by Kate Pearce
Not such a hardship, as it were, for there were some beautiful pieces, in different mediums. Some looked incredibly old and she suspected were valuable indeed.
“Morris?” She beckoned the butler as he finished speaking into her mother’s ear. “Will you tell me about these?”
“Ah, yes.” The butler approached and puffed up, clearly proud. “The previous earl’s father was a collector of art—and he especially loved art that featured the local area. This is a collection of some of his favorite work.”
“This looks quite ancient.” Tamsyn gestured toward a carved ivory piece.
“It is reputed to be from the time of the Domesday Book, my lady. Ancient and very rare, too.”
“What is the subject?” It was a stylized relief, curved and weathered. It appeared to represent a priest, presenting a token to a young boy.
“It is a depiction of a local legend, Lady Tamsyn.”
No stray images had formed over Morris’s head while he spoke, so she ventured to ask, “Will you tell me of it?”
“I may not be as familiar with the tale as others, but I understand it concerns a child named Grindan. He was a miner boy who was thought lost in a collapse. But for three days birds gathered at the mouth of the mine, birds of every sort, just hovering and waiting and making a racket and refusing to leave. Someone took it as a sign that the boy might yet be alive and a party was sent down to search for him—and he was found. The local priest said it was God’s work and presented him with a brooch, as is shown here.”
The brooch was gorgeously rendered in the carving, a round piece, intricate with Celtic designs and with a raised hawk’s head in the middle.
“Is it known what happened to the boy?”
Morris shrugged. “There are different accounts. Some say that the knockers got to him while he was down there and he was never quite right afterwards.”
“Knockers?”
“Pixies, my lady. Sprites who live in the mines and knock to warn the men of danger.”
“Oh.”
“Most tales agree that he left town and made his fortune, only to come back and become one of the wealthy local landowners. His family flourished here for generations, although I think they’ve died out now.”
“Thank you, Morris.” She regarded the collection thoughtfully. “This part of the country is truly full of strange tales, is it not?”
“Yes, my lady. Strange and wonderful, to many of us.”
She wondered, would someone sometime speak of the earl’s daughter who saw visions?
He slid away and Tamsyn breathed deeply, collected herself and turned back to the gathered guests.
She eased into a small group containing her sisters Rose and Gwyn. Their chatter kept the mood light and she began to relax—until she felt something . . .wrong. She glanced about. This—this was not a small untruth, but something else altogether—and it was coming closer.
She was watching the doorway when a man wandered into the pre-dinner gathering and Tamsyn gasped out loud. Her father greeted him and began to introduce him about. Mr. Lucien de Roye was suave and utterly handsome—but something else hung over him like a shroud. A dark, menacing presence—and it knew at once that Tamsyn had spotted it. It leered, swirling larger and darker and grinning while it beckoned her with tendrils of smoke.
“I . . . I . . . Excuse me.” She retreated and took a step over to her mother, her eyes locked on the glowing pair that followed her movements.
Oh heavens, they were drawing nearer.
“Mama? Mama . . . I . . .”
“Tamsyn, dear, are you all right? You are as white as a sheet.”
“I can’t. I must go . . . I’m sorry!”
She fled, terrified of the horrible creature attached to Mr. de Roye—and of her strange new affliction. Shaking, she ran blindly until she reached an intersection—and collided with a tall, sturdy form.
Gryff! She knew him at once and instinctively reached out—but then she gasped and covered her eyes. Whatever it was that he hid from the world—she had no wish to see it.
“Tamsyn? What is it? What’s wrong?” He grabbed her shoulders. She burrowed close and buried her face in his chest. She couldn’t get those burning eyes out of her head.
“What is it?” She could feel him turning slightly to scan the corridors. “What’s frightened you?”
“I don’t know! It is this place! It’s done something to me. Something is wrong with me.” She couldn’t keep from peering back the way she’d come.
“Hell and damnation, you are trembling.”
She couldn’t help herself. She started to cry, and to blubber about fishing and kissing and monsters and seeing things that weren’t there.
“Here now,” he said soothingly. “Is that all? Don’t you worry. Everything will be fine.”
Frowning, she blinked as she looked up at him. “Say that again,” she demanded.
His mouth twitched. “You’ll be fine.”
No image bubbled into existence between them.
It meant something. It had to.
“Come.” He urged her toward a door. “Let’s go outside and get to the bottom of this.”
His touch was gentle as he led her onto a stone terrace and toward a bench near the balustrade. She sat, and he perched next to her. Gradually, the shaking subsided. She felt safe, so close to his large, warm frame. Almost cherished.
“Now.” He enveloped both of her hands in his. “Tell me slowly, what has upset you?”
She stared up at his rugged, handsome face. Could she tell him? She felt the calluses on his hands, recalled the broad firmness of his chest—and saw the concern in his eyes.
She sucked in a breath and told him everything.
He listened without interrupting, letting her pour it all out. All of her worry and fear came with it. But when she finished, he merely nodded.
“Well?” she asked quietly. “Do you think I am going mad?”
“No.”
Her gaze jumped upwards, but no image appeared.
“I think you’ve got a touch of the Sight.”
“The Sight?” She frowned.
“That’s what it sounds like. One of my old aunts has it. She can tell if a babe will be a boy or a girl, or if a couple will be happy in marriage. But yours is a truth gauge, isn’t it?” He laughed. “I can see you looking up to see if it will show you something different than what I’m saying.”
“Yes. That’s it. A truth gauge,” she said wonderingly. She shivered. “But why? Why me? And why now?”
He shrugged. “And why only men? Every instance you’ve described has been associated with a man. Are there others?”
“No. I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this!” She smacked the stone bench with her hand, then shook it when it stung. “I never asked for any of this!”
“Who would? But you’ll learn to live with it.”
“I don’t want to!” she protested.
He merely waited.
She let her anger deflate. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually act like a petulant child.”
He glanced obviously over her head and she laughed—then noticed the deepening shadows. “I’m so sorry to keep you out here. Had you come for dinner? I’m afraid we’ve likely missed it.”
“No. I was here on business and on my way home.”
She shouldn’t pry, but neither was she ready to let him go.
“Business?”
“Yes.” He hesitated, but went on. “Perhaps this will make you feel a bit better . . .” He told her the story of the small parcel of land passing between their two families—and about his own family’s traditions about the pixies.
“The butler just mentioned the pixies too. And your family truly believes they bring them luck?”
“My aunt still leaves a thimble of milk for them on her window sill in the evening,” he confided.
“Then why would your father sell the land?”
“A good question—one I asked myself.” He pa
used. “Perhaps the answer will help show you the way of things out here.”
She raised a brow.
“My father sold the land to old Lord Banfield because Maevis Grayson advised him to do so.”
“Who is that?”
“She lives in the village, an older woman—and she’s reputed to be the head of the local coven.”
Tamsyn’s mouth dropped. “Coven? As in . . . witches?”
“Yes. She came to him and said danger was looming. A tragedy. And the loss of the pixies and their blessings, if something drastic was not done.”
“And he sold the land based on that warning?”
“He did. Granted, it was a temporary sale, but I didn’t understand either. Later, though, I was extremely thankful that he’d done it.”
“Why?”
“A man came into the area. A dandy, wealthy and said to be a favorite with the Prince of Wales and his set. My father met him in the village and found him to be a man of knowledge and manners. The stranger even gave him some good advice on some issue with our tin mine. Father had him and some others to dinner one night and they turned to cards as the evening wore on.”
“You were there?”
“I was deemed too young to play, but I watched from the shadows. And I saw that Rowancourt had some odd sort of influence on the others. He would make the most outlandish predictions of which way the play might go—and it would. The others didn’t seem to notice or care. When my father had played his fill—and lost quite a bit—he tried to quit. Rowancourt would not let him. He pushed and wheedled my father to continue—and said he’d even take a worthless bit of land as a stake.”
“The land with the pixies’ barrow?”
“Yes. He pressed relentlessly. I could see my father struggling, in some way. He kept telling the man it wasn’t possible, but the stranger refused to listen. He suggested they all walk out there, in the dark, for a lark. My father tried to object. It almost looked as if he struggled for breath. He kept insisting that he couldn’t offer the land and Rowancourt just stared daggers at him as he grew red and obviously distressed. Finally, I could take no more. I stood and shouted that the land wasn’t ours anymore.”
“What happened?”
“The stranger stood, shouted a curse and threw his cards. My father slumped. We all ducked and covered our heads. It was as if a thousand decks were flying about the room at once. And then Rowancourt strode out—and we never saw him again.”
“Goodness!” She rubbed her brow and he gathered her in close. What a comfort it was, to be drawn into the protective circle of his arm. “I think I’ve had my fill of peculiar events and stories.”
His hand slid along her arm in a slow caress. “Ah, yes, but you are in Cornwall now, land of mystery. Perhaps the development of this new skill of yours is merely to show that you are one of us.”
She shuddered at the notion. “I’ve no wish to be one of you, then!”
He stiffened and the gentle warmth drained from his expression.
She looked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it emerged. Forgive me?” She held on to him, giving no chance to retreat. She’d brought that flat affect back to his face and she couldn’t bear it.
She took a deep breath. “I was wild with curiosity on that day, so long ago. And even now . . . I remember, the pixie’s barrow . . . where they dance in the moonlight.”
He nodded.
“Perhaps . . .” She moved closer to him on the bench. “You might still like . . .” She lifted her face, so close to his. “To show it to me?”
His brow knit into a frown as he stared down at her. For a moment she feared she’d gone too far—but then he leaned down, grasped her shoulders and kissed her.
It was a soft kiss, for all that it was abrupt. Smooth as a petal. His shoulders blocked the scant light left from the sunset and she felt enveloped in shadows and strength. She was also unexpectedly awash with longing, surprise—and the sudden knowledge that she’d never truly been kissed before.
Despite what she’d thought, those paltry meetings of lips had been nothing next to this. There was no coquetry, flirtation or play. This was a true kiss, felt to the tips of her toes and reverberating deep in her soul. She was compelled to respond. Letting go of his hands, she reached upward and wrapped her arms around his neck. He made a gratifying sound in response.
She knew what he meant. The feel of him, so sturdy and well formed, it made her insides melt, her brain fog and her nipples tighten. He deepened the kiss, his tongue searching for entry, and she let him in and pulled him closer. This was passion. Fierce possession. Awesome potential. His hands slid around her waist and she knew that this was a defining moment. From now on her life would be clearly divided into before and after.
And suddenly—it was after. He broke the kiss and very slowly and deliberately kissed each freckle across her nose. “I’ve been wanting to do that for eight years.” His voice rumbled, tickling the space behind her ears.
He rested his forehead against hers. “To answer your question: Yes, I still would like to show you the pixies’ barrow. Very much.” He sighed. “But I also know that that is exactly why I should not.”
She reared back, hoping this time to see a contradicting image between them—but there was none.
“But why?” It came out a whisper.
“I remember the first time I saw you,” he gestured, “in there. You were a rare, fine girl, Tamsyn, and now, I see the woman you’ve grown into.” He touched her cheek. “Your skin is like porcelain. It’s so easy to see you in a London ballroom, decked out in grand finery and catching the eye of every elegant gentleman. You belong there, being pampered and feted with wine and music and jewels. You’ll have your pick of nobles and likely lead them all a merry chase.”
He made a face as if the mere thought pained him.
“Right now, in this moment, I wish I could follow you there. But I’m a simple man.” He grinned ruefully. “Too big to be at ease amongst the porcelain ladies, too rough to blend with the beau monde. Ballrooms and Venetian breakfasts are not my milieu, my lady. I am a man of my land, of my tenants and people, of the earth and the sky out here—and yes, even of the magic that floats on our sea breezes. My boots are planted firmly in the soil of this wild land. I belong here—and you belong in the great world beyond.”
He caressed her cheek again, cupped her jaw in his large hand and then letting his hand fall away, he stood. “You’ll be fine, Lady Tamsyn. I know you will.” He took a step back and turned to go.
And for the second time in two days, she watched him leave her behind.
Chapter 3
The next morning, Tamsyn was still deep in thought. She’d been much affected by all that Gryff had said last night—she just wasn’t sure he’d got any of it right.
She waited impatiently for the maid to finish her hair. Marjorie would be sure to have insight into Gryff’s opinion, and if anyone knew Tamsyn, it was her next oldest sister.
But Marjorie was occupied with her friend Jane Hawkins. Jane was a sweet girl, a friend to them all, but closest with Marjorie. Tamsyn joined her sister in bolstering the girl’s confidence and in convincing her to wear a borrowed gown, and then trooped down to breakfast with her family.
Too caught up in her own musings, however, she couldn’t concentrate fully on the conversation. She felt like she’d reached a crossroads—been dragged to it, in fact, and not at her own choosing—and felt more than a little irate about it.
She felt like she had to choose between two versions of herself. Was Gryff right? Was she no more than a delicate doll, meant to be promenaded before the ton, then pampered for the rest of her life?
Hogwash. She was a bruising rider, a tireless dancer. She’d seen a ghost yesterday and talked with it! And she thought she’d handled the sudden onset of this new, uncanny ability quite well. She hadn’t run screaming through the castle—
Well, she’d run once, but she hadn’t screamed. Nor had she blurted the tru
th to everyone and got herself sent to Bedlam.
Gryff was wrong about her. Wasn’t he?
Yes, by heavens. He was. She was as stalwart and steady as he. As worthy of a life in Cornwall as he—
“Tamsyn? Tamsyn?”
She looked up.
Marjorie frowned at her. “Did you hear me? A group of us is going to walk into the village this morning. Would you care to join us?”
Blinking, she shook her head. “No, thank you. But I do hope you will all enjoy yourselves.”
She had serious matters to attend to. She was going to prove herself. And she was going to start by mastering her new . . . talent. Take control of it, rather than the other way around.
A footman cleared his throat and she realized that she was the last one at the table. Rising, she gathered her shawl about her and left the dining room—and found her father in the corridor outside.
“Father, you look as distracted as I feel.”
He started. “Oh, yes. Good morning, Tamsyn.”
Did he not realize that they’d just breakfasted together? “Woolgathering, Father?”
“What? No. No. I’m just thinking of all that I have to do today.”
And there it was—the truth coalescing above his head, a scene of what he’d really been thinking. It was a vision of him sitting and enjoying a cigar and a brandy, laughing with a tall, blonde gentleman. She sensed he’d enjoyed himself and looked forward to doing so again.
“Tamsyn.” He reached out to grab her arm. “Later today I’d like to introduce you to someone. In fact, I’d like all of you girls to meet him, but you and Marjorie in particular.”
The blonde man? “Yes, of course.”
“Good. Good, then. Well, I’m off to find Hunt. I shall see you later, shall I?”
“Have a good morning, Father.”
She set out through the castle, intent on learning to adapt to her new . . . talent, hoping she would be able to put it to good use. Perhaps Gryff had been right about just this one thing. If this Second Sight was here to stay, she was going to have to learn to live with it.