He came upon the panther less than a quarter mile away, where the river wandered nearest the trees. Yellow eyes glared balefully out of the darkness; Othello’s low growl warned Donal that this final capture would be by far the greatest and most dangerous challenge.
He sought the panther’s consciousness, knowing he dared not reveal a single sign of weakness. Othello snarled as he approached, his very being pulsing with hatred of everything human.
But I am not human, Donal told him. He bared his thoughts and spread his hands wide, showing himself unafraid.
Othello crouched, lashing his tail. Donal caught a glimpse of sweltering forest and a whiff of blood just before the panther sprang.
Donal rolled with Othello’s weight, letting his body go limp. Claws pricked his jacket. Othello’s jaws opened above his face, bathing him in the panther’s hot breath. He could hear nothing but rage, a cacophony of mingled thoughts and emotions that left no room for negotiation.
His heart beating wildly in his throat, Donal worked his hands from beneath Othello’s tense body and slid his fingers into the sleek black fur. “Perhaps you can’t hear me,” he said, closing his eyes, “but know this, my friend. I won’t raise a hand against you, not even to save my own life.”
Othello coughed, his fangs grazing Donal’s cheek. Claws drove into Donal’s skin. He ceased his efforts to communicate and thought with regret of the things he had left undone: telling Ivy of her Fane heritage, seeing the world beyond this little isle.
Admitting to Cordelia that he loved her.
All at once the weight was gone from his chest. He sat up and scanned the darkness, terrified that the panther had escaped him. With the dregs of his strength he grasped Othello’s mental signature and trailed after it, his brain burning in his skull like hot coals in a grate. He raced down the hill overlooking the menagerie and came to a halt before the last empty cage.
Othello was inside, pressed against the rear wall.
Shaking with relief, Donal retrieved the last padlock and secured the cage. He made a final visit to each of the animals, hoping they could feel his gratitude. Only then did he creep to the house and drag himself through the door.
Theodora rose from a chair in the hallway, her face blanching with alarm. “Donal!” she said, reaching for his hands. “You are hurt!”
Donal squeezed her hands and pulled his away. “Minor lacerations, nothing more.”
“You’re trembling. I shall call Croome and have him send for the doctor….”
“No. Please.”
Theodora opened her mouth as if to protest and subsided. She herded Donal into the drawing room and made him sit. “I’ll send for food and drink. Is there anything you need?”
Donal lifted his head with an effort. “How is Cordelia?”
“Resting quietly.”
“I wish to see her.”
“After you have rested.” She rang for Croome, and presently a drowsy maid brought a platter of bread, cheese and fruit. Donal picked at the food for Theodora’s sake, and then retreated to the spare room Cordelia had saved for him. He washed the blood away as best he could and went to find Cordelia.
She was, as Theodora had promised, resting quietly, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Donal took a chair across the room and simply watched her, grateful for this moment of peace, for the luxury of a brief respite from the pain that must come.
He leaned his head on the chair back and drifted, fighting sleep.
“Donal?”
He opened his eyes. Cordelia was sitting up against the pillows, her eyes fixed on his face. “Donal, are you well?” she asked. “Is it finished?”
He pulled the chair to the side of the bed and sat down again. “Yes,” he said. “The animals are home and safe.”
“Thank God.” She leaned forward with a frown. “But you are not well. Your face….” Her gaze fell to his chest. “Your coat is torn!”
“It is nothing—”
She pushed the coverlet aside and reached for the bellpull, jerking on it almost frantically. Hardly a minute later Croome appeared at the door.
“Croome, Dr. Fleming is injured,” Cordelia said, her voice tight with fear. “Send for the doctor at once. And bring me hot water and clean cloths.”
Croome bowed and retreated before Donal could protest. He knew the cause for Cordelia’s strong reaction, and that nothing would be likely to calm her except for a doctor’s assurance that he would survive the night’s adventure.
“Please, Cordelia,” he said. “I’m not badly hurt. They are only scratches—”
“Only…” She covered her mouth. “Was it Othello?”
“Yes. But he stopped, Cordelia. He went back to his cage. You mustn’t blame him for acting according to his nature.”
“Lord,” she whispered. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye.
Donal cursed himself for her suffering. He had already caused her so much pain. “Cordelia,” he said hoarsely, “I must ask your forgiveness—”
“For putting yourself in such horrible danger?”
He shook his head. “For the…earlier matter with Othello.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “Donal…”
“I should never have forced you to endure—”
“The truth?” She laughed softly. “To know how Othello sees me—That…thing…so filled with anger and envy, so—” The tear trickled down her cheek. “All these years, when I thought I was helping them—”
He raised his hand and lowered it again. “You must never think your acts of kindness meant nothing,” he said. “But animals do not think as we do. They sense emotion in a way we can scarcely comprehend. They see beneath the surface we show to our fellow men…even the secrets we hide from ourselves.”
“I am trying…trying to understand, but I—” She swiped her palm across her cheeks. “I expected my animals to love me because I saved them, and when they could not…” She swallowed painfully. “The fault was in me, Donal. All in me, and yet I blamed them.”
Donal ached with her humiliation, the shame she had never before acknowledged. “It is not a matter of love,” he said gently, “not as we know it. If you could walk among the animals, as one of them…”
“As you do?” She searched his eyes, her own wet with tears and yet implacable in their conviction. “I thought I was delirious the night of the dog fight, when I claimed that you punished the men by making them feel what the dogs felt. But I wasn’t, was I? What you did in the menagerie, and tonight…it was never just a conjurer’s trick, or even some new form of hypnosis. It was real.” Her voice quivered. “You knew the animals’ thoughts, and you made me share them.”
He averted his gaze. “Yes.”
“But how? How can this be?”
He struggled to find an explanation that would allow her to maintain her logical comprehension of the world she knew, but he knew that would never be possible. Just as it wasn’t possible to admit to the emotions that had torn his world asunder.
When he’d thought himself on the verge of death, he had regretted not telling Cordelia of his feelings for her. Now he knew that regret had been no more than a moment’s madness. His gifts had all but deserted him because of love, and the loss was still an open wound. One that might never be healed.
Even if Cordelia could set aside her own fears and love him in return, he wouldn’t give her half a man, half a soul. He would not become another cause for her pain. If she could not believe the truth about him, it would make his leaving that much easier.
“You may have difficulty in accepting what I tell you,” he said slowly.
“Nothing you say is likely to be stranger than what I have already experienced.”
He stared at her hand clenched on the coverlet. “Have you ever heard of the Earl of Bradwell?”
“I have heard the name.”
“He is my father. And he is not human.”
IT WAS, OF COURSE, quite impossible.
Cordelia heard him out c
almly, never interrupting his bizarre tale of fairy folk who called themselves “Fane” and some otherworld named Tir-na-Nog; of the Forest Lord who had wooed and won an earl’s daughter and lost his immortality for love of her; of the child born before their marriage who had inherited his sire’s gift with animals but chose to make a life as an ordinary veterinarian among the Yorkshire moors.
She did not doubt that Donal was an earl’s son, or that he was illegitimate; that last fact he had revealed to her some time ago, and without shame. Nor did she question that he had a remarkable gift with animals that defied intellectual analysis.
But the rest…the stories of Fair Folk and little flying men and immortality…about those tales Donal was correct. She could not accept them. Especially when he began to speak of Ivy.
“She is half-Fane, as I am,” he said, no longer looking at her face as he spoke. “I did not know this at first, for I haven’t the sight for Fane blood. But Tod…the hob I spoke of…he warned me that she was no ordinary girl.”
“I see.” She purged her voice of any hint of accusation. “Is this why you were so averse to my applying the usual discipline and guiding Ivy’s behavior?”
“Fane are different. They are far less disciplined than humans. They must have freedom to survive, but they can be capricious and cruel. Their ways must often seem inexplicable to mortals.”
“But your ways have never seemed so utterly strange, Donal.”
“I, too, am half-Fane.” He cleared his throat. “I was waiting for the right time to tell Ivy what she is.”
“As you were waiting to tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Is there…anything more you need to explain?”
He gave a brief laugh. “Isn’t this enough?”
“It does give me a great deal to think about.”
“You don’t believe me.”
His voice was flat and heavy, and she felt a stab of concern. “Of course, I…will need time….”
He rose, backing away from the bed. “I should let you rest.”
She noted with alarm the paleness of his face and the unsteadiness of his walk. “Croome will return shortly with the bandages—”
“I can treat myself, if I may use the room you assigned me.”
Cordelia sensed that he was eager to escape and at the end of his strength. She was half afraid that she might lose what remained of her composure if she looked directly upon his wounds. She could hardly be rational under the circumstances.
“This house is yours,” she said, “but you must promise me that you will lie down and wait quietly for the doctor.”
“I—”
“Promise!”
“Yes.” He gave her a long, grave look and fled the room. Cordelia gathered the bedcovers against her chest and buried her face in their folds like a child who has had one too many nightmares. But this, as she well knew, was no dream.
She was composed again by the time Croome came to her. She sent him to Donal’s room with the hot water and bandages. Shortly afterward Theodora arrived, carrying a tray of eggs, toast and hot tea. She set the tray down and sat on the edge of the bed, her expression drawn with worry.
“What is it, Delia?” she asked. “You’re white as a ghost. Are you worried for Donal?” She smoothed the blankets over Cordelia’s legs. “The doctor will be here soon, and Donal is strong. You have no reason to fear.”
Cordelia met her cousin’s gaze. “I know. It’s only that I—” She lay back, her own strength sapped beyond its limits. “Theo…Donal is mad.”
“What?”
Cordelia closed her eyes. “Perhaps ‘mad’ is too strong a word. Of course he is incapable of doing anyone harm, or even of harming himself. But he—” She plucked at the sheets and stretched them flat again. “You know he has an extraordinary skill with animals. He used it tonight when he saved my life.”
“Of course, but what has that to do with—”
“I could never find a way to account for Donal’s preternatural abilities. Tonight Donal offered an explanation.”
“What did he tell you?”
Cordelia recounted Donal’s story, pausing now and again when the words seemed too preposterous to speak with a steady voice. Theodora listened intently.
“And you consider this madness?” she asked when Cordelia had finished.
“What else can one call it? Fairies, Theo. Fairies and immortal gods of the forest. They are absolutely real to him, I am certain.”
“And if they are?” Theodora touched Cordelia’s shaking hand. “Where is the harm in such fancies? Donal has done only good at Edgecott. He saved Ivy from a life on the streets and improved the lives of the animals. He has even brought us a little happiness.” She dropped her gaze. “I am sorry, Delia, but if this is only another excuse to reject him…”
“Reject him?” Cordelia squeezed Theodora’s fingers. “Oh, no, Cousin. I made a terrible mistake when I tried to end my friendship with Donal. Now it is clear that he badly requires our help.”
“Because he is mad.”
“Because he cannot overcome these delusions alone. We must help him in every way we can…help him to feel safe enough here that he will eventually be able to face the world as it really is. We can cure him, with affection and firmness—”
“As we have ‘cured’ Ivy?”
Cordelia refused to be goaded. “Time is the key, Theo. Time and patience. With my father free of his dependency, we can devote ourselves fully to Ivy and Donal.”
Theodora freed her hand from Cordelia’s grip and rose from the bed. “Is this how you escape the burden of emotion, Delia? By finding yet more excuses to ignore your deepest feelings?” She hugged herself and stared at the canopy over Cordelia’s head. “If Donal is mad, he cannot truly love you. And if you must care for him as you would a child or a wounded animal, you cannot love him as a woman loves a man.” She started for the door. “I do not believe that Donal is mad. No, I’d sooner accept that every word he speaks is the unvarnished truth.”
“Theodora!”
“You’re tired, Cordelia. You must rest.”
Cordelia shoved at the coverlet. “Please, Theo. I only wished…” Her heart gave a sudden thump. “Can it be that…that you love Donal?”
Theodora stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “How ridiculous,” she said faintly. “Donal could not love me, and I do not trouble myself with unrequited passions.” She met Cordelia’s gaze. “But you had best realize what you have, Cordelia Hardcastle, for it will never come again.” She opened the door.
“Wait,” Cordelia said, catching her breath on a wave of incongruous relief. “I have not seen Ivy since dinner. How is she?”
“Fast asleep, I’m sure. You remember that she did not feel well at dinner.”
“Of course.” Cordelia reached for a bit of cold toast and crumbled it between her fingers. “I will speak to her in the morning, then.”
“And I will see to the doctor when he arrives,” Theodora said. “Perhaps he can recommend a madhouse.” She left the room and closed the door behind her.
Sick with the feeling that she had betrayed Theodora, Donal and herself, Cordelia rose and paced the room as night gave way to the first light of dawn. What had driven Donal over the edge? He had always been a little eccentric, to be sure. Perhaps the challenges he’d faced at Edgecott had proven too much for a man of such solitary character. His formerly peaceful existence had certainly undergone a radical change.
Somehow she must find a way to ease his burdens. With regard to Ivy, there was little she could say to set Donal’s mind at rest. Nor could she free Donal of responsibility for the animals he loved so dearly. But there was one thing she could do, something she should have done days ago.
After she had consulted the doctor and was assured that Donal’s wounds were not of a serious nature, Cordelia rang for Biddle and donned her best riding habit. She refused Croome’s offer of breakfast and left the house just as one of the stableboys brought her mare round
to the drive.
Had this been an ordinary call, she would never have presumed to visit Inglesham’s estate so early. But the viscount had long since forfeited any right to courteous behavior. She would catch him unaware, before he had time to compose any glib excuses, and have it out with him. When she was finished he would never dare presume to show his face at Edgecott again.
Brimming with righteous fury, Cordelia set out in the half-light of dawn and savored the prospect of the battle to come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TOD RECOGNIZED the Gate as Béfind drove her carriage from the rutted wagon road into a broad field bordered on two sides by a wood. The field was dominated by a rough circle of massive stones, some standing twice the height of a man and others lying fallen on their sides, overgrown with wildflowers. The place sang with ancient mystery, and no one with a drop of Fane blood could mistake the stone circle’s purpose.
No one but the girl who remained ignorant of the wild magic running through her veins. Ivy sat forward in her seat with Sir Reginald in her arms, staring at the stones with a look of sheer bewilderment.
“This is not the road to London!” she exclaimed.
For a fraction of an instant Béfind’s beautiful face turned ugly, though Tod was the only one to see. He spun in distress, half afraid that Béfind would strike Ivy silent and whisk her through the Gate before the girl knew what was happening.
But Béfind was not yet quite so desperate. She smiled at Ivy, drew her out of the carriage and led her to one of the flat boulders that marked the perimeter of the invisible Gate.
“You are quite right, my dear,” she said. “This is not the road to London. We have come to a far better place.”
Ivy frowned, her gaze sweeping over the cluster of tall stones. “Where are we?”
Béfind cupped Ivy’s chin in her palm, ignoring Sir Reginald’s almost voiceless growl. “This, too, is a road, child,” she said. “But it is one that few are privileged to find, and even fewer to travel. It is more ancient than any path built by the Celts or the Romans or those who came after them. It is as old as time itself.”
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