The Witch's Kiss

by Tricia Schneider

  With a disgruntled sigh, he set the glass of sherry on a nearby table and went in search of something stronger to drink.

  ****

  His methods of questioning differed from the average interrogation. Being a well-renowned rake, Sage always found seduction to be the perfect method of discovering what he needed to know.

  Mrs. Watson was no different from any other woman of his acquaintance. After he approached, begging to have a private audience with her, she found no hesitation in locating an empty chamber on the upper floor. Sage had barely closed the door before she was pressed against him, her mouth attached to his, her arms clutching at his shoulders like dragon’s claws.

  There was, however, one complication he hadn’t foreseen.

  He did not wish to seduce or become seduced by Mrs. Watson.

  “Harriet.” Sage pushed her gently away. She suffocated him.

  “What, my dear? Cannot wait for even a few kisses?” she asked, plunging her hand to his trousers to press her fingers against his flaccid member. “Well, this is an odd state of affairs at present. It can be remedied, I assure you,” she added with a wink. Her fingers began working the buttons on his trousers as she knelt down in front of him.

  “Not necessary, Harriet.” Sage grabbed her arms to pull her back to her feet. She stood, looking at him curiously. He took several steps back, allowing distance to speak for itself. “When I said I have questions, I meant just that. Questions.”

  Mrs. Watson smiled, and then followed to where he stood near to the bed. “Of course, my love.” She pulled his head down to hers, nibbling on his ear and whispered, “Afterward, I’ll answer any such questions you put to me.”

  And then her hands roamed to the buttons of his shirt.

  ****

  Watching Mrs. Watson dance with Marianne’s alleged fiancé did little to improve her sour mood. Seeing Sage approach the woman afterward, then leave the room with her sent it spiraling further downward.

  Was it true? What Charlotte claimed about them? That Sage planned to propose to Mrs. Watson? He never mentioned the woman’s name aloud, nor any other woman in particular, come to think of it. So how could it be he planned to marry her? One would assume he’d at the very least talk of the woman he planned to wed.

  Marianne chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, debating her course of actions. She’d already witnessed Sage speaking to Desmonda Green. The reason for their visit to this event was completed. So what purpose did he have leaving the room with Mrs. Watson? Why hadn’t he come for Marianne and told her what information Miss Green had to convey?

  Perhaps he…

  Marianne’s heart skipped a beat.

  Perhaps he planned to propose to Mrs. Watson at this very moment.

  Her feet were moving before she completed the thought in her head. She must stop him. Of all the women she knew—he knew—there surely must be a better choice than Mrs. Watson.

  She’d glimpsed him ascending the stairs after he departed the ballroom. Wondering if he perchance took the woman to the same room where he spoke privately to Marianne earlier, she quickly took to the stairs.

  Upon entering the room, she thought it empty. Then she heard a noise from her left and turned. Movement on top of the bed caught her attention.

  Two people in various states of undress were writhing about on top of the coverlets.

  Marianne froze.

  In the past several months of her condition, she’d seen many things she was certain would make her sister swoon if she ever discovered. One of them was occurring right before her eyes. As a spirit, she had access to any such room, and the bedchamber was one of which she’d been mightily curious.

  Truly, the sight of a couple making love had only created more controversy in her mind. Questions abounded, such as what did it feel like to be kissed so thoroughly? To be held with such passion? And why were people in such a hurry to strip down beyond their unmentionables if it appeared the very act itself was painful rather than pleasurable?

  Marianne had seen the faces of the participants when they reached their conclusions. They contorted in rather pain-filled visages. She couldn’t understand why they seemed so sated afterward.

  The couple currently preparing for the act appeared in a state of hurry as the woman ripped the man’s shirt from his chest. He tried to capture her hands, but she was too quick about it, and then she was kissing him quite thoroughly.

  With all the movement between them in the shadows of the canopied bed, Marianne could not identify them until she heard Sage’s voice.

  “Stop, Harriet,” he said.

  Marianne gasped, then her hand flew to her mouth to smother the sound.

  It was too late. He heard the noise.

  Sage sat up, his surprised face appearing in the light of the candles.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked Marianne, his voice rather breathless.

  But she could not respond. She was stricken by the sight of him in bed with Harriet Watson. And she didn’t have a moment to say anything, since Harriet obviously thought he was questioning her.

  “I’m making love to you, silly man,” she giggled. “Why else would you seclude me in an empty bedchamber?”

  Marianne stepped back.

  Sage attempted to stand, but Mrs. Watson’s hands gripped his shoulders, drawing him back into the bed, back to her. He struggled for a moment, prying her claws from him until he was able to stand. His disheveled appearance might have amused Marianne at one time, long ago…before her feelings for him…changed, matured.

  Instead, she was struck by two things rather simultaneously.

  One…

  An enormous amount of skin was revealed through the opening of his shirt as it hung at an angle unbuttoned across his chest. Marianne had difficulty removing her gaze from that particular area of his body. This was not the first time she’d seen him without his shirt, but that did little to stop her from gawking. There were lines, definition of muscle tone, something Marianne did not have on her body. Were men supposed to have such rigid bumps on their abdomens? She had assumed the bellies of men and women rarely differed. A belly was a belly, after all. Her own belly was rather soft, gently rounded. The last couple she’d witnessed in the bedchamber both had rather paunchy bellies, nothing that could compare to the view she currently witnessed.

  As if he recognized the ogling of his clearly toned belly and chest, he straightened his crooked shirt, his fingers flying to refasten the buttons. The movement snapped her from the imaginings of what else he might have on his body worth taking note, and her gaze returned to his face.

  Guilt shone in his eyes. In fact, he reminded her of a little boy who was caught at something he was told not to do.

  Revealing number two…

  Marianne loved Sage. She loved him. There could be no denying it.

  The sight of him in another woman’s bed created horrible emotions that twisted inside her soul.

  Jealousy sang through Marianne. It poured from her fingers and toes, ate at her heart, clenched her stomach so tightly she thought she might be ill.

  “This is not what it may seem…” Sage’s voice trailed off. He swore softly when Marianne took another step away from him.

  “Well, my love, what is it then?” Mrs. Watson asked, again assuming he spoke to her. “We were about to get closely reacquainted. You haven’t shared my bed for over half a year now. I was beginning to believe you lost interest.”

  Marianne’s gaze flashed to the woman who sat with her bare feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Her bodice had slipped revealing soft, creamy breasts, the nipples puckered.

  Sage moved forward, bringing her attention back. She stood her ground, however, since if she took another step away she’d step into the wall. He dipped his head low to reach her ear and she closed her eyes as she imagined the feeling of his breath across her cheek.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Marianne,” Sage whispered.

  Marianne nodded. He was right. She shoul
dn’t be here. She should have minded her own business. If he felt the need to lie with a woman, who was she to interfere? She was nothing to him. Nothing. Oh, well, perhaps she judged too harshly. She was a neighbor. A friend. But nothing more.

  And she was interfering. A pesky nuisance. The meddlesome little red-headed brat who always messed about underfoot when no one wanted her.

  And it was clear Sage did not want her.

  “I-I-I,” Marianne stuttered, shaming herself further by revealing her lack of poise, sophistication. The knowledge that Sage slept with women, numerous women, should not shock her. Perhaps it did not shock her, since in the past she had teased him relentlessly over his pursuit of women. What else could she expect from the Merriweather Rake? But to see it so clearly right before her was another matter.

  “Marianne,” Sage whispered placing his hand on the wall above her, leaning over, his face so close all she could see was the blue of his eyes. So near again she imagined if she had substance she’d feel his warm breath on her skin. So close that her gaze darted to his lips with the desire to kiss him so he’d forget all those other women and think only of her. She was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “I-I-I…”

  She was a fool! Why could she not speak?

  Tears sprung. Shameful tears. Tears of weakness, anger and hurt. Yes, hurt. Pain-filled her chest as she faced the knowledge that Sage would never kiss her like he kissed those other women. He’d never hold her. Caress her. Strip the clothes, even her unmentionables, from her body to lie naked in a bed. She’d never discover what happened to create such agonized expressions while screaming into the night. She’d never know what it was like to make love to him.

  Marianne turned away. Then she took one last step into the wall and vanished.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sage leaned his forehead against the wall where Marianne disappeared. Every muscle in his body urged him to run after her, to explain what she saw was a mistake. He had no intention of seducing Harriet. Indeed, he attempted to distract her when he heard Marianne’s tiny gasp and knew they were no longer alone.

  But he didn’t move. Why explain? She had found him in quite the compromising position, but she knew who he was…the Merriweather Rake. Or who he had been. He doubted he could keep the gossipmongers going with that particular moniker since as of late he hadn’t done anything rakish at all.

  “Sage?” Harriet’s voice reminded him that he was not alone.

  “We’re finished, Harriet,” Sage said sadly. “I have no intentions of renewing our acquaintance, as you put it.”

  She was quiet for a moment. Then he heard the rustling of fabric. When he turned, he saw she’d readjusted her bodice to cover herself.

  “You’ve fallen in love.”

  It wasn’t a question, but Sage nodded.

  “Ah,” Harriet said. “I see. And does she…?”

  “It’s rather awkward business, I’m afraid. She’s a friend and I—”

  Harriet giggled. “My dear, Sage. Is it possible to be only friends with any female?”

  He stepped back to the bed to sit beside her. He took her hand in his, placing a warm kiss upon her wrist.

  “I hope you and I shall remain friends, Harriet.”

  “You are serious, are you not? You’re in love? Well, this is a surprise, indeed,” Harriet said smiling. She placed her hand over his. “Of course, my dear. Have we not always been friends? I knew some day you’d wish to marry. I never thought you’d be so foolish as to fall in love. So, now…” She released his hand to readjust her gown over her legs. “How may I help you?”

  ****

  After speaking with Harriet, Sage searched for Marianne. But where does one go to find a ghost? Typically, one found ghosts in a graveyard, but he doubted highly to find Marianne there. And he could hardly ask anyone if they’d seen her. So he walked among the guests, searching and knowing he would not find her.

  She was gone.

  He could feel it.

  David Fernsby had vanished, as well. He searched in vain, knowing the young man must have taken himself off home, despite the hour. Either that, or he’d found company elsewhere. Sage tried not to imagine what it meant for Marianne, despite Mrs. Watson’s claims.

  Perhaps Marianne was already on her way to Merriweather Manor. She used to escape to the gardens whenever she needed time alone, which for Marianne, was not often.

  But he had no time to travel there tonight with his promise to meet Miss Green at the vicarage in Highston in two days. He’d never have time to keep his appointment since Meryton was in quite the opposite direction.

  So instead of chasing after the headstrong girl, Sage left the Caruthers’ house and found a hackney to take him to White’s. He didn’t visit the exclusive men’s club often, but tonight he had need of the excellent brandy they provided.

  A few hours later, he was deep in his cups, slouched in a comfortable plush chair and gazing at the drops of rain splashing the windowpane. It had begun raining about an hour ago. And all he could think of was whether or not ghosts got wet in the rain. If Marianne walked home, she’d be stuck in this downpour. Would she seek shelter?

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of her wet and shivering, and took another gulp of the brandy that left a sour aftertaste on his tongue. The drink didn’t help him forget her, not even for a few hours.

  So he had no taste for women or drink. What was he left with? What else to distract him?

  He stood, thinking to make his way to the gaming tables. Perhaps losing a fortune would be enough to take his thoughts away from a pretty red-haired girl.

  Instead, he found his feet stumbling down the steps as he departed White’s.

  “Steady, old boy,” a voice said from below. A strong hand grasped his arm, keeping him upright. “Been a rough night at the tables, has it?”

  Sage shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “On your way home, then?”

  “Dunno,” Sage slurred. “Wherever my feet take me, s’pose.”

  “Are you prepared to walk all the way in this weather?”

  “Yes.” Sage felt it only right he do so. After all, there was no shelter for Marianne on her journey home. If she need walk in the rain, he might as well.

  “I’ll walk with you then,” the man said.

  Sage squinted into the poor light of a lantern to identify his new friend.

  “Lord Valentine.” Sage attempted to stand a bit taller. He smoothed down his wrinkled vest and jacket. “No need to busy yourself, my lord.”

  “Nonsense,” Lord Valentine said. “I was heading in the same direction when you stepped out.”

  Of course, Sage doubted it, especially in the rain, but since he didn’t feel the strength to argue, he left it at that. They walked side by side for a bit, neither speaking as the small drops descended. Well, Lord Valentine walked, Sage stumbled a bit in a parody of walking. Lord Valentine’s cane clipped at the cobblestones as they moved along, a rather gentle rhythm that soothed some of Sage’s agitation.

  Marianne could take care of herself. She was a ghost, after all. What harm could come to a ghost?

  The image of a masked man flashed in his memory. The powder he had blown in her face, choking her. Then the man had touched her…

  Before Sage knew what was about, he was kneeling in the bushes at the side of the street, dumping his guts onto the ground. When he finished retching, Lord Valentine lifted him up and handed him a handkerchief.

  “Come, old boy,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”

  The man turned him around and helped him ascend a carriage. It had the Valentine crest on the side. His driver must have followed them.

  Sage closed his eyes as he sat on the cushioned bench, hoping the spinning taking place was only in his head.

  He felt rather than saw Lord Valentine enter the carriage and sit across from him. There was a tap of the cane against the roof and then the gentle swaying of the carriage.

&n
bsp; “Do try not to be sick on the upholstery,” Lord Valentine said in a genial manner. “It’s the devil to clean, I’m told.”

  Devil…demon.

  The words brought an instant reaction. Sage’s eyes opened. Lord Valentine sat with his hands folded on top of his cane. He saw him watching and smiled.

  “Why are you helping me, my lord?”

  Lord Valentine tilted his head as he considered the question. “How is your hand, Mr. Merriweather?”

  Sage’s fingers clenched into a fist, as though he might hide the unscarred flesh.

  “You intrigue me, Mr. Merriweather,” Lord Valentine continued when it became clear Sage had no intentions of answering. “And I feel a sense of responsibility toward you. You were injured at my party, after all.”

  “As you can see, I’m unharmed.”

  “That’s what intrigues me,” Lord Valentine said, leaning forward conspiratorially.

  Witch-hunter.

  It was a whispered word, even in his mind, but it brought Sage quickly to his senses. For centuries people had hunted his family and others like them. Simply because the witch-trials had ended, did not mean the hunting had. There were quiet, less public ways to rid the world of his kind. Was this man one of them?

  “What do you want?” Sage asked. He tried to keep his fingers clenched onto the seat as he felt compelled to ready for a defense spell. He could not trust his magic to save him. It would only turn to flame.

  “There was a carriage discovered not far from my house,” Lord Valentine said, sitting back in his seat. “It was broken and burned. Seeing as how you had a previous…incident with your hand, I wonder; might you have any knowledge of how this occurred?”

  Sage’s heartbeat increased. He forced himself to appear relaxed instead of staring at the man across from him. He leaned back against the seat, taking a pose of nonchalance, although he was well aware of the carriage door to his right. He measured the distance in his mind, wondering how quickly he might reach it.

  “No, my lord,” Sage said, shaking his head. Of course, he wondered how adept Lord Valentine was at perceiving liars. There could be trouble between them if he did not take care with this conversation. He glanced beyond the carriage window, wondering how far they were from his London home, but all was dark.