“Grace Elizabeth Adair, come home!” Even from five leagues away, her mother’s voice rang clear across the meadow, or at least it seemed that way.
“My aunt’s calling me, too,” Merryn said, suggesting the calls had been mental not auditory. “Likely coven business. sounds urgent. We shall discuss returning the hellhounds to the underworld later. For now, forget Dewer. He is naught but trouble personified.”
With that warning, Merryn transformed into a raven and flew away.
The hellhounds sat up.
Grace transformed into a white cat, her favorite form for fast travel. “Meow,” she said. Come.
In one leap, she skimmed their heads and landed on the moist grass several feet away, and then raced across the meadow toward home.
The hounds scrabbled to their feet and were hot on her trail with quiet grace for such large lethal animals. Even Bartos, the eldest, who was more gray than black, loped behind her without seeming effort.
Grace raced across the countryside, her cat form adeptly scaling fences and skirting startled bulls. She circled farmhouses and barns. However fast she ran, she could not shake Merryn’s last words of warning about Dewer.
The hounds kept pace at her back without tiring, never losing sight of her or lagging to investigate a curious scent or alarmed shout. Their single-minded pursuit mirrored her intention to reach her mother before a second frantic call was sent.
A half-hour later, Grace entered the moors that bordered her family home. She swerved around trees, climbed hills and leaped over shrubs as she sped to the far end. With no clear pathway, the hounds had a harder time keeping up. They whined at going around bushes she magically scaled. When the brambles proved too cumbersome, they barked their frustration.
She slowed to give them time to catch up, her thoughts returning to her mother’s strident call to come home. What could have upset a witch who could slam a door shut with a delicate tilt of her head or build a wall of thorny roses with a simple finger twirl?
Grace reached the edge of this stretch of the moor, and ahead stretched the long driveway that led home. She checked on the hounds’ progress and promptly stumbled and crashed. As her cheek sank into the oddly muddy ground, a vision took her into the depths of a river. Birds chirping, the hounds whining, all of it faded away as Grace entered an undulating watery world.
Someone tugged at her gown. Using her arms to wade through the water, she turned around and came face to face with an eel swimming among a school of trout. The fish scooted around the eel but one little trout stopped and asked the eel, “Do you need assistance?”
“My friend is hurt,” the eel replied. “I need a healer.”
Scales twinkling in the light, the trout said it recalled once meeting a witch who gently stroked his side where he had an angry gash. He shivered. She healed me.
Grace remembered that moment. A little fish had looked hurt in a stream behind her home where she collected medicinal herbs earlier this spring. Sensing its life slipping away, she had reached into the water to seal the tear. Surely the fish in this vision was not that same one? If not, why was she being shown this fish? Why was it important that she see this eel?
A bark brought her back to the present and she gasped for breath. Air rushed in to fill her tight lungs, as if she had been holding her breath underwater.
Her first thought was, how far back were the hellhounds? A frantic glance over her shoulder showed them sitting ten paces back, tongues lolling. Farfur was the one who had barked. His nose was raised, nostrils quivering as he sniffed the air. Then he gave a howl and tore toward her, Bartos was not far behind. She crouched, extending her claws in defense, but they streaked past her, toward her home.
Surprised, she flicked her white tail up in question, and then set off after them. They moved fast, much faster than she had ever given them credit for. So, they had been humoring her all this while, pretending they could not catch up. She hoped her mother never found out.
Past a strand of oak trees loomed her front garden bordering their circular driveway. The bushes were green but lacked colorful blooms. Flowers were rare this summer. The constant overcast skies and soggy ground from too many rainy days had devastated her mother’s pride and joy.
As she drew closer, Grace transformed back into herself. Her wet gown slapped against her legs as she sprinted. What soon riveted her attention and slowed her pace was a dark traveling carriage strapped to four matching black horses tethered before her house. The two hellhounds were circling the carriage, tails wagging.
Grace’s heart thundered faster than on her race home, for only one gentleman, one warlock, could own a vehicle that so fascinated these two hellhounds.
He was here!
Devlin Chase Dewer had returned to Callington. She sternly reminded herself that he was just a man. A warlock, to boot. Her missish behavior was unwarranted.
Farfur was at her front door now, scratching to get in. If she did not accede to his pleas, he would leave gouges in the wood and that would infuriate her mother. Yet, Grace’s limbs trembled at the idea of proceeding up her gravel drive toward the door.
What if she made no impression on Dewer? For a second time. She rubbed her hands down her gown, and discovered the material was filthy!
Dewer’s groom and footman were on the far side of the carriage. The two lads were in their early twenties and their facial similarity suggested they might be brothers or cousins. A negligent twirl of her forefinger and bushes near them bent as if struck by a brisk breeze, while dirt and leaves peppered the air. The servants swung around, raising their arms to protect their faces. While their backs were turned, Grace shook herself.
She shed dirt from her face, hair and clothes, her blue morning dress dried and a fresh floral scent imbued her skin. Satisfied she was now presentable, she lowered her arms and squared her shoulders. She stepped toward her front door, her hips’ natural swing a tad wider in anticipation of finally being introduced to the alluring Mr. Dewer.
Chapter 2
FARFUR RUSHED INTO the house with a happy howl. He followed the familiar hint of underworld sulfur intermingled with upper world sandstone and fresh grass – a stark reminder of rolling green hills and valleys dotted with plump sheep and crabby goats – in essence, home.
Hurtling across floorboards polished with linseed oil, he skidded through an open door and into a room lit by globes of witch lights floating near the ceiling. His claws dug into the carpet to skim between the center table and the legs of the Old-Witch-Who-Teases who sat on the sofa.
He came to a jarring halt at the far end of the room, inches from his master’s knees. “Wroof!”
“Grace, why did you let these wild things inside the house?” the Witch-Who-Hates asked.
He shut her out and focused on his master whose gaze was fixed toward the doorway. Bartos arrived with the Witch-Who-Heals – they had both halted at the drawing room entryway as if barred by an invisible barrier.
“Why so glum?” Farfur asked Bartos. “The master’s back!”
“I wish to stay here,” his friend replied.
A wave of worry swept up Farfur’s spine. “Why?”
In response, Bartos sent him a glimpse of the Black Tower where Sax, a shape-shifting barguest, had terrorized the hellhounds.
Grief seeped into Farfur’s belly and slithered down his legs to curl his claws. He understood his friend’s misgivings. He had been there when the church guard attacked, when Sax betrayed them, and would never forget his friend’s shivers as Bartos, injured, lay against Farfur’s back. “Sax is dead and you are healed.”
Bartos glanced at the Witch-Who-Heals in answer.
For months, Farfur, too, had been content to stay with her. She fed them regular meals, encouraged them to race across the countryside for the sheer joy of it and allowed them to sleep beside her warm, witchly legs that generated an unexpected sensation he could only describe as “safe.”
Since about the time the God Well splashed them, howeve
r, a new longing had erupted in Farfur that he had not even shared with Bartos. He had begun to yearn for his master to return and claim Farfur. Somewhere deep within, an incredible idea had taken root. One that said Farfur belonged to the master, and more astonishing still, that the master belonged to him.
“He has come for us.” The tremble in his voice spoke of a tenuous hope. He studied his master’s angular face, the darkness of his black eyes, and recognized the sorrow in his soul. Farfur shifted closer to the warlock whose commands he now wanted to obey, even if not compelled by magic.
His master’s fingers were inches from Farfur’s forehead. On impulse, he leaned toward that hand, drawn by an alien desire to feel his master ruffle his fur as the witch once had with Bartos. As his master’s fingertips brushed Farfur’s forehead, the hand clenched and pulled away.
Farfur’s tail drooped and he slumped to the ground.
Then another physical disturbance assaulted his senses. He raised his head to sniff out this new trouble. It emanated from his master, whose scent shifted from his normal underworld sulfur to a familiar musky perfume of desire.
Was the Coven Protectress back? Hackles raised, he sprang to his feet with lips furled to flash his fangs. He growled a throaty warning as he searched for the Witch-Who-Kills, the only one who had ever made the master smell this way.
“SILENCE.” DEWER GRIPPED Farfur’s neck fur, but his gaze was rooted on the young witch in the doorway. The Honorable Grace Elizabeth Adair, stealer of hellhounds and witch-healer extraordinaire, had returned home.
Even though he had been expecting her, girding himself to meet her, convinced his long-distance infatuation would die a quick death the moment he laid eyes on her again, his pulse still sped up. Since he handed Merryn his heart on a platter and she flung it into the gutter, along with his dignity and poise, he had learned his lesson about craving unattainable women.
It took him more months than he cared to count to regain his sense of self. Still, try as he might, he could not tear his gaze from Grace Adair’s mesmerizing gray-green eyes, moist full lips and a bosom that was properly covered but as lush as he recalled from his last brief glimpse of her.
His blood hummed in response.
In search of a distraction, his focus seized on the bristling hellhound at Miss Adair’s side. Bartos. It was good to see him alive. An unexpected bolt of pleasure struck Dewer’s heart. He had tried numerous times to heal this hound and failed miserably. Yet, this witch had accomplished what he, with his vast knowledge of hellhound physiology, could not.
Positioned protectively in front of the young lady who personified the be that prefaced witch, Bartos’s left hind leg did indeed look completely healed. His scrying had not been mistaken in that estimation.
“Grace,” her mother said in a curt voice. “This is Mr. Devlin Chase Dewer. Mr. Dewer, my daughter, Miss Grace Elizabeth Adair.”
The stark introduction did not do justice to the young lady in the doorway. She stood with her left knee slightly bent, ankle provocatively tilted. She had raised her chin and head, emphasizing an exquisite neck, while her wide eyes observed him with direct, inquisitive scrutiny.
“He is here to reclaim his . . . beasts,” her mother said.
In Baroness Mandell’s hesitation over the word “beasts,” Dewer heard “demons.”
Her snub of his hellhounds slid off his back like a bead of oil. It wasn’t her first insult since his arrival. He had been here for forty odd minutes – feels like a month – awaiting this enchanting creature’s return home. All that while, Lady Mandell refused to be seated, as if admitting him into her home was an affront she could not take sitting down.
The baroness’s upright stance had meant Dewer must also remain on his feet. Not a terrible inconvenience as he had sat more than stood since leaving Wales yesterday morning. For the last five minutes, however, Lady Mandell had been shifting from foot to foot; suggesting their Napoleonic standoff would end shortly with either his departure or her capitulation by taking a seat and thus allowing him to do so as well.
“I have sent for a fresh pot of tea,” the old witch on the sofa said. Lady Mandell’s mother was apparently oblivious to the baroness’s intention to discourage their guest lingering.
Dewer was glad of the tea idea. He may not need to sit, but he was thirsty, for the raven-haired vision in blue in the doorway left his mouth as parched as a desert.
It was hard to mistake the family resemblance between these three females. All had high cheekbones, tall statures and a natural sensuality that age had not appreciably diminished. All similarities ended on the visual plane.
Miss Adair seemed intrigued by his presence, but wary. Well she should be. Thief.
Her mother, Baroness Mandell, had been itching to toss him out since he first stepped into her home. Harridan.
The eldest witch was the most approachable. Unfortunately, she was currently leaning forward to entice Farfur with a crumpet. Crumbs littered the Persian carpet between his feet and hers, as she made atrocious smacking noises from between pursed lips. Definitely Dotty.
Dewer took hold of Farfur’s scruff again, to ensure Dotty, his only ally in the room, would not lose her fingers if the hellhound decided to accept her insanely ill-thought-out offer of a treat.
“We must leave for London forthwith, Grace.” A negligent flick of the Harridan’s hand, and the crumbs on the carpet vanished. “I hope your morning visit with your cousin was elucidating and makes Mr. Dewer’s visit timely.”
So, that is why Harridan permitted him to enter her home. She wants the hellhounds gone. Excellent!
Grace’s full mouth firmed, her hands clenched and that tempting ankle straightened, signifying that no matter her mother’s preference, Dewer was not about to depart with his hounds without protest. The young witch’s stormy gaze met his in a battle cry that tightened his chest muscles. He repressed the urge to smile with relish at the looming fight.
“Grace, we must go to London.” Dotty gave up befriending Farfur and popped the crumpet into her mouth. She then eyed the hound with a sly gleam as she licked her lips with blatant enjoyment.
Farfur whined ever so softly. Dewer only sensed his frustration by the vibration under his fingertips. A pang of compassion stirred. He released his hold and held his hands at his back. It would not do to become attached to a hound he intended to use to achieve his aims in London.
Especially if what the Warlock Council told him yesterday proved correct. If so, Farfur might not live long enough to ever enjoy a crumpet. Dewer was unwilling to lay his heart on the line again, not for a hellhound, and never again for a witch.
All he wanted was to regain control of his property. Unfortunately, he could not simply take them from the lovely Miss Adair. In a moment of pique, he had unwisely gifted the hounds to her. To get them back, she must willingly gift them back to him. Convincing her to do so would obviously be a challenge. Besting this witch might also be pleasurable.
“Grandmamma, why the sudden need to travel to London?” Miss Adair asked.
“Your father is in trouble,” Dotty said.
“We shall discuss Baron Mandell later.” Harridan hissed the words in an undertone to Dotty.
“What has happened to Papa?” Miss Adair’s brow furrowed as worry crept across her breathtaking face.
Dewer’s enjoyment skidded to a halt and he frowned. “Is there anything I may do to assist, my lady?”
The baroness flashed him a suspicious glare. Well she might. Like Farfur’s soft whine at losing his treat, the offer to assist had left his lips before he could pull it back. It was unlike him to want to help anyone, never mind a witch’s family, and certainly not the baron, who was a human.
Only a fool offers something for nothing.
His mother’s favorite axiom. “I journey to London and would be in a position to convey a message to the baron.”
“That will be unnecessary,” Harridan said. “My mother exaggerates the matter. Your father is well,
Grace.”
“Oh, good.” Miss Adair’s attention returned to Dewer and he basked under that heat. Like sunrise warming a cold dewy landscape. “Sir, are you rejoining society?”
She sounded surprised, and was that a hint of pleasure? He shook off that improbable speculation. Still, these were her first words to him since approaching the drawing room doorway. She and Bartos were still positioned on the other side, as if hesitant about coming in.
While her mother’s animosity had left Dewer unmoved, Miss Adair’s standoffishness made him yearn to lure her closer. He offered his most enticing smile. “Good morning, Miss Adair.”
She stepped into the room then, as if she had been waiting for his attention. Though he had not detected one finger twitch, the doors silently swung shut behind them. Excellent control. This was a witch in command of her magic.
“You have been in Wales a good long while, Mr. Dewer.” She stopped directly across from him, with the center table between them. Bartos sat at her heel. “Rumor has it, sir, that you were tending a bruised...” she hesitated as if searching for the correct word.
“Character,” Harridan offered.
“Soul!” Dotty proclaimed.
“Heart.” The audacious Miss Adair breathed the word as if she were kissing it.
That silly organ fluttered in his chest like a schoolgirl enthralled by her first impassioned attachment.
“What entices you back into society’s arms, Mr. Dewer?” Miss Adair’s focus was on him alone; her gray-green eyes a siren’s call.
The room faded, relegating the Harridan to Hell and Dotty to Bedlam. Dewer cleared his clogged throat so he could speak. “Two distant cousins died unexpectedly due to recent floods, and it appears an earldom has fallen to me.” He tapped his breast pocket, behind which his assaulted organ was thumping furiously fast. This woman should come with a danger sign. “I have received a Writ of Summons from the House of Lords.”
“Oh, how wonderful.” Dotty clasped her hands. “We will have to call you Lord something or other. What is to be your title, sir?"
Love Spell in London Page 2