The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1)
Page 14
“In due time, Henry,” Roger replied. “In due time.”
Mr. DeVere departed with a soft clicking of his heels on the parquet floor boards.
Sir Grover turned to Roger. “So you mean to fund DeVere’s run for my seat by stealth.”
“I do what I must to get what I want.”
“And what is it you want Roger, hm? This girl? This paltry, lame girl who may have money but nothing else, and no, you don’t need her money, so I’m finding it difficult to believe you do it to have her. What then?”
“Must there be a motive?”
“Oh there’s always a motive. And yours is revenge.”
Roger’s jaw moved but he did not answer.
“A word of advice, my boy: don’t let passion and ill-considered judgment of the consequences rule you. You’ll end up making a blunder.”
“Are you speaking from your own acquaintance with passionate blunders?”
I gasped. Was Roger’s cool retort a pointed reference to Sir Grover’s infatuation with his mother Morgreth, the ‘mistake’ that sent his father Heron Penwyth over the edge of madness? Or was he referring to the note his wife burned in a spasm of jealousy, the note from Morgreth pleading for help?
“We should have given the nurse two guineas to drown him when we had the chance,” Lady Penwyth spat viciously through her tears.
Sir Grover ignored his wife. “Relation or no, think twice before you set yourself against me, Roger Penwyth. I make a poor enemy.”
A smile of relish spread over Roger’s face. “So do I.”
I felt ill. Before me a family lay in ruin. Roger’s plot was methodical and well-planned, honing in upon the Penwyth weaknesses with ruthless precision: Lady Penwyth’s desire to maintain a genteel propriety before her neighbors; Damon’s need for my money to save him from a fatal burden of debt; Sir Grover’s long-held political ambitions.
Somehow I did not believe that it was done solely to wrest me from them for himself.
I swayed. The overwrought emotions flooding the room combined with the upsets to my equilibrium earlier in the day were beginning to take a toll.
Roger looked down at me. The dark blue ring surrounding his light green irises made his eyes look like a falcon’s. “I think I’ll take Persia with me now.”
“You can’t!” Lady Penwyth wailed. “The scandal, the gossip--”
“My dear Jocasta, scandal and gossip follow me like hounds on a hare. Do you think I care about it now?”
“Then think of the trouble it will cause Miss Eames if you take her before you are married!” Lady Penwyth persisted tearfully.
“I am more concerned about the trouble she will endure under this roof if I leave her.”
Lady Penwyth moaned, and Sir Grover raised his hands as if he’d like to have my neck between them. Damon threw me a look of purest loathing over his snifter.
Despite my doubts about Roger’s motives, the thought of spending another moment in the Hermitage made my stomach churn. “Don’t leave me here,” I whispered.
I thought I discerned a hint of warmth softening his coldness. He held out his arm. Loosened threads from bloodstained lace cuffs dangled, and his broken finger stuck awkwardly away from the others. Shakily I laid my fingers over his, and drew some strength from them.
“Do not do it, miss,” Sir Grover warned. “Step out that door, and you earn my enmity for good.”
“Let us go,” said I.
###
We made our way to the portico.
Roger flung open the front door, revealing a group of cottagers dancing around the ancient sycamore tree to a tantalizingly familiar rondón of clapping and chanting.
Hanging in the sky above the sycamore tree, a full moon wore a vaporous halo. The night air was thick with portents as the common folk gave themselves up to long-suppressed memories that easily erupted when they drank and took pleasure in each other.
A cabriolet, hood down behind a pair of champing horses, idled well away from the revelers. To my surprise I saw the DeVeres waiting inside the fashionably smart equipage, speaking to Susannah Penwyth, whose attention never strayed far from the horseflesh.
“Ah, Roger, there you are,” Mrs. DeVere drawled. “Miss Penwyth has quite picked my brain over these animals, and Henry is no help at all.
“I’m watching the faddy dance,” Mr. DeVere answered. “I haven’t seen it since I was a child. Look how clever those boys are to make whistles from the twigs.”
Of course, my brain gratefully seized upon the distraction. The fadé, as my mother told me the Old English called it; the Furry Dance in the North. Little did the revelers know they danced a remembrance of the Fading--the arcana elementa that was vanishing.
“I wish they would stop their horrible singing and go home now,” Susannah snapped in annoyance. In the moonlight I could see that her eyes were bleared and her chin raw, as if scraped by a man’s beard. “It makes the hair over my arms rise. And what are you doing out of bed so late, Miss Eames?”
Roger handed me into the carriage. “Persia is going to stay with Mrs. DeVere for a short visit, isn’t that so, Annabel?”
“A month?” Mrs. DeVere queried.
“A fortnight.”
“And our very great pleasure it will be, too, Miss Eames. Henry,” she said. “You heard?”
“I did,” came Henry DeVere’s sleepy reply. “She may have the Willow Suite.”
Susannah stamped her foot. “Miss Eames cannot stay with the DeVeres, she is supposed to be staying with us. Damon will be very vexed.”
“He’s a little more than vexed at the moment,” I could not help remarking.
In the stubble field, a bonfire merrily burned while shadowy figures danced about it to the music of barking dogs.
“What do you mean by that, Miss Eames?” Susannah’s voice rose in a credible imitation of her mother’s. “You can’t leave! You are supposed to marry Damon. It is all arranged!”
Roger’s fingers reached for mine as I leaned over the lip of the carriage window, and the unease and trepidation eased a hair’s breath. Over his shoulder he said to his cousin, “You’d better prepare yourself to be sold on the marriage market to the highest bidder, Susannah. Miss Eames has other plans.”
To me he said: “Stay put at the DeVeres; I will come for you when I can. I have a few pockets to line first. Lord Hardwicke’s recent Bill has insured that hasty marriages,” a slight smile twisted his features, “can get expensive.”
“Roger,” I whispered, “Please tell me that you are not doing this to revenge yourself upon these Penwyths the ill done to your parents.”
Roger stiffened; his fingers dropped away from mine.
At that moment the dancers around the sycamore stopped their dance and began pointing to the moon, muttering.
A flock of birds arrowed across the bright surface.
“Good lord,” Henry DeVere remarked. “Birds flying at night? I’ve never seen the like.”
Roger cursed softly under his breath. “You had better go now, eh Henry, while the moon is high and the light is good. Persia--”
I know I did not imagine the desire drenching his voice as he said my name.
“--I must go.”
With that he turned and began to run swift and untiring over the stubble field, toward the sea.
Ignoring Susannah’s gaping mouth, I leaned back into the squibs, suppressing a pulse of uneasiness. I knew what flying birds at night meant. It was a summons.
Tamzin Fulby called to her lover.
And I, I needed to accept the choice I made.
Persia and Roger’s story continues in Mistress of Lyhalis, Book 2 in the Witch’s Daughter Series.
Mistress of Lyhalis
Book 2 of The Witch’s Daughter series
After defying her family to marry Roger Penwyth, black sheep of the Penwyth family, Persia Eames settles at Lyhalis, Roger’s crumbling estate by the sea, and a land steeped in Cornish myth and legend.
Nights of
passion give way to days filled with secrets. Despite the uncertainties and her husband’s strange behavior, Persia finds herself falling in love.
But as Roger’s craving for his wife grows deeper each day, the old ways of the Cornovii call. A terrible truth is revealed, and Persia learns that she may be the instrument of her husband’s destruction. Soon Persia must summon a power she’s spent her entire life suppressing, or lose the man she’s grown to love forever.
Other Books by Ani Bolton
Lady Crispell and the Dread Magician - A romantic steampunk novella
Steel and Song: The Aileron Chronicles Book 1 - A steampunk romance set in alt WW1 Russia
The Gisbornes of Nottingham - A sexy spin on the Robin Hood legend.
Book 1: Lady Marian of Gisborne
Book 2: At My Lady’s Pleasure
Book 3: A Hawk’s Tale
The Gisbornes of Nottingham trilogy: Books 1-3
The Witch’s Daughter - a historical gothic romance
Book 1: The Penwyth Bride
Book 2: Mistress of Lyhalis
About Ani Bolton
Ani Bolton’s love of storytelling started when she was a kid, ignited by Laura Ingalls and Nellie Olsen’s epic smackdown, which stole her sleep on a school night. She’s been scribbling stories ever since.
Her novels blend her love of history and adventure with romance, magic, and the occasional foray into the weird. And hot guys. Always, hot guys.
Ani lives in upstate New York with an incredibly patient family and a tolerant cat overlord.
Find Ani on Twitter: @AniBolton or Facebook (her Facebook page is kind of a mess). Visit Ani’s website where she tries much harder to keep a lid on her dorkiness.