Her response made Malachi pause—for a woman so lovely she was remarkably uncaring of any danger he might choose to visit upon her. But perhaps she relied upon his being a gentleman—a plausible notion, if brainless. He was not, after all, his saintly cousin Niclas, though she had no way of knowing it.
And then something else occurred to Malachi—something that he chided himself for not realizing before. Sarah Tamony knew about magic—about him and what he was. She’d not turned a hair at the sight of his powers, in either creating light or holding back the wind or retrieving her spectacles. She’d shown no fear of the wild elements or shock at the discovery of the ceremonial grounds. She knew about his kind and wasn’t afraid.
But of course, he thought with sudden clarity, watching as she knelt to gather her belongings and put them in order. Of course she knew about magic and those possessed of it. Her writings were alive with her belief in such things; if they’d not been, they would have been as dull and uninspired as all the books that had come before. Niclas had conjectured that Sarah Tamony might almost be one of their sympathetics, and if that was so, then … but he could take no chances, Malachi told himself firmly. She meant to write about the Seymours, to expose them to the world. No one who was sympathetic to their kind would do such a thing, knowing what the end might be.
She returned to stand before him, a boy’s cap on her head and a small pack slung over her shoulder. “I’m ready. Are we walking?”
She almost sounded, at least to Malachi’s ears, eager for such a venture.
“Miss Tamony,” he said with waning patience, “it is well over two miles to the castle. I did not run here on foot to apprehend you, and I’ve no intention of using my feet to return.” And he certainly wasn’t going to take her up in the air, though he could have, if he’d wished it. To carry her aloft would require holding her very close, and although he believed Sarah Tamony to be a fate worse than the plague, there could be no denying that she was an extraordinarily appealing female. The snug, boyish garments she wore—though obviously practical for such outings—only served to enhance her slender waist and generous curves. He might be angry with Miss Tamony, but that didn’t make him capable of controlling his traitorous body when it was pressed against an attractive woman.
He lifted his hand once more and gave a snap of his fingers. “Enoch, dere!”
Miss Tamony’s eyes widened as Enoch, Malachi’s powerful steed, suddenly appeared in the midst of the trees surrounding the ceremonial grounds. He was a magnificent creature, possessed of his own peculiar magic and worthy of the awe inspired in Miss Tamony’s gaze.
“How marvelous!” she murmured. “Is it … I’ve heard that such animals exist, but was never certain whether the tales were more than rumors. Can he fly?”
Malachi frowned at her. “Is this how you conduct your interviews, Miss Tamony? By asking impertinent questions of those upon whose land you’ve importuned?”
“Oh dear, it is rude of me, is it not?” she confessed, setting a hand over her cap to keep the wind from blowing it away. “But if he can fly, then—”
“He cannot fly,” Malachi stated, aware that the wind was beginning to blow with increasing ferocity. “He can travel great distances in short periods of time, but I’ve neither the time nor the desire to tell you how at the moment. We will ride to the castle in the usual manner.”
She smiled and nodded. “I do think that will be best, my lord. As I was about to explain, I’ve a horse, too, tied just outside your boundaries, sheltered within some trees. I really didn’t mean to leave it this long. I’m sure it must be growing weary of being out in the elements. Would it be possible for me to fetch it, first, before accompanying you to the castle?”
Enoch came near enough for Malachi to take hold of the horse’s reins. He pulled the giant steed close. “The beast is no longer there,” Malachi told her. “I sent it away, back to its barn, long before I found you. Come.” He motioned for her to move forward. “There’s a great deal I intend to make clear to you, Miss Tamony, before this night is done.”
Chapter Six
Although she’d been born in England, Sarah had spent the better part of her life traveling through countries near and far and had seen many marvelous things—grand palaces, magnificent cathedrals, ancient ruins, astonishing pyramids. But as she crossed the threshold of Castle Glain Tarran, Sarah knew that she was entering a place like none she had ever experienced before. The power she’d felt from the land was nothing compared to the intensity in the castle. It must be centered here, she thought, and emanate out to the rest of the estate.
If any place was worthy of possessing such magic, it was Glain Tarran. It was truly a castle in every sense of the word, though even in the moonlight Sarah had been able to see that it had started life as a simple fortified keep and much later been finished as an elegant manor. In between the two, however, Glain Tarran had been built up as a tremendous medieval castle, and it was this part—still fronted by the keep and flanked from behind and on either side by the manor, that was the heart of the dwelling. By all accounts the estate should have looked like a confused jumble of mismatched architecture, yet the actual result was breathtakingly lovely. All of the ancient beauty of the castle had been perfectly retained—even the walls that comprised the inner and outer baileys—so that the gardens and trees preserved the image of far-gone times.
The elderly butler who opened the massive front doors for them seemed unperturbed by his master arriving with a strange woman in the middle of the night. Bowing low, the butler welcomed them and then proceeded to take Sarah’s things—not so much as raising an eyebrow at the sight of her boyish garments—while a footman ably divested Lord Graymar of his own hat and heavy cloak. It was only at the sight of his master’s very blond hair, which, being unfashionably long as well as currently unbound, fell tumbling to his shoulders once the hat came off, that the butler expressed a measure of unhappiness, and that only with his eyes. Lord Graymar sent his servant an answering look and said, “I know I look a fright, Rhys, but it can’t be helped, and I’ve no intention of remedying my appearance just now. I wish to speak with our intruder first.”
“Yes, my lord,” the butler said obediently, though he was clearly pained at the idea of Lord Graymar being in any kind of company in so disorderly a manner. Sarah was aware that the Earl of Graymar was renowned in Society for the unfailing perfection of his attire, even in the simplest of gatherings. “Will you be in the study?”
“We will.” Lord Graymar took Sarah’s elbow in a firm grip. “Bring us some hot wine—the Burgundy, with plenty of spice—and whatever Cook may have at hand in the way of sustenance. Our guest will be the better for it, I believe.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Sarah assured him as Lord Graymar pulled her along. “I do hate to put you to any trouble.”
The earl glanced at her, his gaze filled with irony. “It’s scarcely more than what you’ve already put us to,” he told her. “I confess, however, that I am not usually in the habit of entertaining trespassers.”
“I’m sure that’s so, my lord,” Sarah replied meekly, walking quickly to keep up with his longer strides, scarcely able to take in the magnificence of the dwelling at their rapid pace, “but I am so grateful you’ve agreed to entertain me, even if only to vent your wrath.”
He stopped before a large, ornately carved door. “You would be fortunate, Miss Tamony, if that was all that I wished to do. But come.” The door swung open without being touched, revealing a large chamber beyond. “I’m cold and weary and want a drink.”
Sarah preceded him into the room and immediately felt her jaw drop open in a very unladylike expression of instant awe.
“Oh,” she murmured, her steps faltering as her gaze moved from one end of the room to the other. “How beautiful.”
And it was. Having seen the castle’s exterior, she had expected that the interior rooms would be built on a grand size as well and accordingly be rather cold and intimidating, as in
other large castles she’d seen. But this room was nothing of the kind. It was certainly big, but not in the least uninviting.
“Those windows,” she murmured, staring at the tall shining glass panes that rose from the floor all the way to the high ceiling. Deep red curtains were drawn back to the sides, allowing an unlimited view of the scenery beyond, which at this moment, illumined by the moonlight, was a wildly windblown garden and, beyond that, a darkness where the land dropped away to the sea.
“They are striking, are they not?” Lord Graymar remarked, closing the door behind him. Sarah could hear the touch of pride in his tone. “They’re what newcomers always comment upon when first entering the study. The question that often follows is how is it possible that the room can stay so warm, exposed as it is by so much glass, and with but the one fireplace?”
Sarah glanced at her host as he moved nearer. “I find that hard to believe, my lord, unless you are much in the habit of allowing those who do not know you well into your home.”
“I am not,” he replied with polite brevity. “But I did say that it is what newcomers ask, not those who know me.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze rising to the tall ceiling. “I imagine that those who know nothing of magic ask a great many questions when coming to such a place. I can only wonder at how you answer them.”
“It can be trying,” he confessed. “I perceive, however, that I shall be spared such difficulty with you, Miss Tamony.”
She smiled. “I believe that is so, my lord. My faults are many—my presence at Glain Tarran gives full evidence of my lamentable lack of patience—but I am not so blind or foolish as to disbelieve the wondrous sights I’ve encountered in my research. I’ve written of them in my books.”
“Ah yes,” he murmured. “Your books. That is precisely the topic I wish to discuss with you, though I imagine you already knew that.” With a light touch on Sarah’s elbow, he led her toward a group of richly upholstered chairs. “Please be seated, Miss Tamony, and make yourself comfortable. Rhys will be here shortly with the wine. Forgive me if I drink before you.” Turning, he strode toward a beautifully carved cupboard set in the midst of walls of dark bookcases that, like the windows, rose to the ceiling. Glass-paned doors opened at his approach, revealing numerous shining bottles and crystal glasses beyond.
He busied himself for a few moments, his back turned to her, and Sarah gave herself a moment to steady her nerves.
She was not, by nature or experience, given to moments of uncertainty or fear, but Malachi Seymour wasn’t like any other man she’d ever before faced. Sarah had expected that he’d not be, of course, having heard so many rumors of his great powers—from sources as far away as Cairo—but she had been in the presence of other powerful wizards and sorceresses before and had assumed it wouldn’t be so very different. It was.
She’d heard him called by several titles. Noble One, Son of Mactus, Great Wizard. In Wales, and among those who particularly knew him, Malachi Seymour was called Dewin Mawr, or Great Sorcerer. Now Sarah understood why he was spoken of with such deference and awe, even fear. He was … overwhelming.
Remembering what she’d said earlier, and that she’d been unable to halt the words that tumbled from her lips at setting sight upon him, made Sarah’s cheeks hot with embarrassment. She was a woman well used to speaking her thoughts—within reason, of course—but to have told him to his face how handsome he was had been far beyond the pale. It had been an awful misstep. Lord Graymar would likely consign her in his consideration to the legions of females who were madly in love with him, who swooned when he entered a room and constantly sought his favors.
In all truth, the fellow wouldn’t be far wrong. If she’d had the time or leisure, Sarah might have happily joined the man’s admiring throngs. But she didn’t have the time or leisure, nor the intention of letting her determination be turned aside by a good-looking man. Or a shockingly stunning one.
He was tall and perfectly proportioned. Slender in build—no, not precisely slender, she corrected mentally, for that bespoke a lack of strength, and Sarah knew firsthand from riding before him on that magnificent steed, his arms fast about her, that Malachi Seymour was powerful. No, she thought, tilting her head slightly as she watched his movements, he was sleek rather than slender, almost feline. If his eyes had been gold or brown, Sarah might have called him leonine, especially with his overlong mane of white-blond hair, which should have served to make the man look eccentric rather than even more attractive. But his eyes were blue. A light, clear, piercing blue that put Sarah in mind of a diamond that she had seen many years ago in a palace in India. As the memory flashed into her thoughts, Lord Graymar turned to face her, glass in hand, pinning her with those eyes as if he knew what she was thinking.
His face … Sarah struggled to ignore her host’s amused gaze and to force her heart’s increased pace into submission, giving herself permission to deliberately consider what it was that made the man’s face such a shock to the senses. There was the obvious perfection of it—each part in ideal proportion and placement to the rest, from his aristocratic nose to the curve of his brows and cheeks, to say nothing of the alluring set of his mouth—and perfection generally drew attention and admiration from beholders. But there was more than simple alignment of features to account for such masculine beauty as the Earl of Graymar possessed. Sarah had seen it in the faces and figures of those she’d interviewed for her stories. There was an otherworldliness, a luminosity emanating from an unknown source. It sparked in the eyes and beneath the skin and could be heard even in their voices. Just as Sarah heard it in Lord Graymar’s voice when he’d found her, even above the sound of the wind.
She had written in her first book about elves, fairies, and other such beings taking magic mortals as their mates, resulting in progeny possessed of unusual features. The Seymours, she’d been told, had inherited the beauty and fineness of the elves. If it was true, and Sarah had no reason to believe it was not, it would explain a great deal about Malachi Seymour’s effortless ability to steal her breath away.
Lord Graymar’s initial amusement at her scrutiny died as a long silence passed between them. Sarah knew she should lower her gaze and murmur an apology for her bold appraisal, but his reaction held her attention even more fully. His smile faded and his blue eyes grew troubled. He seemed to be—though she could scarce credit it—disconcerted. Lifting his unoccupied hand, he haltingly ran his fingers through his unbound hair, making a brief, and useless, attempt at combing it. Just as abruptly he straightened, dropped his hand, and looked away. “Rhys will be here soon,” he said once more, a touch unsteadily.
He lifted the glass in his hand and drank deeply from the amber liquid within, then drew in and released a breath and looked at her once more, recovering the mask of control he wore.
“You know about magic,” he stated, rather than asked. “And believe in it. You know that the castle is warm, regardless of windows or drafts, because I wish it to be. Because everything within Glain Tarran responds to the wishes of its master. You knew before you came tonight. Your books reveal that much about you, Miss Tamony.”
Sarah nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord. But it isn’t merely because of my writing, though that has certainly confirmed my suspicions. I’ve always known, since I was a child, that there were those who were very different from other mortals. From me.”
Lord Graymar began to move slowly toward where she sat, gently swirling the contents in his glass. It seemed to Sarah that the temperature in the room rose a degree or two.
“We call those who know about our kind, either intuitively or by revelation, ‘sympathetics,’ ” he said, “though I wouldn’t precisely describe you by the name. Sympathetics”—he paused to seat himself in a comfortable chair opposite the couch—“help magic mortals survive in this world. They do not expose us to those who would bring us harm.”
Sarah’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak, but Lord Graymar held up a staying hand.
&
nbsp; “Come, Rhys,” he said aloud, and the study’s door opened to reveal the servant standing there, holding a tray in both hands.
“Thank you, my lord,” the older man said as he entered the room, carrying the tray to a low table set within Sarah’s reach. The alluring scent of spiced wine filled the room, mixed with the smell of warm pastry. “Would you care for a glass of wine, miss?” He indicated a steaming silver pitcher set beside a gleaming crystal goblet.
“Yes, thank you,” Sarah said gratefully, proffering her widest smile.
“Rhys,” Lord Graymar said casually, not turning his gaze from Sarah, “I believe you’ll be pleased to be more formally introduced to our guest. This is Miss Sarah Tamony, whom we’ve had cause to speak of so often these past many weeks. She’s been so good as to gift us with her company this evening. Or should I say ‘morning,’ as the hour is so advanced?”
The servant lifted his head to look with greater delight into Sarah’s face. “Miss Tamony!” he declared, his blue eyes filled with happy surprise. “Miss Sarah Tamony, the authoress? Why, a great honor it is indeed.” With deft skill he filled the goblet and held it out for Sarah to take. The crystal was thick and heavy, and the warmth of the wine was welcome against her ungloved fingers. “I have had the pleasure of reading your work, miss,” he went on, bowing. “And my grandchildren, as well. They’ll scarce agree to sleep at night without we read them a chapter or two, there is that much they love your stories.”
His voice held the music of the Welsh that Sarah had heard so often in the past several days. It was there, even in the simplest words, whether spoken in English or Gaelic, from the lips of farmers, villagers, or gentry. Even Lord Graymar, though he spoke with the clear refinement of an English nobleman well used to moving in Society, couldn’t keep the lilting rise and fall of certain words and syllables from his speech.
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