Her Muse, Her Magic

by Jane Charles

  He was hot, however. So very hot.

  He pushed the blankets away so that nothing covered him, but it did little good. If he had the strength to move from the bed he would take a dip in the lake.

  Laughter bled through the door and he strained to listen. It was Thorn and Garrick, and they sounded as if they were deep in their cups. If he wasn’t ill, he would probably be in the same condition as his friends. More than likely, they’d feel as rotten as him tomorrow.

  There was a light tap at the door before it slowly opened. Thorn held a candle above him. “Are you awake?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” Blake mumbled.

  Thorn stepped further into the room. “How are you feeling?”

  “About the same,” he grumbled.

  Thorn looked him up and down and quirked a smile. “You really should cover yourself before a maid stumbles into the room.”

  If it was anyone else, he might be embarrassed, but this was Thorn, who thought clothing was a dreadful inconvenience most of the time. “Bugger off. I’m hot.” Earlier he had a nightshirt on, but couldn’t recall when it disappeared.

  “I was surprised you owned a nightshirt.” Thorn picked up the crumpled piece of material from the floor. “I can’t sleep in the blasted things.”

  “Only when I am sick because of the chills,” Blake mumbled.

  “If you weren’t so sick I would suspect you had been entertaining a woman by the look of things, what with the bed in disarray and your clothes strewn about the floor.”

  If only that were the real reason for his current state of undress. Unfortunately, he had probably pulled it off when he’d become hot. He had done so before. “Help me get it back on.”

  Thorn shook it out and pulled the shirt over Blake’s head, helping him get his arms into the sleeves, much like one would dress a child. It was humiliating to be so weak in front of a friend. Thorn pulled the cotton material down so that it covered his knees, and then reached to pull the covers up, but Blake stopped him. “It is too hot.”

  His friend frowned and touched his forehead. “You are burning up.”

  “It will pass.” Blake sighed and rested against the pillows.

  “I should send for the doctor.”

  Alarm shot through Blake. “No!”

  Thorn pulled back in surprise.

  “He doesn’t know how to treat this. He said as much.” Blake wasn’t about to tell Thorn that Dr. Alcott thought bloodletting was the best option. His friend might just allow the doctor to go through with it.

  “There is nothing you can take?” Thorn seated himself on the chair beside the bed. “What of the Dover’s Powder Miss Alcott gave you earlier?”

  She hadn’t left any, nor had the doctor. What he needed was more tea, but Brighid couldn’t help him now. It was late and she was probably asleep in her grandmother’s cottage.

  “You’re awake.”

  Blake turned to find Brighid peeking her head through the door and relief swept through him. He hated being sick, especially alone in the middle of the night. Of course, Thorn was here, but he didn’t really count. However, Brighid caring enough to check on him this late brought a measure of peace. Not that he wanted to examine the reason very closely.

  Thorn came to his feet and chuckled. “It’s a good thing I arrived when I did.”

  Blake wasn’t sure if it was because Brighid would have found him in a complete state of undress lying in bed, or that Thorn saw yet another woman he could charm. He eyed his friend suspiciously. He had better not think of trying to charm, or doing anything else with Brighid.

  “I’ve brought more tea.”

  “Why are you still here?” he asked out of curiosity.

  “To see that you get well.” She smiled as she approached the bed, a cup in her hand.

  “Shouldn’t you have returned home by now?”

  “I sent word that I would remain at the castle until you are well and had some of my things brought over.”

  Thorn stepped into her path. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He gave a slight bow. “I am Mr. David Thorn.”

  “It is nice to meet you. Are you a friend of Blake’s?”

  Thorn hitched a brow as he turned to him and mouthed Blake?

  He shouldn’t be surprised that Brighid’s use of his Christian name would intrigue his friend. Perhaps it would dissuade Thorn from pursuing her. “Miss Glace is from the area. I’ve known her a long time.”

  Thorn nodded knowingly. Did he assume there was something between them? “She is a witch that lives in the woods,” Blake explained.

  Brighid stepped around Thorn. “I’ve a mind to dump this over your head, Blake Chetwey.”

  “Witch?” Thorn asked. “You are welcome to bewitch me.”

  Bloody hell. The last thing he needed was Thorn seducing Brighid. She was an innocent young woman and would not be prepared for whatever debauchery his friend might attempt. “Leave off, Thorn.”

  His friend chuckled. “If you insist.” He backed away from the bed.

  “Drink.” Brighid held the cup to him.

  Blake pulled himself to a sitting position and did as she ordered. He shouldn’t call her a witch. It was safer to think of her in those terms instead of a lovely, enchanting young woman with black-as-midnight hair, porcelain complexion and silver-grey eyes. And those lips, so plump and rosy, meant to be kissed often.

  He blinked. Why the hell was he thinking of Brighid in such terms? It was surely the fever. Witch, he reminded himself silently.

  Once he had drained the contents from the cup he lay back down. Brighid reached to pull the covers over him. “Too hot.”

  She smiled gently. “You won’t be for long.”

  He dearly hoped not, but he could always remove the blankets when she was gone.

  “Get some rest and I will check on you later.”

  “Allow me to escort you out, Miss Glace.”

  She stopped and studied Thorn. “I believe you need to find your bed, Mr. Thorn. If your head is paining you too much in the morning, seek me out for a remedy.”

  Thorn gave her a disarming smile. “I would be happy to seek you out, though I won’t need a remedy.”

  She snorted. “By the ale on your breath, you surely will.” She turned to Blake. “Rest.” With that she glided out the door leaving Thorn behind.

  “Stay away from her,” Blake warned his friend.

  Thorn studied him. “Ah, so you wish her for yourself.”

  “I want no such thing.” Blake scrunched his brow and pushed back into the pillows. “She is not for you. I know your type and she is not it.”

  Thorn smiled broadly. “Perhaps my tastes are changing.” Turning, Thorn sauntered from the room and closed the door behind him. Blake could hear his friend whistling until he was out of earshot.

  Blake closed his eyes and hoped Thorn would not attempt to seduce Brighid before he was well. Not that he cared for the witch, but he didn’t want her ruined by Thorn either.

  “It is so blasted hot.” He moved to push the blankets away but remembered that Brighid said he would not be hot for long. It was better to suffer now than be awakened because he was chilled. He knew better than anyone that only sleep helped him get through these episodes.

  A moment later cold air brushed his cheek and then seeped into his body, as if he was blanketed in a cool cloud. Either there was a welcome draft in this room, or Brighid’s tea was his cure.

  Brighid washed the cup and prepared the items for the next cup of tea. She was the only one in the kitchen and just a few lamps were lit since the rest of the servants had found their beds. She should as well. She glanced back at the door leading to the herbarium. It was difficult to go in there during the light of day, but she certainly couldn’t sleep in there as her ancestors had done. Luckily, a room had been provided in the servants’ quarters but she wasn’t tired. She could return and check on Blake. If he were awake they could visit, but she didn’t wish to disturb him. Besides, why should she want
to sit with a man that repeatedly called her a witch?

  Did he truly believe she was one or was he only mocking her? Either way, it hurt. Would he ever see her differently?

  Oh bother, she had to get over her infatuation with that man. She had been holding a tendre for him since she was fourteen, but enough was enough already.

  With a sigh she sank to the stool. What to do?

  Perhaps she should brew herself a cup of chamomile tea, but she didn’t want to go out into the herbarium just for a few leaves. The room frightened her, if she were being honest with herself, especially at night.

  A book?

  No, she wasn’t much in the mood for reading.

  Brighid stood. She had always wanted to see more of Marisdùn and this was the perfect opportunity. She might even encounter a ghost.

  A grin pulled at her lips. Everyone else had encountered them, maybe she would finally get the privilege as well.

  Lifting the lamp, Brighid glided out of the kitchen intent on finding at least one spirit wandering about. It was the middle of the night—wouldn’t this be the most likely time to find one?

  The first room she entered was what, she assumed, was the parlor. Holding the lamp high, she stepped further inside until she stood in the center. The door closed and she whipped around to see who was there, but she was quite alone. Blast. She had hoped it was a spirit.

  Perhaps she should rethink this plan. She really shouldn’t be wandering about the house when she hadn’t even met the owner. And, as he had brought five bachelors with him, at least according to the housekeeper, she shouldn’t risk encountering them. Of course, she knew Blake was harmless, but the same could not be said for Mr. Thorn. He had been flirting with her. Even though no one had ever done so before, she recognized his brazen attempts.

  A giggle bubbled up. As if she would wish to bewitch him. If it were in her power to bewitch anyone, it would be Blake.

  With a heavy sigh she left the parlor and searched the other rooms on the floor. There were no ghosts. At least none that she could see, and it was quite disappointing. With a hand on the railing, she walked up the wide stairs to the second landing. Blake’s room was only two doors down. Should she check on him before retiring to the third floor?

  Brighid paused in the middle of the corridor, not certain what to do.

  He was ill and she had given him tea, but what if he needed something else?

  Yes, she should check in on him one last time. Her concern was that of a healer only, of course.

  She walked quietly to his door and lifted her hand to knock but stopped. If he was asleep she didn’t wish to wake him. Instead, she turned the handle and slowly opened the door. The room was brighter than it had been earlier and she assumed someone had come along and built up the fire, but if there were a maid or footman about she hadn’t seen them.

  Brighid lifted the lamp higher. As she turned toward the bed in the center of the room, her heart lodged in her throat and the stab of pain in her gut nearly crippled her.

  Draped across Blake’s slumbering form was a young woman in a nightdress. Her blonde hair cascaded across him and her head rested on his chest.

  Where had the woman come from? Nobody told her that Blake had brought a woman with him. It wasn’t his wife because Brighid would have learned if he had married. Was it his mistress? Did the other gentlemen bring mistresses as well?

  And, if she was Blake’s ladylove, why hadn’t she been treating Blake during his illness?

  The more she looked at them the more it hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes as she backed out of the room and closed the door. She always knew Blake would never be for her, she just never expected it to hurt so much to find him in another’s arms.

  Blake blinked his eyes open. There was little light coming through the windows and he calculated that it must be early morning. Had he managed to sleep the night through? Usually he slept only a few hours at a time. He would usually wake from chills, fever, to vomit, or his head pounding, too heavy for him to rest. Perhaps there was something in that concoction Brighid had brewed. If he could manage to recover quickly enough, he might just enjoy the masquerade. It also meant that he would be calling upon her when the illness claimed him in the future, and not the blade-wielding Alcott.

  He shivered at the close call of having his blood let.

  The sound of laughter drifted through the door. Was it later than he suspected? He listened as it grew louder.

  Children? Were there children at Marisdùn? None of Braden’s family remained in residence, and they certainly hadn’t brought children with them, so where had they come from? There was a squeal from a little girl and then a door banged along the corridor as the children ran by. Perhaps they belonged to the servants. If so, they needed to be told that there were now residents and guests in the castle and the children should be kept quiet at this time of day. They could play outside or in the nursery, assuming there was one. Given the states in which Thorn and Garrick had been upon their return to the castle last night, they would surely not appreciate being awakened in this manner.

  Though it would serve Thorn right if he did wake with a nauseating headache after the way he had flirted with Brighid.

  The door slowly opened and he expected to see a child poke his head inside to investigate. Instead, Brighid peeked around the door and looked about the room. A frown appeared on her lips and her brow furrowed. What was she expecting to find?

  Her hair was neatly pulled behind her, as it often was, but her skin was pale and dark smudges lingered beneath her eyes. Had she not slept well?

  “You’re alone?” she asked as she stepped in the room.

  “Yes,” Blake answered slowly. “The children did not come in here.”

  She tilted her head as if confused. “Children?”

  “Yes, the ones that were just running down the hall and slamming doors. Surely you saw them.”

  She stepped further into the room and toward his bed. “There are no children in the castle.”

  “Yes, there are. I just heard them.” He had many symptoms from the malaria, but hallucinations had never been one of them.

  She placed a tray on the table and began to pour a cup of tea. “You must have heard the Mordue children.”

  He pulled himself to a sitting position, his body aching, but not as badly as yesterday, and took the cup. “Mordue children?” he asked before taking a drink.

  “Their entire family was taken by the black death.”

  Blake sputtered, spitting a bit of tea back into the cup. “More ghosts?”

  “Drink,” she insisted. “There were seven in all.”

  Blake rolled his eyes and did as she instructed. He would leave Brighid to her beliefs because it did little good to argue with the witch.

  She took the cup from him when the tea was gone and placed a hand against his brow. “You are still feverish.”

  “I did become cooler last night, after you left.”

  A small snort escaped her. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “That was the purpose of the tea, was it not?”

  “Yes, though I am surprised you could sleep in such a manner, given how sick you are.”

  “Like what?” Had he tossed off his blankets again? All he remembered was being blessedly cool after he drank the tea.

  She set the cup none too gently upon the tray. “It is not of my concern, Blake Chetwey, how you conduct yourself.” She strode for the door, her back ram rod straight. “I will check on you later, unless she has decided to care for you now.” Brighid exited the chamber, practically slamming the door behind her.

  “She?” What the blazes was she talking about?

  Blast that man! Where was his ladylove now? Did she seek her own chamber sometime in the early morning hours, before the servants were up? Brighid had half a mind to find the woman, instruct her on the proper brewing of the tea and leave it to her to nurse Blake back to health.

  Brighid had not anticipated how badly it would hurt
to see him in bed with another woman. It also surprised her that she would cry her eyes out half of the night, leaving them dry and scratchy this morning.

  Why couldn’t he look at her in the same way she looked at him? Why did he only see her as a witch in the woods?

  She rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and ran right into the chest of a gentleman striding down the hall and nearly unbalanced the tray. Brighid pulled back and looked up. He must be another one of Bradenham’s guests. He looked down at her, holding one hand over an eye.

  “Pardon me, miss.”

  His hand fell away, and she immediately noted the slight swelling and redness about his eye. Had he gotten into a fight with someone, or was he one prone to accidents?

  “Are you hurt?”

  “It is nothing,” he assured her.

  “It is not nothing.” She anchored the tray on her left hip and held it securely with her arm before linking her hand at the crook of his elbow. “Come along.”

  The man chuckled slightly. “It would be my pleasure.”

  She weaved her way through the corridors of the old castle until she came to the kitchens. Entering, she placed the tray on the table and asked Cook to boil some more water before pulling the man into the herbarium. A quick gust of wind struck her and Brighid heard a woman cackle. She glanced back at the servants in the kitchen, but none of them were laughing. A chill ran down her spine but she chose to ignore the oddity. This was Marisdùn and strange things happened all of the time.

  Until now she had been able to avoid being in here, as she often tried to do when visiting the castle. She only spent the necessary amount of time to hang the herbs and prepare the leaves and ointments. Nothing had changed in the herbarium since she was a child, when she accompanied her grandmother and mother here, and she suspected it had not changed in the centuries her family had served as healers in the castle.

  A scarred wooden table sat in the center of the room with four stools. A large fireplace lined the back wall with a black cauldron waiting for the dried wood to be lit beneath it. From the rafters hung the recently harvested herbs and an ancient leather trunk rested beneath the one small window. Her mother may have opened the trunk, but Brighid never would. She couldn’t bring herself to do so. The family secrets lay within and she wanted nothing to do with them.