You may guide her, teach her to be a good, humble woman. She would need him, turn to him for comfort. Be with him.
No. I do this for her. For those she might harm. Not for myself.
Good God. He was seriously considering it. She would never forgive him. Never.
“Your lordship?”
The footman’s voice was muffled through the door, but it held a note of urgency. Sinjin got up and let the man in.
“I beg your pardon, your lordship, but there is a lady to see you.”
Black premonition bit at Sinjin’s heart. “Did she give her name?”
The footman handed him the card. Sinjin crumpled it in his fist.
“Conduct her to the drawing room and inform the servants that they are to have the rest of the day off.”
The footman bowed and retreated. Sinjin took a deep breath and prepared himself to meet her again.
Nuala was waiting in the drawing room, her gaze fixed on a portrait of Sinjin and Giles with their father. It had been painted when Giles was ten and Sinjin eight; they had looked very much alike then.
“Sinjin.”
She didn’t smile as she turned to face him. There were hollows under her eyes, and her skin was pale.
Two hundred and forty-four years, Sinjin thought. He imagined he could see it now, an ancient sorrow in her gaze, a weight of decades and centuries.
“I was not sure if you would see me,” she said.
He didn’t ask her to sit. There would be no lengthy conversation. “If you have come to explain…”
“No explanation could be sufficient. I can only ask you to forgive me as best you can. We shall not…” She hesitated, her throat working. “I shall be leaving London for a time. It is likely that we shall not meet again for many months.”
Her words came as a shock. It wasn’t that Sinjin hadn’t considered that a separation might relieve him of an untenable choice; if Nuala were simply to vanish, he could take no action against her.
But he felt no relief. “Where are you going?” he demanded.
“To Scotland. I believe it would be better for me to leave London and remain in solitude.”
“Solitude?”
“Yes. Perhaps, in time, I may learn to be quite ordinary again.”
In spite of her solemnity—even in light of all that had happened—Sinjin could barely stand to be near her without taking her in his arms. “You wish to be rid of your magic?”
“If it is possible.” Abruptly she moved toward the door. “I only came to say goodbye.”
He caught her before she reached the door. She melted into his arms. He kissed her, and she returned the kiss with fire and hunger and desperation.
CHAPTER TWENTY
SINJIN BARELY HAD TIME to close the door before Nuala had unfastened her skirt and began working on her petticoats. In a fever equal to hers, Sinjin helped her shed the garment and stripped away her drawers. She needed no spells to drive him mad with lust.
He kissed her frantically as he lifted her and carried her to the largest chair in the room. With trembling fingers he unbuttoned his trousers, lifted her bottom and spread her thighs apart. She was already wet and swollen, pink lips begging for his caresses. But he could not wait. Bracing his knees on the chair seat and his hands on the back, he entered her with one smooth thrust.
Nuala was no longer thinking of apologies, of the journey ahead, of the monk who might cure her of her particular madness. She was only aware of the feel of Sinjin as he moved inside her, his breath catching with each motion. There was nothing gentle in the taking, nor did she want gentleness. She locked her legs around his waist, urging him on, begging him to drive as deep as her body would allow.
Only at the end, when they were both near the glory of completion, did she hear him begin to speak, in a low and rhythmic chant. She recognized the words and their fell purpose, and her mind detached itself from her quivering body.
He doesn’t know what he is doing. He couldn’t. But as the cantrip began to do its work, and his thrusts became more insistent, she felt the words’ power begin to work through her, reaching their climax as Sinjin released his seed inside her. As her helpless body followed his, she heard cruel laughter. Not from Sinjin, who collapsed to his knees and pressed his face into the hollow beneath her ribs, but from the one who had used him as a tool of vengeance.
She had not understood. She hadn’t guessed, even when she had puzzled and worried over Sinjin’s inexplicable behavior. How long had Makepeace been with them? How had he reached Sinjin and taught him to use the spell?
Don’t you know, witch?
The old, terrible memories returned, and with them the knowledge she had hidden from herself, from the very senses that should have revealed the truth from the moment of her arrival at Donbridge over four years ago.
She closed her eyes and let her hands rest gently on Sinjin’s hair. He must have learned the truth of his heritage. She couldn’t know how long he had been aware of it, but she was certain he’d been ignorant of his descent, and of Makepeace, when she had worked as a maid at Donbridge. Surely he’d still been ignorant when they’d met again in London, or he would have taken action long before now.
Yet it really didn’t matter. Makepeace, whatever he had become, must have deceived Sinjin and convinced him that Nuala should be stripped of her magic. How much had he lied to achieve his ends? Had Sinjin taken her in hate?
No. There was no hatred in his eyes as he lifted his head and met her gaze, only a great sorrow and regret.
“I’m sorry, Nuala,” he said, his voice raw with emotion.
“Why?” she asked, stroking the disheveled hair away from his forehead. “I wanted it, too.”
He rose and backed away, his walk unsteady, and fetched the coat he’d tossed over the sofa. He covered her from waist to knees and retreated again.
“Do you…Are you well?” he asked.
“How could I not be?”
He swallowed. “Nuala…I know the truth.”
She sat up, pulling the coat with her. “About what, Sinjin?”
“That you were alive two hundred and forty years ago.”
She didn’t insult him with a denial. “It is true,” she said. “I could never find a way to tell you.”
“I wouldn’t have believed you.” He turned away, dragging his hand over his mouth. “Martin Makepeace came to me,” he said. “Do you remember him?”
If only she could laugh. “Yes.”
“Did you know that it was possible for a man to return from the dead?”
“Yes.”
“I did not. But after all I’ve seen…” He shook his head with a sharp jerk. “He told me that I was the last of a line his grandson had founded in the seventeenth century. He spoke of my ancestors, about why so many of the male line have died since the first Ware was ennobled. He told me what you did to his father.” He glanced toward her, the lines etched between his brows drawn tight. “Did you kill Comfort Makepeace?”
“Yes.”
He leaned over the sofa, his face so white that Nuala feared he would be ill. “Why? Did he hurt you? For God’s sake, tell me!”
Nuala was silent. To reveal the full truth would destroy him. He had enacted the spell because he’d assumed that she had committed a heinous act of murder. The guilt of knowing he had been deceived…
“He claimed you and your kind were evil,” Sinjin said, “and that Comfort only wanted to stop you from hurting others.”
“He did attempt to stop us.”
“Did you…kill members of my family?”
She could not let him believe such a thing, though she knew her weakness to be despicable. “No, Sinjin. I did not.”
“Have you killed others?”
Her body was growing numb. “No. No others.”
His breath shuddered out. “I had to make sure of you,” he said, his face a mask of anguish. “I never believed you were evil, only that your abilities…the temptation…You were turning into someo
ne I didn’t recognize…so much anger…”
He was right, of course. She had intended to put an end to the temptation herself, even at the possible cost of her life. Now there would be no journey to Scotland, no seeking of a man who might or might not be able to cure her.
“I know, Sinjin,” she said. “I know what you have done. And I do not blame you.”
“God!” He slammed his fist into the sofa’s back. “If only you’d been honest with me from the beginning. If only you’d explained…”
“You wouldn’t have listened.”
It did not seem possible that his expression could hold any more anguish. “If there’d only been another way. Any other way.”
She was amazed to find herself capable of smiling. “I do not hate you, Sinjin. I am relieved that I am no longer…beset by temptation. You have taken that burden from me.”
He returned to her chair and dropped to his knees. “I would care for you for the rest of my life, if you would accept. But I know that is impossible.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am afraid it is.” She felt the weakness collecting in her legs. “I must go.”
He bounded up again. “I can’t let you,” he said, his voice sharp with panic. “You’re ill.”
With exquisite care she levered herself out of the chair, still clutching his coat to her waist. “I am perfectly well.” She reached for her discarded petticoats. “Please, let me go.”
“I won’t—”
The room spun around her. Sinjin caught her before she fell.
“Nuala!” He gathered her in his arms and carried her to the sofa. She felt his hands in her hair, on her face. “What in God’s name have I done?”
She was afraid to open her eyes. “It will pass.”
“Tell me what to do.” His voice was raw with panic. “How can I help you?”
“Don’t worry.” She reached for him, traced his dear, tormented face with her fingertips. “It is only temporary.”
And it was. The dizziness passed and left in its stead a peaceful lassitude. A part of her knew she should leave Donbridge before the spell took its full effect. But her body was no longer hers to command. Somehow she must make Sinjin understand that it was not his fault. Somehow she must…
The lassitude overwhelmed her, and she sank into a dream of her family. And of Christian, whom she had mourned so long. He would not blame her that she’d given her heart to another. They would all greet her soon. She had finally paid her debt. She had won her redemption at last.
“RIDE HARD,” SINJIN told the stable boy, pressing the note into the young man’s hand. “Change horses if you find it necessary. This message must reach Mrs. Summerhayes before sunset.”
The boy touched his forehead. “I will, your lordship.”
He left on Shaitan, bursting away at a gallop. The stallion could not endure the pace indefinitely, but there would be fresh horses for hire at nearly every village between here and Cambridge, where the boy would wire the message to London.
Nothing more could be done. Sinjin ran back into the house, found the doctor descending the stairs and accosted him.
“How is she?”
The doctor’s grave expression gave his answer even before he spoke. “She is very ill,” he said, “but I can find no cause. Are you quite certain, Lord Donnington, that you have provided every detail of how this came about?”
Every detail. As if this man would ever believe, let alone find a way to reverse what had happened in the drawing room.
“You must help her,” Sinjin said. “Money is no object. If you must call in specialists, assistance of any kind…”
“I can certainly do so, Lord Donnington, but I can promise no different result. I have seen no case like it before. Lady Charles is…” He turned his face aside. “Have you called for her family?”
Sinjin braced his legs against a wave of terror. “I have wired her nearest relations in London,” he said. “Only tell me who else to send for, and I’ll see it done.”
With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the doctor jotted down several names and handed the note to Sinjin. In minutes Sinjin had sent two more riders, a second to Cambridge and the other to Huntingdon. He had already arranged for the doctor to remain at Donnington for as long as necessary. Until Nuala recovered.
She must recover.
As night fell, he sat by Nuala’s bedside and prayed. Nuala didn’t hear him; she lay in a near-coma, eyes closed, skin drained of color, her breath frighteningly shallow. Sinjin held her cold hand, trying futilely to chafe some warmth back into it. After several hours the doctor returned and insisted he leave the patient to her rest.
There was nowhere for Sinjin to go, nothing more he could do. He walked into the park, past the folly where, not so long ago, he had learned that entire worlds existed beyond the one he knew.
He stood under the bright moon and flung back his head.
“Where are you?” he shouted. “Show yourself, you lying bastard!”
Makepeace, if he heard, chose not to respond. Sinjin shouted himself hoarse, but he might as well have been speaking to the mice and foxes.
He dropped to his knees, beyond despair. A moment later he had himself in hand again. He got up and trudged back to the house. The doctor, half-asleep in his chair, started awake again and shook his head. Nuala’s condition had not changed.
It was midmorning when the Widows drove into the lane. The dowager Duchess of Vardon, Ladies John Pickering and Riordan, Mrs. Summerhayes, Lady Selfridge—all had come. They did not need to know precisely what had happened to hold Sinjin responsible.
Only Mrs. Summerhayes revealed no overt emotion. When Sinjin showed the ladies into the drawing room, she gazed at him without reproach or anger, only a quiet sort of waiting. As each of the widows went upstairs in turn, Mrs. Summerhayes remained quietly in her chair. After an hour Sinjin couldn’t bear it any longer.
As if she’d anticipated his request, she rose and followed Sinjin into the library.
“You must help me,” Sinjin said. “Help me to save her.”
The young woman turned to gaze at the fireplace where the charred fragments of Martin Makepeace’s book lay scattered among the ashes. “I speak for the dead,” she whispered. “I do not control them.”
“I don’t believe that. You knew I needed help the moment we met.”
“But I did fail to warn you. I didn’t recognize the danger. I…I am to blame.”
Sinjin seized her arm. “Our mistakes are irrelevant now. There must be a way to undo what I have done.”
She met his gaze. Her eyes were wet with tears. “What did you do?”
Sinjin told her. She listened without comment until he had completed the entire sordid story.
“You did not know what you were doing,” she said at last.
“No. God help me. I didn’t know she would be…”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. He had no defense, even had he wished to offer one. He had let himself accept just enough of what Makepeace had told him because the ghost’s apparent desires had meshed so well with his. He had fallen prey to his own gnawing doubts. All because he had become afraid of Nuala’s power, and what it might do to them both.
“I will pay any price to save her,” he said.
Mrs. Summerhayes sat abruptly, the tears spilling onto her cheeks. “If I knew the price, I would tell you.”
“Summon the ghost. Make him speak.”
“I will try. Please, sit down.”
He obeyed, every muscle taut with fear. Mrs. Summerhayes closed her eyes, resting her hands on her lap. Her breathing deepened. For an instant her face took on the expression he had seen in her parlor before the apparition had appeared. Then the expression was gone, and Mrs. Summerhayes opened her eyes.
“I cannot,” she said. “This house prevents me. His influence is too powerful.”
“Then we’ll go somewhere else,” he said. “There must be a place…”
“I am sorry. He is beyon
d my reach.”
“For God’s sake, there must be a way!”
“I do not know it.”
He surged to his feet and strode to the door.
“Lord Donnington.”
Hope stilled his heart. “What is it?”
“Part of what the spirit told you is true. I believe that Nuala did kill Comfort Makepeace. But not for the reasons he claims.”
Sinjin pounded the door with his fist. Of course Nuala had had a reason, but she had refused to defend herself. It was as if she had wanted to die.
She wasn’t fighting. She had given up.
He entered the entrance hall just as a maid was conducting new guests into the house: Lady Orwell and Ioan Davies. Deborah was clearly distraught, Davies hollow-eyed. They stopped when they saw Sinjin.
“How is she?” Deborah asked anxiously. “We came as quickly as we could….”
“She is very ill,” Lady John said as she descended the stairs. “I will take you to her.”
Deborah flew up the stairs. Ioan remained behind with Sinjin.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“No. Nothing.” Sinjin started for the stairs.
“If you will permit Lady Orwell to stay with Lady Charles, I will take a room at the village inn.”
“I have rooms enough for you both.”
“I thank you, Lord Donnington.”
Sinjin had no more time to waste on the boy. He followed Lady Orwell up the stairs and stood outside Nuala’s door, listening to the soft drone of Deborah’s voice. Begging Nuala to come back, just as he had done. Speaking of the Widows, and how eager they were to have her return to them.
Only let her live, and I’ll never see her again.
Deborah emerged an hour later, bumping into the doorjamb as she half stumbled through the door. “Lord Donnington,” she said in a choked voice.
“Did she—” he began. “Was there any sign…”
She shook her head, picked up her skirts and rushed past him. He didn’t go after her. There was nothing he could do to help her. He couldn’t help anyone.
He went into the room and locked the door. The rasp of Nuala’s breathing was like the grinding of a saw on coffin wood. He sat beside her, stroked the hair away from her face, murmured the same apologies he had offered again and again.
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