He lifted an eyebrow but set about his task without delay, shuffling toward the spice jars located at the end of the counter. His steps reminded her of a turtle washed up on the shore: agonizingly precise and measured. She held her breath as he wobbled along. Henrietta Clarke was a kind soul for providing Mr. Hughes with a meager income in his old age, but under the circumstances, Mercy longed for a quicker attendant.
She tapped her foot and glanced at the clock hanging above the register. He was a quarter of the way to his destination when she called him back.
“Please, allow me to fetch them, Mr. Hughes, while you prepare the packaging.”
He paused then nodded, turning around with care.
“What’re you brewing this afternoon, Miss Seymour?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” she said with a wink.
He shook his head as she raced to the jar containing her coveted spice and quickly counted six sticks.
“I’ll sweet-talk it out of you one of these days,” he said, chuckling.
Laughter bubbled in her chest. His genuine curiosity about her witchcraft was sweet, and it tempted her to cave in just this once. But she could not reveal her secrets without compromising the trust of the ladies in town who relied on her discretion.
“Yes, one of these days,” she said, sailing past him with a conspiratorial smile, headed straight for the exit. “On second thought, I’ll tuck these into my reticule. No need for packaging. Thank you, sir.”
She bolted out of the shop and glanced both ways before trotting across Main Street, weaving in and out of traffic. The thoroughfare was clogged more than usual with visitors from throughout England, all recently arrived for the ball being held at Devil’s Cove Manor in honor of the return of Lord Sommerset, 8th Marquess of Covington.
As she gained the sidewalk on the other side of the road, two young women strolled by with their arms hooked and heads close.
“Deliciously scandalous,” the one said with a smug smile. “His poor mother thought him dead all these years, mauled by a shark. Lord Sommerset, a notorious pirate and captain of The Savior, can you believe it? I must secure a dance with him at the ball. The man is titled and alluring.”
Mercy lifted her brow and glanced back at the pair. They must not know the man’s heart already belonged to Eveline Mitchell. With a derisive snort, she carried on, bumping shoulders with a passerby.
“Goodness,” she cried. “I beg your pardon.”
“No apologies necessary. Miss?” came a questioning baritone.
Her head snapped up at the sound of his familiar voice, and she came face to face with Victor, his eyes alight with laughter. He stood mere inches away from her on the crowded sidewalk. His hooded gaze dipped to her lips, sending delightful shivers up her spine.
She’d been avoiding direct contact with him for nearly a month, and with moderate success. Where was her head, and why was he smiling in that familiar way? As if he was on to her strategy to avoid him, and he found immense pleasure in thwarting her efforts. Why did he enjoy playing with her, like a moth trapped inside of a bottle?
After all the evenings he passed drinking ale at The Black Serpent, he must’ve gleaned her name by now, yet he feigned ignorance. Perverse man! There could only be one reason for his obstinacy. He wanted her to tell him of her own accord, offered freely like every other lady he flirted with. But she was determined to win their small battle of wills. He was a pirate. Nothing good could come of their acquaintance.
She bobbed a curtsey. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m running late.”
Without a backward glance, she hurried along the final stretch to the tavern, charged through the front entrance, and then raced to the back, taking the steps up to their living quarters two at a time. Her legs burned from her effort, and she heaved in gulps of air.
“I’m back, Cecelia,” she called out, making a beeline for the hearth to assess the progress of her potion. An air pocket bubbled to the surface of the simmering concoction and burst, emitting a sickeningly sweet scent. She wrinkled her nose, peered into the Tome of the Accursed, and flipped the page, following the instructions with her index finger.
“And without a moment to spare,” her aunt teased.
Truly, but she would’ve been fine if she hadn’t bumped into Victor. The man occupied far too many of her thoughts. Emma often waxed poetic about the pirate and had assured Mercy that the beating Victor dealt Mr. Mitchell in the alley was a necessary measure, one she ought to overlook as it had likely saved Eveline’s life. But Emma was sweet on his friend, Hatchet, so Mercy took her praise with a grain of salt. Still, whenever Victor frequented the tavern with his friends, she found herself sneaking peeks in hopes of catching a glimpse of his magnetic smile.
Enough of this. She could ill afford to allow her thoughts to linger on him when her potion was on the brink of disaster.
“This should’ve turned amber by now,” she said, glancing warily at the vomit-colored potion. At least it didn’t smell putrid. It smelled of jasmine, roses, and vanilla. She narrowed her gaze on the brew and consulted her 14th great-grandmother’s spell book once more. “Why is this the consistency of gruel, not thick like oil? It won’t blend into ale if it isn’t amber. I should’ve let you brew it, Cecelia.”
Her aunt glanced up from her needlework and paused mid-stitch. “Patience, child. Five clockwise rotations of a wooden spoon and then add two sticks of cinnamon. Hold the spoon upright, mind you.”
Setting aside the metal spoon, Mercy whizzed to the armoire and searched for the wooden spoon instead. It lay somewhere amid the clutter of her drawers. One day she would organize the contents and keep it so. But not today.
“Found it,” she squealed, returning to the cauldron, determined to master the complex potion. Love potions were a deceitful business but highly profitable for a young lady of three and twenty, and she could not expect her aunt and uncle to support her forever.
“Did you use a love potion on Henry?” she asked while mentally counting the number of rotations of the spoon before adding the cinnamon sticks.
Her aunt stifled a snort. “Heavens, no, and forever live in doubt of my true appeal?”
“You’ve the right of it. But Henry says I’ll remain a spinster because every suitor fears I’ll turn him into a toad.” She winked at her aunt. “Perhaps I’ll be forced to use a potion, after all.”
A moment later, the brew thickened into a smooth amber liquid, just like that. After reaching for a towel, Mercy pulled the cauldron away from the fire and filled a large, shallow bowl with two ladles of the mixture to let it cool.
“Pay your uncle no mind,” her aunt said, setting her needlework aside. She came to stand beside Mercy, peering inside the cauldron with a wide grin. “Excellent work, as always. Your mother would be so proud. Maude never could replicate Elizabeth’s love potion, and it drove her quite mad.”
She was referring to Elizabeth Thorne, matriarch of a distinguished line of witches spanning centuries and author of the Tome of the Accursed. Mercy closed the spell book and traced her fingers over the intricate design etched into the soft leather casing before setting it aside.
“Well, madness runs in our family,” she said, spooning the potion into a small, clear vial, filling it halfway. She glanced at her aunt before pushing in the cork stopper. “I’m undecided on which of our ancestors was worse, Elizabeth or her sister, Vivian.” Their story could fill the pages of Grimms’ Fairy Tales—twin sisters fighting over the love of one man, a potent love potion imbued with the tears of a goddess, and an eternal curse. Pure insanity!
Cecelia handed another vial to Mercy with a protracted sigh. “Take care and never allow jealousy to cloud your judgment like poor Vivian.”
Mercy bit down on her tongue. Poor Vivian? Their ancestor was a viperous witch who got what was coming to her. But Cecelia would only lecture her again about the merits of forgiveness if she voiced her opinion. Still, as far as she was concerned, some things could never be forgi
ven; stealing your twin sister’s betrothed with an unbreakable love potion counted among them.
“Well, I must be off,” Mercy said, pocketing the two vials. She removed her apron, hanging it on a hook next to the door. “Lady Bellamy anxiously awaits me in the tavern.”
Cecelia rolled her eyes at that bit of news. “Goodness, who does she wish to ensnare this time? Wait, it’s one of those wealthy privateers from The Savior, isn’t it?”
“But of course,” Mercy said, smiling at her aunt’s insistence on referring to the pirates as privateers. “Lady Bellamy has cycled through all of the eligible men in town. Her sights are set on the one they call Victor.”
“You cannot mean to help her entrap the poor fellow! He is much too young and dashing for the widow.”
Young and dashing, indeed. But also harboring a dark, lethal side. She shook her head, casting away the memory. After opening the door of the second-floor apartment, she glanced over her shoulder.
“Has Lady Bellamy succeeded in entrapping any of her love interests?”
Her aunt crossed her arms, narrowing her shrewd gaze on Mercy. “Since you mention it, no, she has not. How is that possible, my dear, when our love potion is fail-proof?”
“Fail-proof, but not foolproof,” she replied with a sinister grin. “Wrong dosage; half of a vial. It’s a wonder the lady keeps paying for a defective product, but I’ve convinced her the potion lasts only as long as her love for her intended, so she must not be in love with any of the men thus far.”
The door snapped closed behind her, cutting off her aunt’s laughter. She clamped one hand around a vial of the potion in her pocket. Entrap another woman in a relationship with Victor? Never.
Chapter Five
Victor fisted a tankard of ale sitting before him and narrowed his gaze on Lady Bellamy. His stomach turned at the calculating glint sparkling in her eyes as she whispered to one of the tavern wenches, his lass with the luscious curves.
He might’ve explored those full breasts and rounded hips if her uncle hadn’t interrupted their encounter in the alley nearly a month ago. She possessed rare spirit, was quick witted, and held her ground, all traits he admired but didn’t expect to find in a woman.
Tell me your name, sweet lass.
Though spoken gently, it was a command. One she had refused to obey. It grated on his nerves. No one resisted his charms, whether highborn lady or tavern wench. Still, discovering her name had been simple enough. Mercy Seymour.
Oh, Mercy mine.
No doubt he wanted to bed her, but she shunned his advances at every turn. He glared at the wench, and the self-satisfied smirk hovering on her lips made his stomach churn harder. What were the two ladies conspiring about, anyway? She tugged on Lady Bellamy’s arm, and they exited The Black Serpent without giving him a second glance.
A few minutes later, his crewmate, Hatchet, joined him and tossed his wool cap on the table.
“Why the scowl?” Hatchet asked, his grin widening. “Don’t tell me your mistress turned you down. Losing your magic touch, are you?”
Victor lifted an eyebrow. “Hell, no. Lady Bellamy will meet me within the half hour. Don’t you have somewhere you should be? You mentioned an outing with Emma Taplin. Shall we head over to The Drake together, perhaps?”
Hatchet’s cheeks flushed red. “Damn you, Victor. You know my intentions toward Emma are honorable. Another foul insinuation, and you’ll be apologizing to my fist, you mind?”
“An affair is far less trouble, my friend.” Especially if it was short and devoid of emotions. The last thing Victor wanted was a woman with ideas about a long future together. “Trust me, and find yourself a mistress instead.”
Hatchet choked on his ale, spewing the brew through his nose. “Ho, stop lying to yourself, mate. Lady Bellamy desires more than an affair. I saw her outside buying a potion from that blond, curvy tavern wench. One of the locals warned me about her; into witchcraft, that one. Sells her goods for a hefty price. Whatever your mistress seeks from her, it cannot be good. One shilling says it’s a love potion.”
“Bugger off,” Victor growled, sipping his brew.
Ignoring the flicker of doubt igniting in his gut, he turned his focus to the other patrons within the tavern, who laughed and talked with lively, animated gestures. The place was fast becoming one of his favorite haunts. He often visited The Black Serpent with Hatchet, if only to watch people enjoying life, where the ale flowed and everyone set their worries aside for a short while.
But try as he might to ignore Hatchet’s teasing, his fear of being entrapped by a woman would not be quelled. Was that the reason for Mercy’s smug smile? She thought to pawn him off on Lady Bellamy to escape his attention? The conniving little minx.
“I warned you about Lady Bellamy,” Hatchet said, drawing Victor’s attention away from the entrance. “The widow has it in for you. ’Bout time you came to your senses and moved on. She’s far too old.”
Age was of no matter, and he was damned tired of his friend’s meddling. When would Hatchet get it through his thick head that Victor had no interest in making serious designs on any woman, young or old? Lord help the poor chit who ever fell in love with him, a man cursed to die in his prime. His days were numbered, whether his friend chose to believe it or not.
He rubbed his chin, turning his level gaze on Hatchet. “Why would I move on? The woman is talented between the sheets, and I’ve got less than two months to live.”
His friend’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. “You can’t be certain about that, mate.”
“Oh, but I am,” Victor said, paying no heed to the thunderous beating of his heart. He looked away, unable to stomach the hopelessness written on his friend’s face.
“Why have we stopped searching for Mercy Limmerick?” Hatchet asked, pounding his fist on the table. “She’s the key to breaking the curse.”
“Give it up, man!” Victor snarled. “I’m through with hunting for a unicorn. Devlin needs us, here and now. I won’t abandon him when he’s days away from achieving his own goals. One week, that’s all he needs to reclaim his title and land.”
Hatchet leaned over and poked Victor in the middle of the chest. “I’ll never give up, and neither should you.”
Victor clamped his jaw tight and stared into his tankard. His friend stood and stalked out of the tavern, leaving him alone with his damnable thoughts. His hands trembled as he lifted his drink, intent on drowning his sorrows, but he found his glass was empty. A full tankard of ale slammed on the table in front of him, and he stared after the fair-haired waitress walking away.
When had she returned from her clandestine meeting with Lady Bellamy?
Dammit. He couldn’t tolerate secrets and needed to know what business the witch had with his mistress. He sipped his ale and bided his time, watching her like a hawk as she made her rounds. When she passed him again, he stood and walked in her wake. Before she entered the kitchen, he grabbed hold of her wrist.
“A word, if you please,” he said, ushering her to an alcove in the rear of the tavern. He backed her up against the wall.
Her amber eyes danced as she lifted her brow. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
“Don’t, my lord, me,” he growled.
She was a sassy little one with a smart mouth, goading him. Others might not care if she meddled with their lives, but he did. This was a serious matter, and he planned to settle it without further delay.
“What business do you have with Lady Bellamy?” he asked, watching her body language closely. “You sold her a potion, didn’t you?”
Her eyebrows crinkled at the crook of her nose, and she glanced away. “No, I didn’t.”
“Do not lie to me!” he barked, employing a tone he reserved for intimidation.
His harsh words reverberated between them, and she met his gaze dead-on, the heat of her anger fanning over her cheeks. “You must inquire with the Lady if you wish to know more about our dealings.”
The chit sold i
llicit goods yet laid claim to a code of honor? That was rich. Well, he was a pirate. Everyone and everything could be bought for the right price. Her code be damned. She would not evade him so easily.
“Sell me what you sold her.”
Biting her bottom lip, she considered his request for a long moment but finally shook her head. “I’m afraid not. If she were to find out, my reputation would be ruined.”
But, of course, the lady was a shrewd businesswoman. He could hardly blame her. Still, he would get what he wanted. Answers.
“Come, no one has to know but us.” He leaned in, and his lips grazed her earlobe. “I’ll pay fifty times your normal price. What say you?”
Her breath hitched, and he pressed closer still, enjoying the subtle pressure of her breasts against his chest, the wild clattering of her heartbeat. She smelled of vanilla and cinnamon, unbearably sweet, and he ached to taste her pert lips. He must kiss her—or go mad.
“Deal,” she whispered, gazing at him through hooded eyes. “Now let go of my wrist so I may fetch the vial in my pocket.”
He released her begrudgingly and stepped back, folding his arms over his chest. “You carry potions on your person?”
“One never knows when a gentleman may be in need of a love potion,” she said tartly. She stuffed her hand into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a vial, offering it flat on her palm. “That’ll be five pounds.”
His stomach dropped. Oh, hell! A love potion. He owed Hatchet one shilling. What if the bloody stuff worked? Before arriving in Devil’s Cove, he’d dismissed any suggestion of the supernatural. But firsthand experience while living at the haunted manor had forced him to reexamine his beliefs.
After snatching the vial, he held it up. The oily amber liquid sloshed from side to side, but it filled only half the container. “Lady Bellamy paid two shillings for this? It isn’t even full. Does it work?”
The chit waggled her eyebrows, a slight grin forming on her lips. “Why don’t you have a wee taste, and in a few minutes, we’ll know? But don’t forget to gaze into my eyes while I whisper words of sweet love to you.”
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 3