Druid's Daughter

by Jean Hart Stewart

  “I will not consent to anything less than marriage,” he ground out between his teeth. “As you must already know. I would never insult you by taking you as my mistress.”

  Viviane looked up at him with a small smile. “I’d be disappointed in you had you stated otherwise. But I would have accepted it. I think being your mistress might be a good solution for us both.”

  Randall pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

  “I feel a sudden desire to get out of here.”

  He was still too insulted to be anything but stiff and unsmiling. Viviane arose with her usual grace and put her hand in his.

  “You are my love, you know,” she murmured. “Let’s go to my place and talk this over. Morgan is out at some musical society meeting. We’ll have time and enough for you to hear what I feel forced to tell you.”

  Randall said nothing. He threw some bills on the table, tucked her small hand in the crook of his arm and walked her out of the dining room. He found it difficult to hold onto his anger when Viviane looked at him with her beautiful dark green eyes and told him again she loved him. How could he do anything but dissolve at her touch?

  He believed her completely. She never, ever lied. And if she loved him, surely he could persuade her to marry him.

  They did not speak at all in Randall’s carriage. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. She melted against him and it was all he could manage not to shout at her they belonged together. But neither one of them said a word.

  As they descended from Randall’s carriage, a sudden gust of wind wrapped Viviane’s long skirts around her so she could not move. Laughing, Randall scooped her up in his arms.

  “I hope I’m not such a slow top as to miss such a heaven-sent opportunity. Even nature wants you in my arms, my love.”

  Viviane laughed with him, but her eyes remained sad and serious. All hope he was making headway with her vanished under her somber gaze. Solemn and desperately concerned, he carried her up the stone steps to the entrance of her townhouse. The gaslight over the doorway shone on her auburn hair, bringing out golden highlights. His lips touched her head briefly and with reverence as he sat her on her feet. He followed her into her home, greeting the butler and then going with her as she marched in the open door to the small parlor.

  He loved to see her walk. He’d read enough to know Druids trained their priestesses to glide almost silently about their duties. How far had her training taken her? Not to the level of a priestess, he knew, or she would be in seclusion in a temple most of the time. No, she’d left before the final rites. But she’d certainly learned the most graceful walk he’d ever seen.

  She left the door open and Ambrose soon ambled in. Ambrose came over to shake hands and then settled down by his mistress, his head on his big paws. Viviane gave him a loving pat.

  “Don’t mind Ambrose, please. He knows everything I’m about to say.” Her voice sounded constrained and unnatural and Devon suspected she was thinking of how best to frame her next words. He had no doubt she meant to tell him a story he didn’t want to hear. He didn’t care about her past, he loved her and wanted her. Well, he would listen and then shoot down whatever argument she mistakenly thought relevant. Knowing Viviane, she could never have been dishonorable.

  He sat in the large chair she motioned him to and leaned back. Viviane always had flowers in almost every room in the house. For some reason he didn’t understand roses made him sneeze and he appreciated she’d noticed and massed an unusual arrangement of snapdragons and daisies in a low bowl. His future wife possessed talents in many respects.

  “Go ahead, my dear. I’ll listen to whatever you want to say and then we’ll plan our wedding date. I’m not about to give up because of whatever silly sin you think you must confess. But go ahead.”

  Crossing his legs at the ankles, he hoped he appeared perfectly at ease although he most certainly was not. He dreaded the next few moments.

  Viviane seated herself beside him, pulling a chair close enough she could hold his hand. Ambrose watched her, but didn’t follow to her side.

  “I need to touch you for courage.” Her nervous laugh revealed a true hesitancy. “I think I must start when I was sixteen and was far along in my training for a Druid priestess. On Beltane, which is the celebration of the summer solstice, a priest persuaded me the Goddess ordained I lie with him, that my virginity was fated to be a gift to her through him. You might know there can be a commingling of many initiates at that time, but never unless the priestess or novitiate wishes it. Never, ever, can it be a matter of false representation.”

  She drew a deep breath and he started to reach for her, but she waved him away.

  “I became pregnant, from that one night. When I told the High Priestess she was incensed, not at me for being pregnant, but for the deception played on me. Druids revere life and while in your world I would be a fallen woman, I was not to the High Priestess or to the Druids. I was not chastised or ostracized in any way. A new daughter is always especially welcome to them for training.”

  Randall was rigid with anger. “And him?”

  “He was dismissed from the Druid community. Druids despise falsehood in any form. I do not know what happened to him nor do I care.”

  She took a deep breath and continued. “When a girl was born to me I knew one thing, I didn’t want to continue my training. The Druids would gladly have given her to be fostered and then taken into their teaching. I wanted to raise her myself. I named her Morgan after Morgan La Fay the enchantress, Merlin the magician’s enchantress. I took the name McAfee as the closest I dared come to La Fay. She is well named. My Morgan enchanted me from the moment I saw her.”

  Randall knew he must conquer his fury. When he thought he had himself in control as he leaned toward Viviane, who sat in silence. Only a slight twisting of her hands betrayed her distress at finally revealing her past.

  “My dearest love, please don’t go on. I can tell this is difficult for you.” Randall took one hand and pressed it firmly in both of his.

  “No.” Viviane’s sigh came from deep in her chest. “I’m almost done.”

  She took a long breath. “I left the Druids and became a servant. My training for a priestess didn’t extend to teaching me to earn a living. I only took work if Morgan could be with me. After about six years I became housekeeper and then secretary to Lord Sinclair. He loved Morgan and begged me to marry him and let him adopt her. He had a large library and we were both given full rein. When he died he left me a good deal of money and I bought a place in the country plus this townhouse. But I have never lain with any other man except the false priest. I am untouched except for that one horrible night.”

  She got up and began to walk around the room with her graceful glide. Brushing her hands across her eyes, she smiled with artificial brightness.

  “There. You have the whole story.”

  Devon Randall said nothing for a long moment. He was filled with emotion, so much so he hesitated to speak. He knew well he could not express his fury at the bastard renegade priest. It would be useless in the present circumstances and would just divert them both. Still, he realized he must essay something.

  What would be the best way to handle this? The deep pity flooding his heart would not help her now. Nor would protestations her story mattered little to him except to make him admire her all the more. Finally he made up his mind to tell her at least one of his candid feelings.

  “So? Have you decided how I’m to take all this? If I could find your deceiver I’d gladly rid the world of his obnoxious presence, but other than that, I don’t see your story has much to do with your refusing me.”

  Viviane’s astonishment was written large on her expressive face.

  “Devon, I just told you I’m an unmarried mother with what the world would call a bastard child. I have no impressive family background, in fact I’ve worked most of my life. Outside of the training I received as a Druid, I’ve educated myself. In addition, if my stor
y were known, Lord Sinclair’s leaving me money could be made into a nasty scandal.”

  Devon rose and went to her, taking her lightly in his arms. “You’re beginning to annoy me mightily, my dear. Do you think I’m so shallow that what others say matters?”

  Viviane paled. “Your position as a high government official should make it matter. Your friends would shun me and perhaps you. You would be ostracized in the world you cherish. I will not let you throw away all that. Can you imagine what Queen Victoria would say?”

  He tried to hold her to him, but she struck down his arms and whirled away. Ambrose got to his feet and growled. Viviane shushed the dog automatically and looked at Devon with what seemed to be true anger.

  “You’re insane to want me. I’ll not permit such destructive nonsense. I’ll not let you ruin yourself for a misguided passion. You may let yourself out of the house when you’re ready.”

  Before he could stop her she ran out the door and up the stairs. Ambrose shot him a reproachful look and then trotted after his mistress. Devon considered rushing after her, but the butler was starting toward him and he hated to be forced to shove the poor old man around. And Ambrose would not let him near Viviane in any case.

  Devon took his hat and coat from Jackson, his every movement slow as love for Viviane overflowed his heart. She was even more magnificent than he’d ever suspected. He’d do anything to persuade her to marry him, but as yet he didn’t have an idea in his rattled head.

  First he must persuade her to see him again. He thought he might manage to get past Ambrose, but then Viviane would likely refuse to even speak to him. He had a horrible idea this siege was going to be difficult indeed.

  He’d stood gawking at her as she ascended, graceful even in her distress. She slammed a door very hard after she’d reached the top of the stairs.

  Lord, what a magnificent woman!

  Chapter Eight

  Seated in his office the next day, Commissioner Randall turned his focus from his own crisis to the one Lance described. He shoved his personal problems aside with ruthless efficiency as he listened to the horror story of the new murder.

  “You’re absolutely right, Lance. The press should be given as much information as you can without jeopardizing the case.”

  “I shudder to remember the amount of criticism aimed at the press in the Jack the Ripper case. I feel much of it resulted from the decision to tell the newspapers nothing. I’m glad you agree, Sir.”

  The two men, one the head of all of the Metropolitan Police and the other the most revered inspector in the C.I.D., were in accord. The Commander, never energetic, had chosen not to attend the meeting,

  “This time we must be smarter.” Randall leaned back in his chair and contemplated what the next step should be.

  “I do agree.” Dellafield was now pacing around the room, thinking on his feet. “Hopefully panic won’t ensue when the people of London suspect another vicious serial murderer is loose. At least they’ll know their police were doing their best to protect them.”

  “Our plan is settled, then,” said the Commissioner and the two shook hands as the cohorts and friends they were.

  Lance decided to take a short walk before returning to his own office. As he strode along, the irritations of the city’s dirt and noise seemed to evaporate into the mellow air. He could not remember when London had been blessed with a more lovely summer. Leaves of trees were still a shining green, although they would soon change. Grass sprouted in the dirty cracks of the pavement. Even the usual city odors seemed to be muted and a freshness filled the air. London was always a fascinating city, but today it seemed even more attractive. In such a beautiful world, how could anyone be driven to such horrendous deeds as those he was now investigating?

  He arrived back in his office with his thoughts a little clearer. As he headed toward his inner room, Shriver put his finger to his lips to shush him and then slowly opened the door. Throwing his sergeant a questioning glance, Lance entered and discovered the delectable reason for Shriver’s unusual behavior. Morgan lay curled up in a chair, fast asleep. Lance stopped short as every nerve in his body came to exhilarating life.

  Lance closed the door, softly and walked with care to look down and exult in his beautiful Druid. No matter their intrinsic differences, she was the loveliest woman he’d ever seen. She was lying curled with her head resting on the arm of the chair. Her mouth in repose was curved almost into a smile and her impossibly long lashes swept down on her creamy cheeks. Her hair had come loose from its thick coil and several chestnut strands lingered over her face and neck. Her breath in peaceful sleep barely moved her perfect breasts. She far surpassed any female even of his rather fertile imagination.

  He could not resist. He leaned down and kissed her soft-as-satin skin. Her breath halted, then caught as she sat bolt upright.

  “Lance!” He could not decide if her tone was delighted or accusing. Maybe both.

  He knelt beside her chair so their eyes were level. Her fragrance drifted to him, a floral scent he could not name. He must ask her sometime. He was sure it would be as unusual as the rest of her lovely self.

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, my dear. I had no idea you’d come to visit me.”

  He felt himself subjected to one of her long, searching glances. Then her face cleared.

  “I can see you’re all right. I’m glad. I’ll come back another time.”

  She made an effort to rise but he stopped her.

  “Oh, no, my girl. Not quite so fast. Why did you come? I know you had a good reason. Now tell me.”

  He stood quickly even as he leaned over and imprisoned her in her chair with his long arms.

  “I want to know what’s bothering you. If your mother and Ambrose can’t fix the problem, it must be bad indeed.”

  His tone was joking, but she didn’t answer his smile.

  “Oh, I’m so foolish,” she muttered. “I feared you’d been injured. I seemed to see your aura and it quite frightened me. It’s tinged with black, even now. But I guess you escaped what worried me.”

  Lance was unbearably touched, both that she’d seen danger to him and also that she came scurrying to check on him. Had the murderer been in the vicinity when he and his men examined the body? He smiled as he realized he no longer dismissed her comments as completely foolish.

  He turned away from her as his traitorous body let him know how much just the sight of her affected him. If he told her how he appreciated her concern he’d send her out the door in embarrassment. As well as committing himself in a way he did not want to be committed.

  “Well,” he said, “I thank you for a most thoughtful action.” His tone was properly cool and she relaxed.

  He willed his body to behave itself.

  “I wonder if we should take this seriously,” she mused. “I don’t as a rule foresee danger in an aura, but perhaps it’s possible. Yes, I think you should be extra careful for the next week or so.”

  He was glad his back was turned. What to do with a girl whose beauty and integrity grabbed at his heart, but who honestly believed she saw auras warning of danger? No use telling her a policeman was always in danger. Actually he usually sat at his desk and directed others into possible peril. He was not as often in the field as many of his men were.

  Still she had come out of concern for him.

  “If I promise to remember your warning, will it satisfy you?”

  Her sudden grin was a pert delight.

  “Not unless you remember in time to avert an injury and not afterward.”

  He laughed at her quick wit. “Let me tell you about two new murders.” he said. “We’re giving the details to the newspapers in about an hour, so you’ll soon be able to read about it. I’d rather tell you the whole story myself.”

  After one horrified glance, she settled back in her chair as he sketched the details. He briefly told her of the first killing, then moving on and leaning more heavily on the latest one.

  “The same evi
l man, do you think?”

  “I most definitely think so. His method was the same and again he killed a poor and young prostitute. Why the startled look, my dear?”

  Morgan gazed intently at her fingernails. “I was thinking of Mr. Gladstone and his admirable work trying to rescue prostitutes from their miserable life. Too bad someone like him couldn’t have saved these two before this monster got them.”

  Lance looked his surprise. “How strange, Morgan. I had the same thought the other day. But not only are these thoughts of ours immaterial, but this monster, as you call him and as he certainly is, would merely have picked another two victims. In any case, I always thought it stupidly reckless for the Prime Minister to jeopardize his career as he did.”

  Red spots flared in Morgan’s cheeks. “Just like a man! I think Mr. Gladstone was a saint to try to improve pitiful creatures’ lives. In spite of malicious criticism.”

  “And I think he was a fool,” said Lance in one of his cooler tones. “He almost destroyed his ministry in spite of being warned to desist.”

  Morgan glared at him and rose to leave, but Lance put out both his hands and stopped her.

  “I apologize. Not for my opinion, which is honest, but my stupidity in voicing it. And he’s dead, my dear. Let’s not argue over long-ago policies.”

  With a wry grin at his own folly, he smiled at her. He hoped he somehow conveyed his genuine regret. He also wished to hear what her astute brain would make of the latest happenings. There was no way he wanted to deliberately antagonize her.

  Morgan looked at him for another long moment. Lance held steady and tried not to flinch. Her piercing gaze made him feel an imbecile at the times she stared at him with such deep intent. Her Druid look.

  “We’ll go on from here, my lord. We’ve always known our viewpoints are miles apart. Tell me more about the latest murder, if you will.”

  Her lovely voice was now impersonal. All the warmth had vanished with his thoughtless words. Lance could feel her withdrawal and it hurt. Regretting he’d widened the fissure between them, he composed himself and gave her a dispassionate account of the latest murder.