by Sandra Heath
“I want to look perfect for you,” she whispered.
“You always look perfect,” he said softly, resting her hand over his sleeve and leading her before the priest, who took up his prayer book to begin.
The following minutes seemed to pass in a dream. She heard the priest’s voice and gave her responses, but nothing seemed real, until the ring was slipped on her finger.
As they were pronounced man and wife and the servants applauded warmly, Nicholas kissed her on the lips. “You’re mine now, Lady Montacute,” he said, his gray eyes dark with promise.
* * *
The damask hangings of the bed were woven with the Montacute phoenix, and the sheets were scented with lavender. Candlelight was reflected in Verity’s eyes as she lay in her nightgown waiting for Nicholas to come to her.
Fear of the unknown lingered secretly on the edge of excitement, as it had for every virgin bride since time began. Would it hurt? Would she disappoint him? Would the dawn come and find them both regretting the vows they had said tonight? Oh, please, don’t let it all go wrong now, let this wedding night be as wonderful as any bride could wish....
Nicholas was in the adjoining dressing room, and she gazed toward him as his shadow crossed the candlelight. His hair was ruffled, and he wore a navy silk robe with a single button at the waist. When he turned she could see the dark hairs on his chest.
As he extinguished the dressing room candle and came into the bedroom, she sat up slowly, her hair tumbling forward in a cascade of curls. She reached out to something she had left on the little table by the bed, next to his escritoire. As he approached the bed, she held the black pearl tie pin out to him.
“I—I didn’t have a ring for you, but I want you to have this,” she said. “It belonged to my father and is the most precious thing I own.”
“I can’t take it, Verity.”
“Yes, you can. Please, Nicholas, for it’s what I want.” She pressed it into his hand.
“I’ll wear it tomorrow,” he promised, placing it carefully in a little compartment of the escritoire.
She blushed a little. “Maybe you won’t want to by then.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, tilting her face toward his.
“Because I may disappoint you tonight.”
His thumb moved gently over her cheek. “You could never disappoint me, Verity,” he said softly.
“But I don’t know anything, Nicholas. I’m a green girl who can only prove very dull between the sheets.”
He smiled. “Is that so? Well, then, it’s up to me to teach you, is it not? Come the morning, if I’m a poor tutor, it may be that you will be the one who’s disappointed.”
“I do so want to please you, Nicholas,” she whispered.
He held a hand out. “Come here, my lady,” he murmured.
Hesitantly she slipped her fingers into his and he drew her from the bed. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said gently.
She obeyed, and he put his hands to her waist, savoring her pliant warmth through the thin stuff of the nightgown. He pulled her toward him, and her eyes widened a little as she felt his arousal, so free and rampant now that he only wore the dressing gown.
He smiled, pushing gently against her. “You have nothing to fear, my love, for tonight I mean to introduce you to the joys of the flesh, not the terrors.”
Her cheeks flushed, and her lips parted as all fear faded into oblivion. Excitement began to course into her veins, and she lifted her lips to meet his. He kissed her very tenderly, sliding his hands down to her buttocks and holding her to him. She trembled as she felt his erection pressing through her nightgown.
He drew back and gently undid the ribbons at her throat, so the gown slid from her shoulders to the floor. She stood there naked before him, her nipples upturned in readiness. The candle flame swayed over her body, sending light and shadow over her curves, and her breath caught with pleasure as he took her nipple between knowing fingers.
She closed her eyes as more and more pleasure washed over her. She wanted to touch him intimately, and she reached out hesitantly, then snatched her hand back in confusion, but he caught her fingers and drew them gently forward again, pressing them to the shaft that stood proud from his loins. She held her breath as she felt how hard yet warm and velvety he was. Her fingers curled around him, and his lips found hers in a more erotic kiss than before.
His hand moved to the hairs at her groin, and then slid gently into those moist places no one had touched before. She moaned a little as he caressed her in a way she’d never dreamed she could be caressed. Her hand trembled as she explored him too. His size and virility excited her more and more, and soon she found herself longing for the moment he would push deep into her.
He took off his dressing gown and then lifted her onto the bed. She lay there with her arms stretched up toward him, and he lowered himself into her embrace. As he sank down onto her, she felt his erection find its way between her parted thighs, and then its tip pressed urgently against that most secret place of all. For a moment her untouched body resisted, but the resistance was only fleeting, and he was permitted to enter. The pleasure was exquisite as he eased in inch by firm inch until he filled her completely. It was a wonderful feeling, close to ecstasy itself, but she knew the real ecstasy was yet to come.
He drew out slowly, and then penetrated her again. She arched with delight, her whole body quivering with feelings she had first discovered in the mill during the storm. Suddenly she was moving in rhythm with him, her hips swaying to his as desire cried out for climax. She was lost in a haze of pleasure, passing over thresholds of new experience that led her on and on toward something that her whole being craved. Her flesh felt as if it were melting, and her consciousness began to recede as at last she entered a fantastic realm where there was nothing but rapture.
* * *
As the gray of dawn found its way into the room, Verity lay cherished and contented in Nicholas’s arms. She felt warm and complete and didn’t regret anything. It had been right to run away to Nicholas, right to make clandestine vows in the middle of the night, right to surrender to him here in this bed. Had any bride ever had a sweeter initiation? Had any bridegroom ever shown more consideration, tenderness, and passion?
She leaned over him and kissed his mouth as he slept. He stirred, his lips responding before his eyes opened. Then he smiled and drew her down to him once more.
* * *
Joshua was just preparing to go down for breakfast when Jeanne found the note Verity had left for him. The maid couldn’t read what it said, but the disappearance of its author and a portmanteau was sufficient evidence for the Parisienne who, like everyone else, knew all about Lord Montacute’s persistent calls.
She was reluctant to be the bearer of such a communication, fearing she might be accused of complicity, and so she took it down to the kitchens, where all the servants exchanged glances. After some deliberation, it fell to the butler to convey the note abovestairs again.
Joshua read it, and then his lips pressed bitterly together. Slowly he crumpled the sheet of paper, tossed it into the hearth, and then he looked at the waiting servant.
“Have Miss Windsor’s possessions sent to Lord Montacute’s residence. I imagine you know his address?”
The butler avoided his eyes. “Er, yes, sir.”
“See to it then.”
“Very well, sir.” The man turned to go.
Joshua spoke again. “My travel plans are not affected by this. I still intend to leave for Wychavon today.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all.”
“Sir.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Meanwhile in Wychavon, Martha was crossing the stepping stones on her way to the vicarage. She had dwelt long and hard upon what she had witnessed in the grove and was convinced that Judith was somehow connected with Meg Ashton. There had been the diabolical face on the Lady, the hare leaping away toward the castle, the ungodly green candles….<
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It all wreaked of the long-dead enchantress, but in order to find out more, the nurse meant to seek an interview with the Reverend Crawshaw, who she was sure would know a great deal about such an important part of the village’s history.
As she approached the vicarage gate, she heard a familiar metallic thumping sound, like a tin drum, echoing along the Ludlow road toward her. She smiled and paused as a gaudy, heavily laden cart came into view. It was the Gypsy peddler who came every year at this time, and his arrival was always regarded as proof that summer was nearly over. He always set up camp on the village green, stayed for a few days, and then moved on to the next village.
The two-wheeled cart had a curved canvas top, and the peddler was walking beside the piebald horse, banging a wooden spoon on a saucepan to announce his presence. Baskets, kettles, and basins swung from hooks on the cart, and brightly colored ribbons fluttered from his hat. He repaired chairs and sharpened knives, made wooden dolls and other toys, and sold dress lengths, all manner of haberdashery, and an assortment of gewgaws to suit all tastes.
Martha stood aside to wave as he passed, but then she heard another cart behind, except that this one was invisible. Her smile faded and she shrank back against the gate as the churchyard watcher drove past as well. The supernatural sound drowned the noise made by the peddler, so that she could follow the spectral vehicle’s progress toward the ford. There it halted, and for a terrifying moment she actually saw the cart very clearly indeed, with Admiral Villiers at the reins. He was dressed in full uniform, and he turned his ghastly face toward her, before he and the cart faded from view again.
The wisewoman felt cold in spite of the September sunshine. Everything seemed normal again, there was laughter on the green as the village children ran out to greet the peddler, and the breeze rustled through the willows as if all were well, but Martha knew there would soon be two deaths in Wychavon. One by the ford, where the admiral waited with his unearthly cart, and one by the track to the mill, where the corpse candle had appeared.
For a moment her eyes fled fearfully across the road to her sister’s cottage, where Davey still lingered halfway between life and death. “Not the boy, I beg of you, not the boy,” she whispered, then turned to push open the vicarage gate and hurry up to the door.
The Reverend Crawshaw was not in the best of moods, for earlier that morning he had been informed by the workmen in the church that there was more lightning damage to the roof than had been realized. The whole building would now have to be permanently closed until the repairs were complete, and it was a situation he would have preferred not to have occurred. He was therefore a little disgruntled when Martha came in with her request concerning Meg Ashton, but he endeavored to be polite and helpful.
He cleared his throat. “Why, er, yes, Miss Cansford, in fact I can do more than just tell you about the sorceress, I can let you borrow a book that contains a chapter on her trial and death.”
He went to a bookcase and took a slender leather-bound volume down, but as he held it out to her, she shook her head. “I do not read, Reverend.”
“Ah, yes, I, er, wasn’t thinking.” He cleared his throat again.
“Perhaps you’d be so good as to read some of it out to me?”
“Now?”
“If you please,” she said politely, being so bold as to take a seat and clasp her hands attentively in her lap.
He drew a long breath, for reading to the village wisewoman hadn’t figured in a morning schedule that was now much concerned with making alternative arrangements for services because the church had to be closed, but nevertheless he opened the book.
“ ‘A true and just record of the information, examination, and confession of the witch known as Meg Ashton, taken at Wychavon in the county of Shropshire in the year of our Sovereign Lady Queen Elizabeth, 1602. Trial held before Justice Henry Villiers ...’ “
Martha sat forward. “Villiers?” she repeated.
He nodded. “An ancestor of the late admiral.”
She sat back again. “Do go on, Reverend.”
“ ‘Imprinted in London at the Three Cranes, in the Vintry, by Thomas Dawson.’ Er, that’s of no interest, so let me see. Ah yes. ‘The witch’s crimes are thus. That she did have four imps to serve her, a black dog, a gray cat, a brown rat, and a jackdaw, and that they did help her perform the Devil’s work. That she did bewitch to death one Robert Cansford, his wife …’ “ The clergyman broke off in surprise. “Well, Martha, one can only surmise that this Robert Cansford was one of your forebears.”
Martha nodded. “It would seem likely, Reverend, for there have always been Cansfords in Wychavon.”
He returned to the book. “ ‘... that she did bewitch to death one Robert Cansford, his wife, ten of their beasts, and all his fowls. That she did lame an old woman who offended her, and that she did bring grave illness upon a small and innocent child. But her greatest crime was that she did bewitch to death Lady Montacute and her unborn babe, which she did by diabolical means, and with malice aforethought, because her ladyship’s husband had at the stroke of midnight on All Hallows Eve, destroyed a circle of stones where the witch was wont to worship her mistress, the Devil’s servant, Hecate, Goddess of Witchcraft and Darkness.’ “
Martha exhaled slowly. Halloween, the day Judith Villiers had appeared in Wychavon. And as for Hecate’s stone circle, well, the goddess could still be summoned to the grove, as she, Martha Cansford, had seen with her own eyes....
The clergyman read on. “ ‘The witch made a pact with Hecate, that she would serve her all her days, and in return be able to spellbind, seduce, and marry Lord Montacute, before doing him unto death as she had his wife and unborn child, and thus escape her lowly existence and live in riches to the end of her days.’ “ He broke off a little faintly, taking out a handkerchief to mop his brow at the thought of such wicked and ungodly conduct.
Martha was shaken. Meg had intended to punish Lord Montacute for offending Hecate, by using black arts to murder his wife, then attempting to bewitch him into marriage? After that he would have been murdered too, and Meg would have become a widow of wealth?
The Reverend Crawshaw had recovered a little, and looked reluctantly at her. “Er, do you wish me to continue?”
“If you please, Reverend.”
With a sigh he read on. “ ‘Fearful was the mischief she wrought in the service of the great Demon, and abominable was her defiance as she admitted her crimes before the court. She was condemned as the most dangerous and malicious witch that ever lived in this part of Shropshire, and was put to the flame on Halloween, that being the anniversary of the destruction of the diabolic stone circle. The witch, a young and beautiful woman of some five-and-twenty years, expired unrepentant, and with a curse upon her lips. She swore vengeance upon the name of Montacute and Villiers, and drew her last breath without calling for God’s holy mercy.
“ ‘She was put to the flame by one Joseph Cansford, son of the unfortunate Robert Cansford. He wore a hood for fear she would cast a curse upon his name as well. As the final scream was torn from the witch’s lips, it was said among the crowd gathered there that her spirit was seen to flee from her body into the remaining stone of the vanished circle. Ever after it was believed that she was trapped there, waiting to be freed to carry out her vile curse.’ “
The clergyman closed the book in relief. “That is all I can tell you, Miss Cansford.”
Martha looked at him. “Is it certain that one of my ancestors held the torch to the stake?”
“So it states in the book.”
“Reverend, I—”
He cleared his throat to interrupt her. “Miss Cansford, I have a great deal to do this morning, and feel I have granted you enough of my time. I have read all that the book contains, and know nothing more. Nor do I wish to know more of such a shamelessly pagan and entirely reprehensible personage.”
Martha got up. “I quite understand, Reverend, and I thank you for your consideration.”
&
nbsp; “Not at all.” He hastened to the door and opened it pointedly.
Martha emerged into the daylight again and paused by the vicarage gate to gaze across the green at the excited gathering of villagers around the peddler’s cart. Some of the children now had the wooden spoon and saucepan, and were chasing each other noisily to and fro, shrieking with laughter. Martha glanced at them and smiled briefly, but then her thoughts returned to everything she had just heard at the vicarage.
Judith Villiers was Meg Ashton, there was no doubt in her mind now that she had heard the full story. The wisewoman drew a long breath. Judith had already begun to carry out Meg’s dying curse. She had married the admiral and then murdered him because of the long-dead Judge Villiers who had sentenced her.
And now, again because of his ancestor’s actions, she intended the same fate for Nicholas Montacute. Why else had she acquired something belonging to him? The seal could be used in a spell to bring him under her influence, and so it would have done if Verity hadn’t found it on the green.
Martha paused by the ford. She was now more glad than ever that she had taken the precaution of giving Verity the snakestone, for her interference with the seal had cost the witch dear, a fact that Judith would not forgive lightly.
The old woman began to cross the stepping stones, her musings moving on to Nicholas. He was undoubtedly in danger, but at least there wasn’t another Lady Montacute to stand in the witch’s way this time, and Nicholas was himself safe enough while the seal remained in the church.
If it should fall into the witch’s hands, however, his days on earth were numbered....
* * *
But at that moment, Judith was taking steps to retrieve the seal. She was approaching the garden wall at the rear of Sadie’s cottage.
Sadie was hoeing among the rows of vegetables, and there were tears in her eyes as she worked, because she was losing hope for Davey. She heard the noise caused on the green by the peddler’s arrival, and the tears wended their way down her cheeks. Summer was almost at an end now, and Davey had been ill since spring. He seemed to be suspended somewhere between life and death, without showing any signs of either recovering or finally fading.