’ll be able t
o slip away unnoticed while Emme orchestrates some sort of distraction.”
Spencer frowned at her. “How do you know that?”
“Because I asked her to,” Larissa replied serenely. “Now go talk with Rhys and Michael. Mingle with the other guests and I shall, as well. That way our absence from the table will not be marked.”
“This will be longest half hour of my life,” he vowed.
“When the clock strikes eleven,” she insisted. “Slip away to our chamber.”
“Will you be right behind me then?”
“No… I’ll be waiting for you. I have a surprise,” she said with a tantalizing curve of her lips.
“I will not survive this day,” Spencer muttered, but did as she’d bade and dutifully made the rounds. He chatted with the guests; he was, as always when in society, proper, if somewhat proud and stiff. She doubted that would ever change and understood why. He felt the need to prove to every day that he was worthy of the titles he’d inherited. He might never realize that he was far worthier than the man from whom he’d inherited them.
After a few minutes had passed, Larissa glanced around the room until she found Dorcas. After she’d caught the other woman’s eye and motioned her over, they left the ballroom with its glittering decorations and excessive feast and headed for the master chamber.
Once inside, Dorcas quickly began undoing Larissa’s gown. Each of the tiny buttons seemed to take forever. “God’s teeth! Why’d ye ask for buttons and not laces?”
“Because they’re prettier,” Larissa said as one popped off and skittered across the floor. “They’re also pearls!”
Dorcas stopped then, her eyes wide. “Real ones?”
“Yes, so please try to leave as many as possible on the gown itself!”
“Well, that’s just fine… like I know how to handle a real pearl!”
“It’s a button just like any other, Dorcas!” Larissa scolded.
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