She didn’t doubt for a moment that she carried his son—the next Blackburn heir of the estate and the curse. The fertility serum was potent, the timing impeccable, and she’d prayed for a boy. He couldn’t have planned his seduction better had he known exactly how the serum worked.
How could she ever trust him after he failed to put his trust in her? The walls erected around her heart had started to crumble on the ship. Six days. She’d been in love with Victor for six days before the spell was broken. Who could say how long the infatuation would’ve lasted if she hadn’t held the four amber stones in her hand?
Sooner or later, she had to decide on their future. Eveline set down her cup and leaned closer. “Victor wasn’t lying about the fertility serum. Dominick took full responsibility for that debacle.”
“Are you going to forgive your fiancé?” Mercy countered. “He had no right to interfere.”
Eveline heaved in a breath and nodded. “I cannot argue otherwise. Eventually, I will forgive him. He’s human, and his heart was in the right place. We’re all at fault in varying degrees. I should’ve told you about the love potion as soon as I found out they’d slipped it into your orange juice.”
Mercy shook her head. “It wouldn’t have mattered. You couldn’t have convinced me of his deceit while I was under the potion’s influence.”
“These men have been through many trials together,” Eveline said, “and their bond is deep. I cannot fault Dominick for loving Victor so much that he felt compelled to act in a way that would save his life, even if his actions were misguided.”
“Victor should have trusted me,” Mercy said, setting down her cup.
“He did trust you. Don’t hold him accountable for Dominick’s deplorable actions.”
“But Dominick wouldn’t have had the serum in the first place if Victor hadn’t debated his options with him. That alone shows his lack of trust in me.”
Eveline lifted her brow. “I beg to disagree. That shows good judgment on his part. There was no way of knowing whether you’d forgive him once the love potion ran its course. You’ve been quite vocal about your hatred of him from the beginning, and his life is in peril. Discussing difficult matters with a trusted friend is logical. He simply chose the wrong confidant. Had he confided in me instead, this would’ve all worked out. So does this mean you’ll forgive him?”
Mercy sighed and closed her eyes, resting her head against the wingback chair. “It means I must consider what is best for our babe. We are going to have a son, and we both know the pain of growing up without our parents. I wouldn’t wish it on any child, leastwise my own.” She swallowed and stared into the fire. “Before the love potion, I’d been bitter and angry for so long, I’d forgotten entirely what it meant to feel pure joy. For a short while, I was free of my demons and simply lived life. You were right, Eveline. I found tremendous peace in forgiveness. I’m no longer angry with Victor for killing my mother. And I must admit that I love the happier, more carefree Mercy. He gave me that gift through his treachery, so it was not all bad. But I don’t know what the future holds for us.”
“You are a brave and merciful woman,” Eveline said with a heartfelt smile. She stood and stretched before reaching for her pelisse. “Shall we venture into the forest now and seek these poplar buds you spoke of earlier? I must say, I find your craft fascinating. Why do you need the buds, if I might ask?”
Coming to her feet, Mercy grabbed her coat and followed Eveline into the hallway. “Atmosphere is an important aspect of every ritual. When I cast the counter spell, our surroundings must enhance the peaceful mood I seek in offering forgiveness to the Blackburn family.” They strolled down the corridor, and Mercy looped her arm through Eveline’s. “I’m keen on making an herbal mixture of basil, rosemary, periwinkle, and balm of Gilead. And for that, we require poplar buds. With a little luck, we may find an Aspen tree within the forest. Or, at least, I hope we shall.”
“And what of the other ingredients?” her friend asked as they descended the stairs.
“Mary assured me those are readily available from the kitchen or conservatory.”
The moment they reached the landing, Hatchet appeared and assisted the ladies with donning their coats. It was no use arguing with the man. He would be accompanying them on their sojourn in the woods per Dominick’s orders if he was not welcome to join them himself, which he was not.
The door to the library opened, and a woman appeared with Victor. With her delicate bone structure and pale skin, she was beautiful, despite her conservative, high-neck dress and the severe bun resting at her nape. Her husky laughter filled the cavernous foyer, drawing a polite smile from Victor’s lips. She rested her hand on his forearm and said something that caused him to join in her laughter.
“Shall we go, Eveline?” Mercy asked, pulling on her gloves. They were on an important mission, and it would be dark soon.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Victor called out, escorting the mystery woman to them. “Might I have a moment of your time? I’d like to introduce Mrs. Daphne Hart. She’s hired on as the housekeeper, and today is her first day. We were just finishing a tour of the main floor.”
Mrs. Hart curtseyed and offered a gracious smile while Victor concluded the introductions. Something about the woman’s face sparked Mercy’s interest. The shape of her nose, perhaps, or her high cheekbones. Maybe the combination of the two. Mercy couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
The housekeeper fingered the brooch pinned at her throat in a nervous gesture, and Mercy noted dark stains under her fingernails with smug satisfaction. The woman had a fault, after all.
“Mrs. Hart is full of amusing stories and comes to us from Hambleton,” Victor said, nodding at Mercy. “I believe it is not far from your hometown, Blackpool.”
“Oh, what a lovely seaport, though I haven’t visited in years,” Mrs. Hart said, her voice all rich silk and warm honey.
“Nor have I,” Mercy said, eyeing the exit. “It was lovely to meet you. I hope you enjoy the rest of your tour.”
Victor’s brow rose, and the hint of a smile twitched on his lips. “Perhaps you would care to join us? We’re touring the third floor next. I don’t believe you’ve visited that part of the castle yet.”
“Might I have a word alone with you, Victor?” Mercy said, striding to the library door without looking back. She charged into the room and whirled around as he entered. “Close the door!”
He lifted one delectable, infuriating eyebrow.
The latch clicked, and she pounced. “You begged me to consider giving us a chance for a happy future because I’m carrying your child—a child willfully planted in my womb using despicable, deceitful methods, I might add. And for the sake of our babe, I will honor your request to consider the merits of taking you as my husband. But until I have come to a decision, stop manufacturing reasons for us to spend time together. Do I make myself clear on this matter?”
Her last sentence came out in a near shout. She forced a lungful of air through her nose and exhaled slowly. He was infuriating with his calm demeanor and sexy smile. With the way she’d dressed him down, he should not have been smiling.
He strolled toward her, stopping an inch short of her, with his hands in his pockets. She craned her head back, meeting his hungry gaze, and her stomach quaked. Magnetic heat rolled off his body in waves, enveloping her, and she wanted to sink into his embrace. How did he exercise control when all she wanted was for him to lean in and kiss her with those sensual lips she’d missed so much?
“As clear as a bright blue sky,” he said, without a hint of laughter. “I have no wish to pressure you into making a premature decision. Perhaps you’re right, but if I’m fabricating situations to be in your company, it is only because I miss you, dearly.”
Of all the things she’d imagined he would say, that was not it.
Warm tendrils of joy spread through her body, and she sidestepped him, heading for the door. He wouldn’t burrow back into her heart so easily. She require
d more than a few sweetly spoken words. The man had caused her considerable pain; he was impetuous and had placed their child in peril.
But he was also a dedicated friend, doting uncle, and devoted son, and he would, no doubt, be an adoring father.
“Well, I’m glad to know we are on the same page, Victor. I shall think on it.”
“Mercy,” he said, his tone husky with need. “Please forgive me. I’ll do anything you ask. I’m so sorry for deceiving you. Would you care to invite your aunt and uncle here so you do not feel so alone? Anything. Just say the word. They could be here within a fortnight.”
The silky strands of his voice wove around her, and she faltered. She leaned her forehead on the door, aching to go to him. He wasn’t a man accustomed to begging, or apologizing, and yet he had done both on multiple occasions over the course of the last week to reclaim her.
“I’ll think on your offer, but I really must go now,” she said, opening the door and slipping through before she gave in to the damnable desire bubbling its way to the surface.
Solid relationships were built on trust, not desire. She wanted the kind of love and respect she saw daily between Henry and Cecelia—exactly what Victor had given her while she was under the influence of the love potion. Still, she didn’t know if she ought to give him her trust. But, as she approached Eveline in the foyer, she wondered if in keeping Victor at arm’s length, she would suffer as much as he did.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Victor bolted upright, heaving in a gulp of air. The luminescent glow of a nearly full moon peeked through his window, casting light on a shadowy figure standing at the foot of his bed. King George crouched and hissed, preparing to pounce.
“Leave me alone!” Victor growled, and the spirit evaporated in an instant.
The cat sprang off the bed and circled the room, sniffing the air. So, he wasn’t going insane, if his cat also sensed the ghost’s presence. At least there was that.
Laying back against his pillow, he rubbed his eyes. The thin sheet clung to his chest, and perspiration coated his forehead. The vestiges of his nightmare lingered on the periphery of his mind. He’d always suffered the blasted dreams, but they were coming nightly now. And instead of featuring the Butcher or Maude, he’d taken to imagining his death and seeing ghosts . . . all male . . . all sharing an uncanny resemblance to him.
Perhaps the ghosts’ appearances were linked to his nightmares, as if each generation of his ancestors wished to warn him of what was to come. He had little idea of what to expect, other than a brutal death. There was no discernable pattern as far as Victor could tell, and many of his ancestors had scoffed at the notion of a curse. How did one plan a battle against a foe one could not see, or a death one could not predict?
With each passing day, his birthday crept nearer. He wanted to take comfort in the fact that Mercy would forgive him and break the curse upon the next full moon. She had spoken to him during breakfast yesterday, and he often caught her gazing at him while absently rubbing her belly when they were in the presence of others. But she’d declined his offer to send for her kin, and she’d yet to invite him back to her bed. Still, for the benefit of their child, he believed she would carry through with casting the counter spell.
But what if it didn’t work?
The thought plagued him, drove him mad. There were no guarantees. Elizabeth Thorne hadn’t written the counter spell, so who was to say if the damned thing would work? After long hours contemplating his plight with Dominick and Hatchet, they’d all concurred he needed to prepare to battle the curse on his own.
And that meant he needed more information, better data to analyze. Victor had combed the local library shelves while Hatchet visited the editor of The Highland Courier. Victor’s father had commissioned an investigator to travel to Edinburgh to visit the Advocates Library on the off chance that the sensational deaths had made news in the larger cities of Scotland over the years. But every avenue had been a dead end.
He closed his eyes and prayed for blessed sleep as his mind wandered. He had even accompanied Dominick to speak with the family undertaker. He would never have interviewed the old man, except for Milton’s casual observation that the Richards’ family chronicled every death in the community with meticulous precision. That tidbit had piqued Victor’s interest, as did the fact that Richards had prepared the bodies of Victor’s uncle and grandfather for rest. But that, too, had been a waste of time and money.
The undertaker had chronicled every death dating all the way back to Ambrose Blackburn. All of Victor’s cursed ancestors had died brutal deaths on their twenty-seventh birthdays, with the only commonality being trauma to the throat. Odd, but not at all helpful.
He was no better off now than he had been twenty years earlier when he had learned of the curse. Dammit. His head throbbed, so there was no hope for sleep. Tossing aside the sheet, Victor stumbled out of bed and stoked the embers in the fireplace.
He washed with warm water from the basin, shaved the stubble lining his jaw, and dressed for the day. Walking to the window, he peered toward the east, where the sun was high. He must’ve lain in bed longer than he thought.
His cat meowed and rolled over at his feet, presenting his fat belly for a rub. Victor indulged the king for a while, but despite the joyful purring his ministrations elicited, he found that restlessness was eating him alive. Rubbing his cat’s nape one last time, Victor blew out an elongated breath and stood. What he really wanted was the comfort of running his fingers through Mercy’s soft curls, with their sweet, orange scent.
Striding to his bedside table, he opened the top drawer. He snatched the neatly folded linen handkerchief hiding there and pressed it to his nose. Mercy’s handkerchief. He breathed in her scent and sighed before tucking the square into his pocket. It would have to do. With a final perusal of his bedroom, he left his quarters in search of a stiff drink in the parlor—anything to help him forget his woes, and headache, for a while.
When he reached the foyer, Milton bowed and said, “The ladies request—”
Victor shot his hand out, cutting off the butler. He didn’t give a damn what the ladies requested at the moment. He had only one destination in mind: the sideboard in the parlor. He needed a drink. Preferably three. Maybe the whole bottle. Anything to stop the ache in his heart and the throbbing in his head.
He opened the parlor door and immediately regretted ignoring Milton’s warning. Wreaths, ribbons, and all other manner of decorating materials littered the tables and sofas, and the ladies of the house had their heads bent in concentration over their projects, while laughing and talking.
His mother glanced up and smiled. “Oh, Victor, you’re awake.” Her eyes were alight with joy, and she stood. “Come in, please. You must join in the festivities.” She spread her arms wide. “We’re making Christmas wreaths. Do you recall how much fun we used to have, Victor?”
Of course he did. His mother helping Cora cut ribbon to the precise length for a winsome bow. Drinking cocoa after lighting the Yule log. Opening colorfully wrapped gifts on Christmas morning. He remembered it all.
Mercy sat on the edge of the sofa, draped in a simple green day dress, the color festive. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she smiled tentatively. He could almost see their son snuggled close to her side, peering down at the wreath she decorated.
His head pounded. What if she didn’t forgive him? He wanted to build wreaths with his son and wife. Wanted to drink cocoa by the fire and sing Christmas songs while he held Mercy’s hand. She caught his gaze, and he saw a reflection of his own thoughts in her eyes.
What if the counter spell failed? All of the blood drained from his face, and his head throbbed harder. The walls closed in, and he couldn’t breathe. He could not do this. Without a single word, Victor turned on his heel and left. The stairs passed in a blur as he took them two by two. He stalked down the corridor toward his room and crashed into the new housekeeper as she exited Mercy’s chamber.
“Pardon me,” h
e said, catching her by the shoulders, steadying her. “I’m not in my right mind.”
She splayed her hands over his chest. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
His mind went blank. Her hands roamed over his chest. And her meaning became clear. Good God, no! He removed her hands from his person and stepped back.
“No, Mrs. Hart, you cannot help me. I do not require nor wish for any of your services. Am I making myself clear?”
Her shoulders stiffened, and she narrowed her gaze to a point over his shoulder before storming away in the other direction. He turned and found Mercy staring at him, her hands holding her skirt, as though she was preparing to bolt.
This was too much. He could not be held accountable for the servant’s desires. He did not invite them, nor did he share them. And at the moment, he had nothing left in his arsenal.
“Mercy, come here,” he said, holding out his hand in invitation.
She stared at his hand for a moment and, to his great relief, closed the distance between them. He pulled her into his embrace and rubbed his cheek against her hair, welcoming the soothing balm of her arms wrapping around him.
“Forgive me, Mercy, but I’m unwell and must seek the quiet of my room. I have a throbbing headache. Give my regrets to my mother and the other ladies.”
She nodded. “What can I do to help you?”
He gazed into her honey-colored eyes, which were etched with concern. Come to my room and hold me. Kiss me senseless and make me forget everything in the world except for us. The plea screamed from his mind, but he was determined not to pressure her.
Her eyes widened. “Shall I send Blair to you with a remedy? I have just the thing for a headache.”
“Yes,” he said, kissing her hands. “I will be in my bed.”
Praying you will come to me.
Blackburn Castle (Tortured Souls Book 2) Page 20