Potent Charms

by Peggy Waide

  Anna tossed the water from the wagon and pointed to the small stool. "Sit. Ask."

  Phoebe explained the curse, providing what details she knew. Anna asked several questions as she loosened the remnants of Phoebe's braid and silently combed her hair. Finally Anna asked, "Does your man believe in the power of such a curse?"

  "I believe so. Certainly, he credits himself responsible for the death of two women and refuses us a chance to be together as man and wife. I hoped to find a way to change his mind."

  "Cursed or not, who can say for sure. A curse or a charm of any kind usually works with a man's beliefs, his guilt, his fear or his greed. Like a child, if told enough times that he is ugly, he will come to accept it as truth. Your man's heart holds the answers he needs, but he must find them himself. Let me see your palm."

  Phoebe extended her hand. Anna gently flattened her fingers over Phoebe's and began to trace and study the lines. She rubbed back and forth several times. "I see a long life for you, my child, with many children."

  Long life was good, thought Phoebe. And children. She wanted children, but whoever was the father?

  Anna continued, "You will fall in love with one man, but the man you marry will be different."

  Phoebe didn't like the way that sounded. "You mean I won't marry Stephen."

  "The palm does not tell me a name. It shows me a life with different paths. You will marry and you can be happy if you allow it."

  Phoebe was more confused than ever and she'd hidden from Stephen long enough. By the time she emerged from the wagon, the shadows of night had overtaken the day. Flames shot skyward from a roaring fire. Laughter, music and the tantalizing aroma of food drifted about the glen.

  As she crossed the encampment, searching for a familiar face, she realized why Ariana walked as she did. The skirt danced about her ankles, the soft muslin shirt slid sensuously over her unbound breasts. Her hair fell uninhibited down her back and swung back and forth across her hips. Tonight, away from the scornful eye of her aunt, the constant scrutiny of the Ton, Phoebe felt free for the first time in weeks. This time was only a brief respite, a false image of reality, but she would enjoy every single moment nonetheless.

  Elizabeth and Winston talked with Anna on one side of the fire while Rhys and Stephen sat on a blanket, their backs pressed against a log. When Phoebe approached, unsure of what Stephen might do, she stood perfectly still. The minute he noticed her, he edged over and extended his hand. Evidently he'd forgotten his earlier private tantrum.

  A woman brought a plate heaped with food. Phoebe's stomach growled in response. No small wonder. She hadn't eaten since early that morning. Tearing away a piece of roasted meat, she asked, "Where are Winston and Elizabeth going?"

  "It's likely Elizabeth's attempt to leave you and I alone together."

  "So you can murder me without witnesses," she grumbled.

  "It's doubtful that witnesses would factor into the equation. I'd plead my case and the House of Lords would likely find in my favor."

  Beside them, Rhys chuckled.

  She momentarily considered arguing the point, but instead chose to ignore the rude men and their silly opinions. She would let nothing dispel the magic of the night. She was with Stephen, far from London, amongst people who led a life unlike any she had ever known. Possibilities abounded. "Then I guess I'd best enjoy myself for as long as I have to live."

  "What are you contemplating now?" Stephen said.

  "Whatever do you mean?" Phoebe asked, wondering how he knew her mind as well as he did.

  "I recognize that gleam in your eye, the manner in which you nibble your thumb when you've thought something through and reached a conclusion of sorts. Given our past encounters, it makes me wary."

  She jerked her thumb from her mouth and placed another bite of food in its place. "Has anyone ever told you that you are a suspicious man? What trouble could I possibly find here?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "Given sufficient time, I'm sure you could propel England into a major war."

  "Surely you jest, my friend," Rhys said, as he reached for a pitcher of ale. "She is but a mere woman."

  "Mere woman? I'll have you know women are not mere anything. We are capable of great things. It's the men who bind us to our embroidery, menus and balls."

  "I see what you mean," Rhys agreed. "She is a handful. The kind that a man would possess and never want to lose sight of." Grinning, he left Phoebe and Stephen alone to join a burly man who held a strange-looking violinlike instrument.

  She asked, "What did he mean?"

  "Nothing." Everything. Rhys had been very direct in his observations. He considered Stephen a blind-eyed lobcock, tied to his past.

  "How do you know Rhys?"

  "I imagine our friendship took you quite by surprise. The Ton would likely find some nefarious reason for our relationship."

  "Are you going to tell me or just make cryptic, self-deprecating comments all night?"

  "Pardon me, I forgot your decision to act as my champion." He draped one arm over his bent knee and stared into the flames, recalling a time long ago. "By the time I was fourteen, my heritage was well and goodly ensconced in my mind. After all, I'd heard the stories of my ancestors since the day I was born, and society's harsh critics had reminded me often enough in case my father had neglected his duties. We'd been discussing the infamous three witches from Macbeth when a schoolmate made the mistake of taunting my illustrious background. Something snapped. I beat him to a bloody pulp." He noted her shock. "No need to worry, Phoebe. That was before I learned to control my anger."

  "He deserved whatever he got."

  A smile tugged at his lips. Her unconditional loyalty always surprised him. Clearing his throat, he said, `Bloodthirsty wench, aren't you? Anyway, I was suspended from school for two weeks and sent home, where I suffered a long lecture from my father all about accepting my miserable fate. A band of gypsies happened to be traveling nearby, and feeling justified for surely they were the cause of all my troubles - I sought someone, anyone, to punish. Rhys was the unfortunate recipient of my ire.

  "He was sitting by a lake tossing rocks into the water. Little did I know that he was dealing with his own demons. It's not easy being the bastard son of a nobleman who refuses to claim you. Needless to say, when we came together we were like two quarreling hounds set on destruction. We near killed one another. Bruised and bloodied, realizing there would be no victor, we both collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. One thing led to another and we struck a mutual friendship. Over the years, both of us have learned to accept our lots in life."

  That blind acceptance was what she fought, the passive resignation when she wanted Stephen to rebel. Tracing a deep purple thread in the skirt with her finger, she said, "I feel rather silly now for thinking I could come here in your defense. I'm sure you've asked questions aplenty about the curse."

  "Until I realized I'd never truly have the answers I sought. All I discovered were riddles, none of which altered the fact that five women married into the Badrick line and died. There are some things in life that simply can't be explained." He entwined his fingers with hers. "Or changed."

  His message was clear, and it was no different than the one he'd given her since they first met. But foolish or not, she refused to listen. She turned from the chocolate eyes that pleaded with her to accept, to submit, and allowed the hypnotic rhythm of the gypsy music to flow through her. Soon her feet were tapping. She clapped to the pulsing beat.

  Ariana stood and with nimble feet began to move. She circled the fire and stood before Phoebe, her hands boldly fisted on her hips. "Today you rode like a gypsy. Tonight let us see if you can dance like one."

  Phoebe stared open-mouthed for a moment, unsure whether to accept the challenge, for surely that was what it was. Like the pounding of drums, musical notes bombarded her body, gathering power. She watched Ariana sway to the rhythm. With her arms high above her head, her hands extensions of her arms, she opened and closed her finge
rs one at a time like the circular motion of a fan. Phoebe rose from the ground with grace and determination and matched Ariana's movements.

  Her feet began to shift, a mix of tapping and stomping movements. Phoebe allowed her mind to drift, her body caressed by the cool night air, the heat of the fire and the burning appreciation she witnessed in Stephen's eyes. Several women joined them, and Phoebe thought it the most exquisite, most decadent thing she had ever done.

  Stephen had seen gypsy women dance before, had enjoyed their lithe movements, their open sensuality, but nothing compared with watching Phoebe. She circled the fire with her face deep in concentration and her eyes halfclosed. Her hair, a cascade of flaming curls, shone like a sunset over the Caribbean. God, he wanted her. Right now. More so than the first time he'd lain with the servant girl who'd first seduced him, more than Emily and Louisa, and more than every mistress since. Phoebe vanquished all women with the gentle swirl of her hips.

  His fingers ached to touch the bare alabaster flesh of her shoulders, to kiss the slightly parted lips, to suckle the breasts that teased him with every dip and rise of her arms. He wanted, no, needed, to bury himself deep within her heat and claim her as his. The music grew bolder, more urgent. Ariana grasped Phoebe's hands and, with their arms extended before them and crossed at the wrist, they spun in a tight circle, their faces tipped to the heavens, their hair flying like black and auburn pennons behind them. With a wild thrum of strings, the music came to its end. The pulse drumming in Stephen's head, throughout his body, continued to pound.

  Without a thought to the consequences, he leapt up, marched to Phoebe and grabbed her hand. The submission in her eyes humbled him. As though they both realized tonight was indeed special, a time to forget, a time to pretend, she followed him away from the fire.

  The music had begun again but this time the men took to the forest floor in a more robust, virile display. When Stephen snared a blanket from the step of a wagon, Phoebe gave the dancers no more thought. Without a word, she allowed him to lead her away, the rhythm of the music still a wild echo in her body. She had never felt so alive before. This was foolishness, insanity. But she trusted Stephen to take care of her.

  They found a small clearing near a brook. Somewhat like her emotions, the water rushed over the stones toward an unknown destination. Stephen spread the blanket, knelt, and for a second time that night she accepted his invitation.

  She hadn't intended to come with him, couldn't believe she'd agreed so readily, yet here she was, alone with him. When she'd ceased dancing and met his eyes, she couldn't refuse him. Knee to knee, chest to breast, they studied one another, silently acknowledging what might happen. His lips descended to her lips. She reveled in the texture of his mustache abrading her skin, and she whimpered in a soft sigh of longing.

  Without thinking beyond the moment, trapped in the sensual haze created by the magic of the night and the soul of the music, she touched her tongue to his. Like a star bursting in the heavens, the kiss exploded.

  Passion was no longer new to Phoebe. She understood the dampness between her legs, her body's answer to Stephen's touch. She understood the hunger that seemed unquenchable, the thirst for more, the endless pit of desire that only Stephen's caresses could quell. The rhythm of the earlier dance hummed through her body, singing praises to each caress, every kiss.

  Lifting his mouth from hers, he loosened the ties on the front of her shirt with trembling fingers. His reaction amazed her and inflamed her already fired senses. His hands drifted downward, sliding the soft fabric from her shoulders to expose her breasts, the nipples taut with anticipation.

  "Do you realize how drawn I am to you?" he asked as he brushed the back of one hand across the peak of her breast.

  She dared not breathe, let alone speak. She shook her head.

  "More than the bee to honey." Both hands caressed the tender mounds of her breasts, squeezing ever so gently. "More than the waves to the shore." His tongue lapped one breast, then the other. "More than the song to the nightingale." He suckled on her left breast.

  The tugging of his mouth and the swirling of his tongue upon her breast shot a sea of flame to her core. She threw back her head and clasped her hands to Stephen's shoulders for fear she'd collapse to the ground. Then his lips were devouring hers again, thrusting deep into her mouth as though he meant to capture her soul.

  He drew her hand from his shoulder, guided it downward and placed it across the proof of his desire. Except for their reedy gasps of air, neither moved. Slowly, cautiously, and ever so clumsily, she traced the length of him.

  "Sweet mercy," he gasped. He thrust himself into her innocent embrace, marveling that trained courtesans had never elicited from him such hunger. The threads of ecstasy lay somewhere between pain and pleasure, he was sure. Somewhere from the depths of passion, the hazy plateau between sensation and reality, Stephen heard the rustling of leaves. His one fleeting hope was that a fox, a rabbit, any creature of the night, invaded his sanctuary. Not one of the humans that he knew were just through those trees.

  "Stephen," sounded Elizabeth's ever-familiar voice, soft yet determined. "Where the devil are you?"

  When he felt Phoebe tense, he lifted his lips from hers and stared at his hand still wrapped around her breast, seemingly powerless to remove it. Her hand hovered a hairbreadth above his groin. Perhaps if they said nothing, if they remained perfectly still, the female interloper set on ruining his life would take her leave.

  "Stephen, stop whatever you're doing this instant and show yourself. Do you hear me? Phoebe? Are you all right?"

  A loud thwack preceded several ripe curses from an agitated Winston. "Sweet Mary Jane! Be careful with those bloody branches. Give Stephen a moment and have a care with your ankle. A mother-to-be should not be traipsing through the forest at night. Elizabeth, are you listening to me? It would serve you right if I left you here."

  Stephen judged Winston to be twenty or so feet to the right, arguing none too quietly with his wife. The image of his friend tromping through the forest, acting the watchdog, was too much to overcome. Stephen lay his chin on the top of Phoebe's head. A rumble of laughter started deep in his chest until it boomed across the clearing. "Cease your worries, Elizabeth," he finally managed to sputter. "I'm not ravishing Phoebe." At least not any longer, he thought.

  Phoebe fumbled with the lacing of the shirt. "I don't know what came over me," she whispered.

  Stephen understood her embarrassment. He gently removed her hands and assumed the task of repairing her appearance. "Don't. Please. You are a passionate woman. The music, the mood, the night, fed that passion and I took advantage."

  She slapped his hands away. "Goodness, it's not your fault. I could have stayed right where I was."

  "Could you have? Truly?"

  She never answered, but stood and brushed the nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. Grasping the blanket, he took her hand, kissed her knuckles and headed toward the grumbling voices of Elizabeth and Winston.

  "Either you want them together or you don't," Winston said. "Make up your mind."

  "I don't understand," Stephen said as he pushed through a hackberry bush to face his friends. "Would you care to enlighten me?"

  "Spare me your droll sense of humor, Stephen. I'm not in the mood," Elizabeth said.

  "If I remember correctly, you and Winston have disappeared into the forest a time or two."

  Smiling like the tiger with the mouse between his teeth, Elizabeth limped to Phoebe's side. She clasped the girl's hand and headed toward camp, managing the most elegant of hobbles Steven had ever seen. Over her shoulder, she said, "We were engaged. Let me know when you intend the same."

  "Don't ask me why, but I love her to distraction," Winston said. He slapped Stephen's back. "Let's go home. You'll have the entire weekend at Payley Park to impress Phoebe with your skills and drive Elizabeth half-crazy with worry."

  Stephen grinned. His life was no longer recognizable. The fact that he was smiling over the de
bacle of the last half-hour only solidified his conclusion. This American bit of fluff had careered into his arms and blasted him like a fourteen-gun frigate.

  He'd been content on his estates, traveling to London now and again to visit his mistress or tend to business. Aside from a select group of friends, he'd avoided society.

  Phoebe had freed him from his protective cocoon. His mouth curved downward. Sweet heavens, he feared he might never be able to return.

  Payley Park occupied the good portion of a hill overlooking a lush valley of budding trees and shrubs, its beige stone walls forming a three-story rectangular shape that in its simplicity spoke of elegance. A long circle drive lay in the middle of a manicured lawn Phoebe thought any Southerner would envy. It suited Elizabeth and Winston, and it evoked the longings for a life she'd likely never see again. The estate was magnificent, and a welcome sight.

  Aunt Hildegard, her mood as waspish as ever, had issued rules and commands the entire three-hour journey. Lands alive, that woman was contrary. She had been more so ever since Phoebe had returned from Marsden Manor and bombarded her with questions. Of course, Hildegard had pleaded forgetfulness and acted contrite. It was clear that Phoebe would get nothing from her aunt, the wretched woman. However, if listening to Hildegard grumble and complain meant spending more time with Stephen, Phoebe would tolerate the lecture. Surely once they arrived, she'd have time to herself.

  Elizabeth must have read her mind, for she quickly deposited Charity and Hildegard in one room. Against Hildegard's not-so-subtle objections, Elizabeth placed Phoebe two doors down. A large four-poster bed occupied the corner near the window and a door opened onto a small balcony.

  Promptly at seven, dressed in a simple rose-colored silk gown, Phoebe ventured into the drawing room. At least thirty people milled about the room. When Elizabeth saw Phoebe, she separated herself from a group of women and crossed to her side. "Did you find everything to your satisfaction?"