“Good,” she murmured, pressing her brow against his shoulder.
Because she didn’t plan on letting go either. And because he had just given her a brilliant idea.
Epilogue
Five months later.
“And this is mint,” Isobel said in a much-improved Italian accent, pointing to the dark green leaves. “In addition to its pleasing taste, it is very beneficial for the digestion as well as other minor ailments.”
Little Tomas leaned over to inspect the plant she was holding, his small brow creased in concentration. He didn’t reply, but that wasn’t unusual. He was incredibly intelligent, but Tomas was still growing accustomed to her presence. The only person he was truly comfortable with was his older brother Matteo, whom he called Papa.
Though shy with her, Tomas did like plants. He would silently trail her in the greenhouse Matteo had built for her whenever she was working in there. That had given her the idea to teach him about herbology.
In addition to the greenhouse, their countryside home had extensive gardens as well as several small streams and a fantastic view of the crystalline waters of lake Bolsena.
She made good use of the fertile land, growing everything she needed for her healing practice.
There was a lot to teach Tomas about plants and the natural world. She even let him observe when the local villagers came to her for cures to their minor complaints. And despite his tender years, he paid close attention to everything she taught him.
It had been Isobel’s idea to claim Tomas as her son from a previous marriage. No one in Italy knew her, she reasoned, so there was little chance their lie would be discovered. They spread the story after Thomas’ adopted parents agreed to give him up.
The family that had taken him in had just found out they were expecting a second babe. After visiting them, Matteo had become convinced that Tomas was already being neglected in favor of their own son. The problem would only grow worse with a new child, so he’d given them a substantial financial gift and claimed his brother as his own-but not before warning her that no one would believe he was hers. The boy was too obviously a Garibaldi. Everyone would assume he’d sired a bastard before they met.
Isobel didn’t give a fig about the gossip. Despite his reticence with her, she adored Tomas. He was so much like Matteo, it was impossible not to love him. Though unnaturally reserved, the little boy was bright and considerate.
I can only hope to be as lucky with our own child, she thought pensively chewing her lip.
Forcing her attention back to Tomas, she continued her lesson. Today that included letting him plant his own strawberry seeds. They would grow year round in the greenhouse.
Once the Conte had discovered they’d taken his bastard in, he stopped visiting them in the country-although he still demanded Matteo visit him on occasion at their estate in Santa Fiora.
Her husband obliged, mainly because Nino’s plot had brought his father’s business practices to his attention. He wanted to make sure the tenants and staff on all their estates were being treated well.
Isobel never went with him. Her feelings for the Conte were complicated and she couldn’t seem to keep from fighting with him.
Matteo didn’t mind visiting without her. He wanted time alone with his father so he could pressure him into revealing the whereabouts of his other bastards. From what Nino had said, there had to be more of them. Matteo had been wary about claiming them all, arguing that it wasn’t fair to her, but Isobel insisted she wanted a big family.
However, the Conte was adamant he had no other children, so for the time being there was only Tomas. And soon their own child.
Another pang of disquiet passed through her. Don’t assume the worst, she lectured herself sternly as she contemplated her swollen middle.
Thankfully she was distracted when Tomas’ nurse came to collect him. It was time for his luncheon and then nap. Isobel said goodbye and was intensely gratified when the little one consented to be kissed. She was definitely winning him over.
Planting the rest of the strawberry seeds on her own, she placed the finished pots on a sunny table. Sprinkling some of her grandmother’s special growing solution in each pot, she said a little chant for their speedy growth. It was another recipe she’d found in Helen’s books, one she found extremely useful. Especially since both Tomas and Matteo seemed overly fond of hothouse strawberries.
“I knew I’d find you in here.”
Isobel turned to see her husband coming through the greenhouse doors. He was looking very fine, in a loose linen shirt and breeches. Despite the heat of the day, he was wearing black kidskin gloves over his hands. Watching him approach, she flushed at the memory of those black gloves moving all over her nude body the night before.
Though he still bore scars, the underlying musculature of his hands had improved markedly. He could use them with only a little pain now-despite his continued refusal to let her apply more salves, or to drink any of the tonics she prepared for him. Even after they moved to Italy, he insisted the injuries were his penance.
As a witness and first-hand participant in those dark events, she understood. As his wife, she refused to let him continue to punish himself for something that had been out of his control.
However, in recent days, Matteo had become skeptical. His hands had recovered too quickly and too well for him not to suspect her. She’d heard him asking his valet if she’d given the cook anything to add to his food or drink. His lack of trust wounded her a little, but since she was healing him on the sly she decided not to dwell on it.
At least the suspicious glint in his eye didn’t stop him from gathering her into his arms and kissing her soundly in greeting. Softening in his embrace, she returned his kiss eagerly. His gloved hands cupped the back of her head before moving down to stretch over her swollen belly.
“How is she today?”
“Active. And it’s a he,” she said pointedly.
She knew it for a fact.
Matteo raised a brow. “You know your dreams don’t always come true.”
“This one will.” She put her hands over his. “How are they today?”
“Well enough,” he said, lifting his hands and crossing his arms over his chest.
“That’s excellent darling,” she said brightly, avoiding his eyes.
“Isobel.”
“Hmm?” she murmured, moving away to needlessly reorganize the strawberry pots.
“You and I both know that they shouldn’t be well-nowhere near. I just haven’t figured out how you’re doing it. The staff swears up and down that my meals and drink haven’t been adulterated at your request. My valet swears the brandy and the grappa have not been tampered with. So, mia streghetta, how did you do it?”
Isobel pursed her lips and looked down.
“Mi amore, you have to stop.”
She looked up at him entreatingly. “I can’t.”
He sat on the bench across from her and took her hands in his. “You have to. I told you-this is my penance. It’s important to me. This is the only way to make amends for what I’ve done.”
Scowling, she tugged on his glove. “And I’ve told you, there is no more need to punish yourself.
You were a victim, just as I almost was. But you met me,” she said, succeeding in pulling off the glove from his hand. “And our meeting was no accident. I know that now. I was supposed to help you and now I’m supposed to love you. So I’m going to do just that, and you will accept it-whether you like it or not.”
He laughed briefly, until she lifted his hand to her lips to press a soft kiss to its scarred surface.
His eyes softened. “I happily accept your love and anything else you are willing to give me.
Except the continued healing. I’ve already regained the use of my hands. Anything else is too much to ask. So please, no more charms or spells or whatever else it is that you’ve done.”
She sighed. “I told you, I can’t stop. But if you choose to forgo treatment, then that
is your decision. I shall, however, be extremely disappointed. Although the natural conclusion of the treatment was fast approaching in any case,” she said, patting her belly meaningfully.
He raised a brow. “What is that supposed to mean?”
She bit her lip and glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “It means that the charm is in me, my lord.”
“What?”
Gesturing to her body, she suppressed a tiny gloating smile. “I put the healing charm in me.
Every time you touch me, every time we make love, you are healed just a little bit more.”
“Isobel!” he gasped, his eyes wide.
She held up her hands. “I didn’t know I was pregnant when I cast the spell! I swear it! But even if had known I would have done it, anyway. In fact, I take comfort in the charm being there for all new reasons now,” she said, casting worried eyes down her body.
Her husband wrapped his arms around her shoulders tightly. “Everything is going to be fine. No child of ours could be anything but good and pure, no matter when they were conceived.”
Trying to be convincing, she agreed with him. It was an old argument between them.
Isobel wasn’t sure when she’d fallen pregnant. It was most likely after Matteo had begun to recover from his ordeal, during one their first real lovemaking sessions. But there was the matter of her substitution in the contraceptive mixture of herbs she’d been taking before he was cured.
And if her calculations were accurate, then there was a genuine possibility that the child had been conceived before the purge.
Clinging tighter to Matteo, she pressed her face into his neck, while he ran his hands over her back and bottom in a soothing gesture. His fingers flexed and lingered on the latter, as if he just couldn’t help himself.
“You really are a witch, mi amore,” he said.
Lifting her head, she met his teasing expression. “I think that’s been suitably established my lord,” she said wryly.
“I was referring to the healing charm you managed to imbue in your beautiful body. You picked the one thing I would never be able to deny myself,” he said, gloved hands moving down her breasts to the apex of her thighs.
She blushed, growing warm beneath her dress. But her countenance was sober, because what she had to tell him was serious.
“It was still a risk, my lord. There was every chance that you’d grow tired of me now that you were alone in there,” she said, pressing a hand to his chest.
He frowned and began to speak but she cut him off with a hand over his mouth.
“I was afraid, you see,” she continued, moving her hand over his heart, “that your feelings for me were an artifact, a side-effect of your affliction. There was a danger that over time that your regard and those sentiments would fade away, as if they’d never been there. And if you didn’t touch me, my cure would never work.”
He laughed at her, and she scowled.
“It was a genuine concern.”
He leaned in until their brows touched. “No, my love, there was never any danger of that at all,”
he whispered before he kissed her again.
And again. And again.
Notes from the Author
First of all thank you for reading Cursed!
Some liberty has been taken with geographical details. The overall distances and how long it would take to travel them have been altered for the sake of brevity and convenience.
Additionally to my knowledge there are no underground ruins of a fort in the town of Carrbridge.
The bridge for which the town was named still exists, but the ruins are solely my creation. I would also like to add that I’m sure the inhabitants of the real Carrbridge are all lovely people who have never run a witch out of town.
I would also like to thank Alexandre Albore for all of his helpful suggestions on the historical accuracy of the characters. This includes changing the origin of the Garibaldi’s from Varzi to Santa Fiora, in Tuscany so the rich Italian count could stay an Italian count, instead of a penniless french-speaking Marquess from Savoie!
Santa Fiora, unlike Varzi, is the ancestral home of a powerful dynasty of counts, though I chose not to use their family name, Aldobrandeschi, in favor of the more reader-friendly Garibaldi.
Another big thanks to Alex for all of the translations. The swearing is far more accurate for Italians of this region as a result!
I’m also very aware that the incubus described differs from the historical accounts and mythology surrounding them. But hey, it’s a fantasy ;)
Go Back
Dreamers by K. de Long
An Inkubus Novella
Chapter One: The Chase
Aletta:
His hands skim my hips, soft as a a shiver. He asks for nothing from me—no name, no mannerisms, no fantasies. Maybe it's just been that long since he got laid, or maybe he's learned to see the beauty in all people, not just one personality type.
I stretch against him, my hips screaming as I push my knees further to the sides, the better to feel every bit of him inside me. He sounds close, and his fingers brush me in little spasms, no longer controlled caresses. I take a deep breath, pull the substance of the world into my lungs, and prepare for his release. Then I can catch and contain it, preserve it for the others of my kind, who will need it to create our children.
His lips part in a moan so quiet that were it not for his breath shifting the air around me, I might have missed it. I lean down and echo him, letting him feel my breath on his face. One of his hands creeps to the small of my back, and he pulls me against him harder as he stumbles the last distance to his release.
Though I should be focusing on building the containment I'll need, something's shifting in the world around us. It tugs at my mind, drawing my attention to every newfound flaw and inconsistency.
He's not even there yet, but the world is melting around us. It's not my doing; I worked damn hard on this setup, weaving palm trees from the ether molecule by molecule. That stuff isn't yet intuitive for me, but once I create something, it stays until I unmake it.
I've never heard of this happening. I've never heard of a reality unmaking itself after being deliberately shaped.
A chill sets in, and from the bumps rising on his skin, he feels it too. I've barely begun to roll off him when torrential rain and hail pounds us, hard enough that were this a physical reality, it would break our skin. We scramble for an overhang, shelter in the last square foot of dry space, naked and muddy.
He smiles and brushes my wet hair back from my face. I feel his bemusement in his telepathic bleed; this is the first time in weeks he's had the time or urge to touch himself, and apparently even his dreams are sabotaging him.
I try to assert myself, command order into the landscape. But it shouldn't be fighting me at all, so we're in uncharted waters. The rock against our backs shifts, and I flinch and pull him away as it begins pulsing, the ground manifesting earthen hands to seize our ankles.
I stumble slightly, and he pulls me forward and away from it before its grip can solidify.
Dream logic rarely makes sense, and he seems to take the abrupt change of mood in stride, despite his body's obvious desire to get back to the dream's former progression. His easy smile gives me a bit more confidence, encourages me to try taming our surroundings again. But I can't concentrate hard enough to even begin. Not with the substance of the world shuffling around at a pace I can barely comprehend.
My ankle hurts, and that fills me with fear. This world shouldn't be able to hurt me. Some of the old timers have talked about this, but they never mentioned injury being possible, not unless it was directly intended by their mark. If I scared Ahanu, if he felt threatened or violated, he could certainly cause the dream to lash out at me. But there's no hostility sparking in his thoughts. I would have seen it in his telepathic bleed long before it made it into the world to spark a rebellion.
Maybe he's fighting me. Maybe there's something in his head, or heart, that holds him b
ack from self-pleasure. But I should've felt that, too. And I've never been told my perceptions are worse than the others.
There's concern in his face as we race through the trees, hoping their roots will hold down the rioting ground. I can't make myself believe that even in dream, he lashes out at his lovers subconsciously.
Maybe it's more specific than that, that he's truly fine with his needs and partners, that the problem here is just me.
But I can't believe that, either.
Han:
My nameless companion's lips are tense with the sort of acute fear that never really happens in a dream, at least not in bystanders. I've felt it, but never seen it on another person in my dreams. I pinch myself as we run, hoping to wake up.
It's just a dream. I don't believe that waking up condemns her to fight this without me or anything, and I'd rather not see her fear and pain. I've never been the type to make things more than they are; I didn't believe my toys cried themselves to sleep if they weren't in my bed, either.
The pinch hurts, but it doesn't degrade as it should. There's no progression, no fading. Just a spot on my arm that now feels like wire being drawn. I want to be huffy about it; that's the last thing that I need.
The words pouring through those beautiful lips make no sense, and I don't try to understand them. I've never been exceptionally good with language, but they have the ring of Italian. It's probably a stupid guess, though; how can I dream of someone speaking a language I have basically no personal experience with?
It falls from her in an artful cascade, only slightly marred by her agitation. As the rain slows, and falls, her voice comes through clearer, right on down to the little hitches and gasps from the stitch she's clutching in her side. The ground is calm, though, and I put my arm around her as we catch our breath.
I miss her wrapped around me. Miss the feeling of connection and wholeness, or someone devoted to me in a way I don't usually let anyone attempt. Even if I wake up and jerk off to the opening of this dream—provided I remember it—it won't compare to every delicious second of her voluptuous body sliding against mine. That's what I get for eating ice cream before bed, I guess: weirdass dreams and blue-balls.
Beyond The Veil: A Paranormal & Magical Romance Boxed Set Page 53