Potent Charms

by Peggy Waide

  Stephen pulled her to his side, extended the candle high in the air, and peered down both passages. Pulling a small piece of charcoal from a handkerchief, he marked the left wall with an arrow. "If I'm right, this should lead us toward the music room."

  "You were quite prepared, weren't you?" The thick walls absorbed most of the squeak in her voice.

  Winking, thoroughly enjoying this little adventure, he slowly led the way, occasionally testing the stability of their path with his foot or arm. He never left her side. They passed two more forks, each as uninviting as the first. Every time Stephen checked the new tunnel for signs of use. So far all the passages seemed to be undisturbed or too dangerous to risk entry. He marked the wall again. After countless minutes, they reached a small room, eight feet or so across. A collection of candles sat on a wooden box and a white robe hung on a wooden peg with a tin can of powder beside it. Nearby, several blankets lay on a straw pallet. Four wooden stairs led to a raised section in the ceiling above.

  Stephen stared and mumbled, "Amazing."

  "What? Tell me," Phoebe nervously asked. "Are we below the music room?"

  "I believe so." He climbed the stairs and tapped on the wood. "And this would be the window seat you sat upon last night. I never thought to check there. Very clever." After searching a few more moments for a latch, he shoved against the barrier with all his strength. "Blast. It seems to be jammed or locked from the other side. But look." He swiped at a handprint the size of a man's on the bannister and held his finger in the air to reveal white powder. "I think this proves your ghost to be quite human."

  "I just don't understand why Hampson or Wibolt would do this."

  "I'm not sure either. Let's go find out."

  She sensed that he would have stayed longer and investigated further on his own, but she jumped at the chance to leave without a second thought. Together they threaded their way back to the beginning, approaching the stairway to the cook's room. Phoebe didn't remember it being quite so dark. When they reached the stairs, she understood why. The panel at the top was closed. Stephen poked, pushed and shoved, all to no avail. They were thoroughly trapped in the bowels of the mansion.

  A wave of apprehension flowed through her. She sucked in a deep breath and tried to relax. No matter how unreasonable, how unwarranted, she couldn't vanquish the child's memory of being trapped. Stephen's presence didn't help.

  "What to you propose to do now?" she asked, pounding on the wood. Stephen continued to calmly probe the wall, with no success. "Do something," she ordered.

  He grabbed her hands and pulled them to his chest. "Phoebe. We closed the door to the bedroom. Mrs. Potter won't be spending her nights here. There is no reason for anyone to enter this room."

  "Well that's a fine how-do-you-do. What do we do now?" she asked, her voice an octave higher.

  "We have several choices. We can sit here on the steps or we can venture back to where we were. The odds are greatest that someone shall hear us there. We'll have more candles and a place to sit. I left Winston a note. He'll know to look for us."

  "What about the other passages?"

  "I'd rather not risk it. Most of them appear unused and possibly unstable, and I'm not sure where they might lead."

  Her nerves calmed somewhat. After all, what he said made perfect sense. "I'll say one thing. When you offer a lady a diversion, you certainly keep your word."

  He clasped her head to his chest and stroked the back of her head, his touch soothing and provocative at the same time. "Trust me, darling. Winston will find us. Besides, when both of us fail to appear for lunch or tea, Dee will initiate a search that would rival any led by an army of Bow Street runners. The staff shall have no reprieve till they find us. I promise to keep you safe until then."

  The warmth of his embrace and the gentle stroking eased the tightness in her chest. The man had an uncanny effect on her. She did trust him. She lifted her head to tell him just that and noted the gleam in his eyes. A flicker of excitement skittered across her skin. Who would keep her safe from him?

  Beneath the music room for a second time, with the full understanding that they were possibly stuck for hours, she studied their meager supplies and said, "I'm hungry and cold."

  Lordy, she sounded like a petulant schoolgirl, and it seemed so silly to be thinking about food and all, but she was hungry. She hadn't bothered with breakfast, and last night's supper barely qualified as a meal. The chill clinging to the walls seeped into her bones.

  Stephen lit several candles. The light didn't dispel the cold, but improved her mood nonetheless. He spread the robe they found and the woolen blanket on the straw mat, sat down and extended his arms. As her teeth began to chatter, she willingly slid into his arms, eager to absorb some of his heat. He briskly rubbed his hands up and down her arms. As she relaxed, the tension faded from her body and she yawned.

  "Why don't you try to sleep. It might be hours before they even search for us. If I hear anyone, I will pound on the floor and raise such a noise they shan't miss us."

  Lying there as the flickering flames undulated on the walls like a dozen fiery dancers, she considered his suggestion ridiculous. Yawning again, she didn't even intend to close her eyes. Still, the warmth of Stephen's body, combined with his calming touch, lulled her toward drowsiness. Within moments, lack of rest from the previous night pushed her over the edge to sleep.

  Stephen watched Phoebe as she slept and contemplated the last time he had simply held a woman. Other than his very first wedding night, not one other circumstance came to mind. Usually after lovemaking, either he dressed and tended to other business or moved to his own bed.

  Emily's blind faith had fed his youthful arrogance and made him feel powerful. Their lovemaking had been pleasant but had lacked real passion. His second wife had possessed the passion but lacked the kindness. Their relationship had relied solely on lust and greed. He didn't think he'd ever spent one complete night in Louisa's bed. Phoebe was kind and passionate; she had a zest for life rivaled by few women. If they were together, he doubted he would ever let her sleep elsewhere but in his arms.

  This train of thought was not the wisest. The fact that they were quite alone clouded his better judgment. All attempts to wrest Phoebe's presence, her delectable body pressed against his, from his mind were pointless. He dipped his head and, pulling in a deep breath, he savored the scent of lavender clinging to her hair. As she burrowed closer to his chest, the growing awareness of their situation rose solidly and uncomfortably in his lap. He brushed his hand across her forehead, each eyebrow, his gaze riveted on her face. He traced the contours of her mouth with his finger. She stirred, rubbing against him like a kitten seeking a caress. The moist heat of her breath fanned his cheek. Her stomach grumbled.

  Lost in the haze between dreams and reality, she opened her eyes and graced Stephen with a lazy grin. "I'm hungry"

  "So am I, darling. So am I." He hadn't intended to kiss her, knew the folly of such action, but with her heavy-lidded eyes filled with the dewy gleam of sleep, he couldn't overcome the impulse.

  Phoebe mewled, a soft sigh of satisfaction, as she reveled in Stephen's mouth on hers, the abrading of his mustache against her skin. What a lovely way to wake from a nap. She touched her tongue to his, and taking the initiative, deepened the kiss. Her mind whirled and her pulse quickened. Her skin heated and like a glowing cinder; warmth swamped her entire body. Stephen's kisses seemed endless, arousing, often gentle, sometimes playful, all demanding her response.

  His fingers grazed her cheeks, her neck, and the highlaced collar she wore suddenly seemed too restrictive. As though he read her mind, she felt his hand on her gown's buttons, which proved to be minor obstacle's for his clever fingers. The cool damp air rushed over her nipples, but she felt only heat as his hands hovered in the valley between her breasts. She arched her back as if to say "Yes, touch me." His mouth replaced his touch, trailing a path of heat from one turgid peak to the other, caressing her inflamed flesh, stoking her bo
dy's need, her mind's curiosity. An unexpected and disturbing yearning, palpable in its intensity, spread from her breast to the juncture between her thighs, the secret place long dormant until she had met this man. She crushed her legs together in an effort to ease the discomfort, the insistent throbbing she didn't quite understand.

  Thank goodness Stephen understood. While cooing sweet words of encouragement into her ear and kissing her time and again with magical thrusts of his tongue and persuasive lips, he slowly edged the hem of her dress higher, his hand following in its wake to finally tease the tiny nubbin she never knew existed. She thought she just might faint then and there. Forgotten were the dank walls surrounding them, the chill hanging in the air. She felt flushed, feverish. Then he moved his fingers in the most delightful, unexpected way. Brilliant colors of violet and orange danced in her mind. Nothing else mattered except the incessant burning deep within her body. Instinctively, in a rhythm as old as time, her body demanded she lift her hips to greet and welcome his caresses. Her explosive reaction left her breathless, humbled and awed, and truth be told, unsure of what to do next.

  Stephen smoothed the wisps of hair from her brow, and he burrowed his forehead in the curve of her neck as he commanded his own desperate body to forget its baser urges. Sweet mercy, remembering this passionate moment, her uninhibited response, he wouldn't sleep for a week. He should never have allowed this interlude to go this far. Thankfully he had kept Phoebe more or less dressed. Otherwise he doubted he would have possessed the strength to refuse the warmth, the solace, he would find buried deep within her body.

  She shifted, pressing her hardened nipples against his arm. Damn, if he didn't move, he would loose very ounce of willpower. Lifting his head, he pulled the edges of her jacket together, covering the lush bounty of her breasts before he lost his good intentions. He tucked her chin back to his chest. "My dear darling Phoebe, what am I to do with you?"

  Marry me. It was the first, unbidden and fanciful thought to leap into her mind. Thankfully she held her tongue. She shivered with the aftershocks of pleasure and waited for the shame. None came. Wanton or not, she treasured the touches, the pleasure that Stephen had wrought upon her body. The yearning to understand him, the need to understand his past, overwhelmed all else. Wrapped in the comforting warmth of his embrace, she quietly asked, "Will you tell me about the curse?"

  His body tensed, but his arms remained tight about her. Fighting the impulse to prod and push, she waited and accepted his need to consider her request. He wasn't accustomed to sharing parts of himself with many people, of that she was sure.

  "Knowing the details won't change the outcome," he said. "The only reason I tell you this is so you know why I will not marry again."

  "I would like to understand."

  With a deep, cleansing breath, he relaxed his shoulders. "My great-grandfather was betrothed to a prominent noblewoman. Nonetheless, two months before his wedding he seduced a young gypsy girl. Pregnant and shamed when she discovered he had no intentions of marriage, the poor thing killed herself. The girl's mother, a Juliana Romov, cursed my great-grandfather. No daughter would be born to our line and every male heir would know only death and sorrow in his marriages. No daughter has been born since. Five women married into the Badrick line. All died within two years of their wedding night, my own two wives included. I refuse to add a sixth to the family cemetery."

  "How did they die?"

  "You want the gory details?" Disentangling himself from her arms, he stood and marched three steps to the corner of the tiny room. His face fell into shadow, hiding any expression that might have revealed his feelings. "My great-grandmother died in a carriage accident as she fled her husband's temper. Another fell from her horse during some idiotic race. The last drowned in her very own bathtub. I already told you about Emily and our two-week-old daughter. Louisa fell down a flight of stairs, a bottle of brandy in one hand and a diamond necklace in the other." His voice sounded horribly cold and ever so empty. She felt his withdrawal with each word he uttered.

  "Accidents happen, Stephen. More likely, those women suffered from a combination of poor judgment and bad luck."

  Moving to her side, he towered above her, his head only an inch or two from the ceiling. He snorted, more from disbelief than laughter. "Unlucky because they chose to marry my ancestors or myself. Emily was the perfect lady, the perfect female to quell the gossip of the Ton. I believed I could protect her from all the evil in the world, including myself. I seduced her into marriage as surely as I breathed. Death was her reward.

  "Louisa wanted my money, nothing more, nothing less. She had it for as long as she lived. For years, I railed against the fact that my ancestors were right, that the Badrick line was indeed cursed. But young women have died. Sweet mercy, if even one had lived a normal life, I would maybe hope, believe otherwise, but..."

  He dragged both his hands through his hair. "You once asked if I believed in love. Perhaps I did at one time, but love can bring me no joy. I never asked to be cursed, Phoebe. I won't allow myself to care so deeply again. I won't be responsible for the death, inadvertent or otherwise, of another woman. I won't bring another child into this world to suffer the pain of such a legacy. The Badrick line dies with me."

  The fervor with which he spoke revealed the extent of his belief, the anguish revealed his despair. And now, Phoebe thought, Stephen refused himself a future. He refused to allow himself to care. The odds of changing his mind seemed astronomically small. How did someone combat such conviction, one based on the most honorable of reasons? Given his current state of mind, now was not the time to try. "It seems, my lord, that we are forever at this crossroads." His eyes met hers, challenged them, his body held in check as though he anticipated an argument. A bit sheepishly she asked, "You didn't happen to find anything to eat while I was sleeping, did you?"

  He relaxed. "And here I'd thought you suitably satisfied."

  Hot color raced up her neck to her cheeks. "I was talking about food. The sustenance needed for man's very existence."

  Crossing to her side, a twinkle popping into his eyes, he said, "So was I."

  It was foolish to allow him to kiss her again. He'd clearly stated that he would not marry her. She was better off forgetting the man's persuasive lips and clever hands. Still, her body refused to accept what it considered nonsense. But, the moment she leaned forward, the floorboards above them creaked and groaned, wiping away her thoughts of kisses or anything else. It sounded like a small army tromping around in the room upstairs. Just about the time that relief flooded her mind, the barrier at the top of the stairs opened and five familiar heads peered into the darkness below. Squinting against the sudden infusion of light, Phoebe recognized Dee first. Judging from her stony expression, appearing to see more than was humanly pos sible, Dee looked none too happy. Elizabeth seemed shocked, Winston appeared nonplussed. Wibolt and Hampson looked like two men who'd just met their maker.

  "You intend to stay down there?" Dee asked, a hint of challenge in her voice.

  Dee's words mobilized everyone into action and suddenly six pairs of lips were flapping at the same time, sounding something like a squabbling flock of seagulls. Phoebe climbed the stairs while Stephen shook his head and extinguished the candles. By the time she set her feet on the floor of the music room, Phoebe had discovered that Elizabeth was not ill, but pregnant; and that Mrs. Potter had fainted yet again. At least two dozen questions had been asked and she was trying her darnedest to answer them.

  Stephen, now beside her, cleared his throat. The chatter continued. He tried again to no avail. Evidently deciding it was time to assume control, he clapped his hands together. "Enough. Let us move to the library and sit down. We will answer everyone's questions, but one at a time for mercy's sake."

  Phoebe sat behind the desk, trying to maintain the cool facade she felt necessary to compensate for her appearance. A few strands of hair loosened from her braid, which curled about her face, and dirt smudged her dress. Her appeara
nce could be fixed later. Right now her future needed tending. Quickly and efficiently, trying her best not to remember those charmed moments in Stephen's arms for surely her face confessed to every memorable touch, every delicious moment she retold the events of the afternoon. Stephen sat in a chair across the room, one leg crossed over the other as a silent observer. His face revealed nothing.

  Dee left for the kitchen to fix tea and prepare a bath. She mumbled the entire time as she made that long, deliberate walk to the doorway, then imparted a final warning glare to Stephen. Winston, who stood behind the chair Elizabeth occupied, kept a restraining hand on his wife's shoulder as they received congratulations on Elizabeth's pregnancy. They both looked as if they might burst with happiness.

  Wibolt sat on the now-closed window seat, his eyes fixed on the battered hat in his hands. Hampson, who knew the attention was now focused on him, stood perfectly still, his old bones as rigid as a marble pillar. If the poor man continued to stand so stiffly, Phoebe thought he might just snap in two. She softened her voice. "Hampson, I'm not going to order your execution. I simply want answers."

  His thin shoulders relaxed a fraction, but his expression remained sullen. "I don't deserve your kindness. Interrogate me as you wish, my lady."

  Assurances wouldn't ease his worries. "I have no intention of treating you like a petty thief. Simply explain why and how Marsden Manor is in its current state."

  Nodding, he clasped his hands behind his back. "After your mother died, your grandfather wrote the king for a special dispensation, transferring the property to you."

  "The king must have been feeling magnanimous that day to grant such a request," Stephen said.

  "Indeed, sir," agreed Hampson. "His lordship notified your father in the Americas. Your father never responded; nonetheless your grandfather kept the will intact. Over the years, as your grandfather became ill, he paid less and less attention to such details as the repair and upkeep of this place. When he died, your aunt came."