Shivers Box Set: Darkening Around MeLegacy of DarknessThe Devil's EyeBlack Rose (Shivers (Harlequin E))

by Barbara J. Hancock

  “You mean you intend to flirt outrageously with Huddy in order to wheedle all sorts of delicacies out of her?” Demelza enquired, sweeping into the room. She held a hand against his brow and I sensed his irritation. “Are you quite sure you are up to the exertion of driving?”

  “Hardly an onerous task,” Tynan pointed out impatiently. “I’ll hold the reins and the horses will do the rest.”

  Uther stalked into the room, his eyes, as always, seeking mine and flashing a silent code meant only for me. “What is this?” he asked, picking up on the tension between Tynan and Demelza.

  “Tynan is going to take me to see the ruins of King Arthur’s castle tomorrow,” I explained coolly, and Tynan threw me a grateful glance.

  “Take care to wear a hat with a broad brim. The sun’s rays are fierce at this time of year and you will be out for the best part of the day” was all the response Uther gave. The matter appeared to be settled.

  Later, Tynan went off to the library in search of a particular book and Demelza fluttered away for her daily meeting with Mrs Lethbridge. I was about to follow when Uther caught me by the upper arm and jerked me back into the room. “Are you sure you want to go with him?” His eyes scanned my face with a hunger that left me breathless.

  “Of course.” I made a valiant effort to stop myself touching him. “I hear Tintagel is a beautiful spot.”

  “Don’t pretend to be obtuse, Lucy,” he said. “Do you trust Tynan to keep you safe?”

  “He has never given me any reason not to do so,” I said. “Besides, you tell me his moods are in tune with the moon, which is currently waning. Surely that makes this his calmest time?”

  “I would have thought so ordinarily. The incident at the ball, however, has caused me some concerns. It was outside of his usual pattern.”

  “But that was hardly an example of a fit of madness. Poor Tynan was overwrought after the exertion of dancing, certainly, but he did not demonstrate any signs of instability.”

  He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “Maybe. But he is driven by a lust for blood that worsens at certain times in the lunar cycle. It is a huge responsibility for me to keep his madness secret and yet protect others, including you, from his violent outbursts.” I opened my mouth to speak. I wanted to say that Uther’s conduct at the ball had given me the distinct impression that he was happy for others to witness evidence of Tynan’s condition, and that I had never witnessed anything approaching violence from Tynan. But some deep-seated instinct made me hold my peace.

  His eyes travelled over my body. “You are so delicate. A man could snap you in two with one hand. Yet there is so much quiet strength in that tiny frame. Dear God, Lucy, this impasse between us is torturing me!”

  His hands reached out for me, but, with a superhuman effort, I stepped back. “No, Uther.” I don’t know who I shocked more with the word, a word I did not think myself capable of saying to him. “You have made your conditions very clear, and I cannot agree to them.”

  I turned and whirled out of the room before he could overcome my resolve.

  * * *

  It was a magical morning, offering up an intoxicating promise of further glory to come. Golden sunlight shimmered in the morning air and new birds streaked across a cloud-free sky. The faintest of breezes sang a gentle tune. Glancing rainbows of colour turned the sea to shot silk. Butterflies froze in trembling flight over carpets of florid green and sullen, heavy purple. Our spirits soared as Tenebris disappeared from view. I was content to sit back as Tynan expertly tooled the reins of the open carriage, drinking in the wild majesty of the scene.

  The journey along the coastal road from the Athal peninsula to Tintagel was a breathtaking experience. The peace and tranquillity contrasted starkly with the staggering beauty of the rugged coastline. Tynan pointed out landmarks. The tiny, salty hamlets of Treknow, Tregatta and Trewarmett were, he said, best seen on a stormy day. Stunning Trebarwith Sands, the Norman church of St Materiana, standing proud atop Glebe Cliff and the heights of Dennis Point, rang to the cries of peregrines, guillemots and kittiwakes.

  This was the enchantment of England, a part of my heritage that I had lost in the swelter of Madras. Tintagel’s rocks rose sheer from the sea, crowned with green carpets. The ancient site looked superciliously down upon the ceaseless surge of the Atlantic, its waves sweeping in and breaking on million-year-old granite walls. A corner of my soul, a part of me I did not know existed, thrilled to see it. Some primeval memory, bequeathed by my Cornish ancestors, stirred.

  We traversed steep steps to arrive at the gateway to the ruined castle. The potent legends of Tristan and Isolt, Merlin and King Arthur, were all here. I must suspend belief and listen with my heart, Tynan told me. There were few historical certainties here; truth wore a shroud of mystery.

  When the conquering Normans arrived at this, the westernmost part of England, and heard that the ancient seat of Cornish kings had once topped this bleak headland, they built their own fortress at Tintagel. But it was the castle of imagination, painted by Tynan’s words, that held me spellbound. I shivered as his soft, well-rounded tones talked of “magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.” Was it here that Tristan wooed Isolt? Where Merlin bewitched Uther Pendragon into the bed of Igerna? There where he fathered Arthur? As the sea light danced and salt spray flew, I believed beyond doubt that it was the truth.

  I heard the clash of sword on shield. I saw lovely Guinevere, wise Merlin and noble Lancelot. The famed round table, magical Excalibur and the Arthurian code of chivalry all became real. And astride all was the mighty king himself…Arthur. His spectre, it was said, walked these ruins still.

  “Do you see what that means?” Tynan asked, golden eyes shining. “If his ghost has been seen, he was true. Arthur lived.”

  Taking a blanket and the picnic basket, we clambered down worn steps onto the pebble beach. We shared Mrs Huddlestone’s feast with the greedy gulls. There were enough sandwiches of hearty wholemeal bread filled with salted beef and mustard, or chicken and celery salt, to feed a small city. These were accompanied by cheese straws, cold potato salad and, of course, Cornish pasties. I marvelled at Tynan’s newfound appetite as we dipped apples and strawberries into a pot of clotted cream to round off our repast. We sat companionably close, leaning back against rocks, clinking our glasses of elderflower cordial together and smiling at this day which had already become a sweet, shared memory.

  Tynan held my hand to help me across the pebbles to Merlin’s cave. It was a huge archway through the rocks under Tintagel. It was here that the waves washed Arthur ashore and the magician carried him to safety. That strange extra dimension to my imagination that had been with me all day helped me to see the tall, robed figure, holding aloft a light in the gloom of the cave. We ran across the damp sands into the hollow darkness of a smaller cave, and the sudden chill made me gasp. The air had a salty, mildew tang, and the walls oozed emerald slime. I wrinkled my nose at Tynan and instinctively moved closer to him. Coming to stand behind me, he covered my eyes with his hands.

  “Make a wish,” he ordered. “It is said that there is magic here that will make your heart’s desire come true.”

  But what was my heart’s desire? A few short days ago, I thought I knew. But those romantic, girlish dreams seemed foolish now. My thoughts were like raindrops falling on an endless ocean. Memories of Uther’s touch could still excite me, but my desire for him was tainted by darkness. I could not wish my innocence back. But the raging torture of my guilt was soothed by the simple balm of new friendship. My wish was for him, my friend. That Tynan would, henceforth, know only love and understanding. I opened my eyes and turned to scan his dear features. The watery murk lacked the slightest hint of gold, making his face appeared green-grey and haggard.

  He grinned, teeth flashing white in the dim cave light. “Hope you get your wish, hweg!”

  We lingered on the beach until the shadows lengthened. When, at last, we cl
ambered back into the carriage, I felt a wild impulse to beg Tynan to turn the horses’ heads northwards. To keep driving until Tenebris was a million miles away. Instead, I sat silent beside him as the sun, now dim, discouraged and worn out, sank below the horizon.

  “Did you wish?” I asked as the layered arches of Tenebris loomed. From this angle, the castle appeared to float just above the cliff on which it stood.

  He shook his head. “Even heaven sleeps when I pray,” he said sadly, and the horses clattered into the courtyard where flambeaux already cast their wavering fire.

  “What did you think of Merlin’s Cave? Could you feel the atmosphere as so many claim?” Uther asked later, drawing out my dining chair in a courtly gesture. I glanced back over my shoulder in surprise and encountered a look that caused my cheeks to smoulder with dull-red flames. “Tynan clings to the old legends,” he explained smoothly, taking his seat next to me. “So I assume he did take you there?”

  But I knew he was lying. He had followed us, watched us. And he wanted me to know it. My thoughts were like moths, finding only shadows in darkness.

  * * *

  I paused and looked again at the plant growing, almost hidden, in a corner of the herb garden. Milk-white, moth-light blooms nestled in their bed of ivy-green leaves. It was well known to me, although I had never seen it in England until today. Known as the moonflower (because it only bloomed at night and was pollinated by nocturnal insects), its Hindu name was dhatura, meaning “eternal essence.” In India it was used in sacred rituals. Tea made from its crushed seeds was hallucinogenic and highly toxic. If used incorrectly, it could cause permanent psychosis. But, when administered by an expert, it could induce spectacular spiritual visions and superhuman abilities.

  I remembered the stories I had heard of its effects on those who swallowed it. The inability to differentiate reality from fantasy, bizarre and possibly violent behaviour, severe aversion to light and pronounced amnesia… These were amongst the commonly reported effects.

  I had asked Nirav, one of our houseboys in Madras, if we could pick some of the delicate white flowers. Horrified, he made me promise never to touch “the devil’s plant,” telling me sternly that the devil himself would lay claim to anyone who did. He told me a cautionary tale to prove his point. A squadron of six young soldiers, scorning the stories and believing themselves to be above any ill effects, had eaten plentifully of a dhatura salad. Its effect on them had become legendary. They had paraded stark naked through the town, cavorting and dancing like monkeys until they were confined to a prison cell. There they remained for several days, behaving like wild animals, until the effects wore off. Not one of them could remember anything of what had passed. Sadly, one of them died and two others were left permanently blinded by the experience. Dhatura made me think of danger and darkness, and I shivered to see it here in this paradise of beauty and bloom.

  The elderly gardener doffed his cap at me when I called him over to point out the innocuous looking plant. “It is extremely poisonous,” I explained. “It must be removed at once.”

  He scratched his head in bemusement. “Can’t do that, miss,” he said. “This here patch belongs to Her Ladyship. No one else is allowed to tend it.”

  He was carrying a trug basket filled with vegetables. “Ah, hweg,” I said knowledgeably, pointing to several thick stalks of celery. He looked at me as though I was mad. “Hweg,” I repeated. “The Cornish word for celery.”

  “This be kegis hweg, miss,” he said in the manner of a man humouring a simpleton. “Hweg means something quite different.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked, my heart giving an odd little leap of anticipation. All thoughts of dhatura fled.

  He scratched his thinning pate. “Sweet,” he said. “Gentle and kind. ’Tis the word some men hereabouts use to a girl they’d like to court, instead of darling.”

  Try as I might, I could not get the silly grin that sprang to my lips under control. Regarding me with an indulgent eye, the gardener pottered off to tend his flower beds.

  * * *

  Once I reached Athal Cove, I sat down on a point of rock, shadowed by graceful oaks, to contemplate the cool, silent hours of early morning and breathe the pure sea breezes. The sun was just emerging from the sea, spilling a flood of light across the waves. A thousand brilliant tints darted on the vapours that kissed the far horizon and floated there in light clouds, leaving the waters below clear as crystal, except where white surges pounded the rocks. The distant sails of the fishing boats, like the cliffs stretching far into the distance, reflected back the dazzling blue tones.

  My thoughts, in contrast to the serenity of this scene, were in turmoil. I knew now that I could never love Uther. What I desired was not him. It was something I had made him in my mind, but the truth was different. Oh, he still had that strange power over me. He could make me quiver with virginal desire with just a look, but I no longer mistook my yearning for a purer emotion. And I was ashamed that I had allowed my wanton self to fool my heart.

  My father had once told me about the Portuguese word saudade, which he described as “the love that remains” after someone is gone. A longing for something so indefinite that it was indefinable, a feeling only the soul can experience. And that was what I felt now. My heart still cried out for the Uther I had, in the wildness of my own passion, created. I did not want to lose the sensation of wanting him to come back even before he had gone. Of wishing for his hand in my hair so intensely that I could feel it there. Dreams of making love to him so vivid that I felt my nails sink into the muscle of his shoulders, the rasp of his chin on my breast, my own muscles tensing in pain and ecstasy around him and staring into the darkening fire of his eyes as he shuddered towards climax. Even though my yearning, untried body had never experienced the delights for which I longed, I knew that the hot, panting reality would exceed my fantasies. And I was saddened that I would never know. And angered by my own sadness.

  I turned my disordered thoughts away from Uther. It was hard to picture this sunny, tranquil cove as the place where Eleanor had met her gory end. Unbidden, the image of her slender body, dashed carelessly down on the rocks like a discarded rag doll, came into my mind. Blonde hair, matted black with blood. The vivid scarlet of her life splashed onto the rocks, flowing into the sea, then forever lost. How could Ruan have done that to her, yet claim to love her? What sort of passion could breed such hatred? Suffering, murder and madness were the Jago heritage. I knew I must begin in earnest to make plans to leave. Mrs Grimshaw’s faded viper’s tongue would be like a welcome-home hug in comparison.

  I rose from my rocky perch and shook out my skirts. With a start, I noticed the man standing a few feet away. He was old and his clothing spoke of his fisherman’s trade. A pipe was clamped firmly between yellowed teeth and his eyes were as blue and endlessly blank as the sea. An elderly dog, its once black jaws grizzled and gap-toothed, lay at his feet.

  “You’m from yon castle.” He removed his pipe and jerked it the direction of Tenebris, which stood proud, sovereign of the scene, frowning defiance on any who dared challenge its solitary splendour. I agreed that I was indeed from the castle, and moved past him towards the path that would lead me back up the cliff’s side.

  “She were from the castle, too. The one with the yellow hair,” he said, eyes fixed sadly on the area where I knew Eleanor’s body had been found. A cold hand touched my heart and I stopped. “She were a nice lady,” the old man told me. “Not like t’other…” He frowned at a memory.

  His name was Gem and he lived in one of the little cottages nearby with his widowed sister. Violet was most surprised to receive a visit from a lady of the castle before she had eaten her breakfast that day, but she bore it well and made me a cup of tea before leaving me alone with Gem and his dog, Laddie. She did explain, in a loud stage whisper, “I think you should know, miss, that our Gem is what you might call slow-witted.” Solemnly, Gem nodded in affirmation of this statement. “You can’t always take what he tell
s you as gospel, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tell me about the lady from the castle, Gem,” I said gently when we were alone again, sipping the strong, sweet tea.

  “The bad ’un? Her with the hair like Nelly’s liver-chestnut foal?”

  “Not Lady Demelza, no,” I said. “Why are you afraid of her, Gem?”

  “She said she’d have me put away.” He shook his head from side to side. “If I spoke about anyone from yon castle.”

  He was becoming increasingly distressed and I tried to change the subject. “Tell me about the lady with the yellow hair.”

  “Can’t.” He gulped and twisted his cap nervously between his hands.

  “Why not, Gem?” I leaned forward and he shrank away from me, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for a means of escape. Laddie eyed me nervously as if assessing how much of a threat I presented.

  “She said I’d be put away,” he repeated.

  “Don’t worry about Lady Demelza. She will never know you have spoken to me, I promise. Tell me instead about the other lady. The nice one.” I smiled encouragingly.

  “’Twere bad, real bad…”

  “Did you see what happened to her?” A nod. “Did you tell anyone?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “I were scared.” The words started to spill from him then like great blobs of paint flung onto an empty canvas. “I carried some barrels up to the inn for the ’booters and they told me never to tell ’owt about it.” Smuggling was still rife along this coast and it seemed to me that Gem would be the ideal stooge for the freebooters. “I were hiding ’cause the dragoons were about that day. When she ran along the path, she were crying and I wanted to call out to her. She were a nice lady. She were kind to me. But I couldn’t call out because he were there. Waiting for her.”