Hours later, her throat still swollen with tears, Grace had yet to utter a word while Dewer rode behind them, a silent sentinel. At her feet, his hellhounds rested.
Grace gulped down another wave of hurt welling up from her chest to prick her eyes and tickle her nose. Never had she faced such a damning character assassination, not even from her most envious of childhood rivals. She clenched her hands into fists until her nails bit into her palms.
They passed Exeter, leaving Devon behind to enter into Somersetshire, with its dairy pastures along the rolling Blackdown Hills. The peaceful pastoral scene gifted Grace with its calm presence. Her churning emotions settled and sensible thoughts trickled in like lone soldiers returning from war.
He could not possibly believe she was as heartless as his mother. Even if she were sometimes bossy, that was a characteristic earned from subduing three willful younger sisters over numerous stressful encounters.
Grace straightened from her slump. Also, she had not been mistaken about the yearning in Dewer’s gaze this morning. Having been the recipient of many a man’s admiring glance, she recognized that look. Desire, not disdain, had blazed in Dewer’s gaze as he studied her from forehead to bosom to ankle.
Her flush of hurt and anger faded, making room for confidence to sweep back in. On first meeting her, he had displayed an instantaneous, virile-male, reaction. As their conversation extended in her drawing room, his admiration had grown, not diminished.
What if he had formed an initial low opinion of her character? With a bit of work, she could surely raise that fallen bar. Also, if she had not been so shocked, she would have realized instantly that his mirroring of her character with his mother’s was preposterous. She might not have his former love’s stellar character, but there were lots of good things to her makeup. She was certainly not as bad as his vile parent.
Why had he gone to the trouble of providing such detailed evidence to prove his disinterest in Grace? Who had been his audience? Only his mother.
For a few terror-filled moments, as Queen Eolonde’s gaze turned in her direction in the garden, Grace had wondered if the fae queen had spotted her. More importantly, could Dewer have also sensed Grace’s presence?
She sat ramrod straight. Ah, ha!
Her thoughts swirled like a whirlwind. Had Dewer insulted her, not to hurt her, but to make his mother believe he was uninterested in Grace? At that wonderful thought, cool relief swept over her like a wet cloth applied to a feverish brow.
It was well known that Queen Eolonde was the jealous sort. She had attempted to enslave Merryn and then kill her simply because her son once proclaimed to love the girl. If Grace’s supposition was correct, Dewer must have begun to care for her a little to want to so thoroughly fool his mother about that burgeoning emotion.
Unable to suppress a smile that stretched her lips wide, Grace held out her hand. “Grandmamma, I would like my rose now, please.”
The elder witch started awake and then clutched the vase that had slipped to rest precariously by her knees. “Of course, dear, take the whole vase.” Her grandmother then looked outside. “Have we arrived?”
“We are still a ways from Bristol, Mama,” the baroness said. “Go back to sleep, I will wake you when we arrive.”
“I am not sleepy.”
Ignoring her family’s chatter, Grace sat back, hugging the cool container that held two rose stems. One with white blooms symbolized love, innocence and silence. Could his gift be an unspoken apology and possibly a symbol of his affection?
Her heart warmed as she took a deep whiff of the roses’
divine scents. She replayed Dewer’s damning words and listened with a new perspective.
Disagreeably brazen. Confident.
Discounts her mother’s wishes. Independent thinker.
Uncaring of others . . .
Grace’s returning poise, which had been steaming along with each re-interpretation, came to a crashing halt. In no manner could she consider that charge in a positive light. As a healer, Grace cared about easing other people’s pain, but occasionally, she did become so wound up with her wants, she missed others people’s needs.
Oh, and she had done it again. However sound her arguments to Merryn on the subject, by hiding Queen Eolonde’s morning visit, she had put her wish to grow closer to Dewer above her family’s safety.
She shifted sideways to face her mother with a contrite expression, “Mama, Queen Eolonde visited Dewer in your rose arbor.”
Her mother eyes widened with shock and she said, “Ready defenses.”
Her mother and grandmother said in unison, “Staff.” Instantly, each held one, jewels glowing.
“I informed Merryn,” Grace said in a rush, “who is alerting her aunt. Also, Dewer advised his mother that he is not interested in me. You see, she does not consider me a threat. Also, she stormed off because he insulted her, too. I doubt she intends to return.”
“Grace, summon your staff!”
Heart hammering at her mother’s order, she beckoned Joy. Her staff appeared but was covered with flowering jessamine vines effusing a heady oriental scent. The vines were so thick she could barely reach the wood. She eyed her staff with a concerned frown. “How peculiar.”
“My fault,” her grandmother said, looking as contrite as a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “I needed to use your staff on a spell this morning but there was an unfortunate side-effect. I meant to speak with you about it, Grace, but you were so distracted when we left, I decided to wait until we reached Bristol to broach the subject.”
“That can wait,” the baroness said.
Grace tapped her staff and the vines vanished. Before she could sort out Joy’s odd behavior – it was trembling in her grip – her bonnet tingled.
She had spelled Olivia, her witch’s hat that now hugged her head in the shape of a pretty blue bonnet, to only self-activate if there was danger nearby. Grace drew breath to check for intruders, when energy from Olivia swept down her body and encased her in a protective shell. Her mother and grandmother, too, had shields in place.
Bartos jumped up and pushing Farfur aside, stuck his head out the window. He growled low in his throat and tension raced up Grace’s back.
What had she precipitated by keeping quiet?
A black shadow whizzed by the window as Dewer raced ahead on his steed.
HIS PULSE THUNDERING and instincts clamoring with alarm, Dewer galloped toward a carriage accident further up the road. A wheel had been laid flat on the ground where two men worked on it. An elderly lady and her dowdy companion watched this activity from beside a tilted carriage missing its hind wheel. The companion had raised a parasol to shield her mistress from a light drizzle.
There was only one problem with that perfectly ordinary picture of an oft-encountered road accident. The subservient female was his mother. Her fae glow was blatant and her familial link drew him like a blazing North Star. He drew up along the muddy road before the two women and glowered at Queen Eolonde.
The well-dressed female stepped backward. “Sir, have a care. You shall muddy my gown.”
An absurd statement if ever he heard one. Her gown was wet and bedraggled as if she had lumbered through a mud flat. A few stray drops of dirt from Ifan’s hooves would hardly be noticeable across that soiled muslin landscape.
He bit back a colorful retort. The larger woman was human, as were the two men. The unkempt clothing of one suggested he was a groom for hire, while the light blue jacket and beaver hat identified the other as a post boy from a posting house.
Dewer had no quarrel with any of them. His mother, disguised as the female servant, he was ready to strangle. Since she refused to meet his gaze by keeping her head bowed, he had no choice but to address the elderly woman who had taken offence at his abrupt stop. “My sincere apology if I spattered your gown.”
The matron’s angry face softened and she gave an imperial nod. “Apology accepted. After our long journey from Exeter, it is good to enc
ounter a gentleman. Pray excuse the manner of my ramshackle introduction. I am Countess Westerly.” She gestured to her servant. “This is Burns.”
Somehow his mother must have inveigled her way into this woman’s company and was pretending to be her companion. Quick work. When pressed, his mother was nothing if not resourceful. The presence of humans, however, meant he could not openly call her out on her deception. If she thought she had nothing to lose, she might strike out at one of the humans in frustration. His mother did not value anyone’s life but her own. And his.
He ground his teeth and focused on the broken wheel. Cracked in two places. Repairs would take several hours before the wheel could be fitted back on the carriage. No doubt that, too, was his mother’s handiwork.
The knot in his stomach tightened. How to defuse this situation without alarming the humans? His fingers twitched to fix the wheel with an incantation that would save hours of work, but that would stir talk about witchcraft, the very thing all Wyhcans in Britain strove to avoid. The witch-hunts of the past were a festering thorn, and a constant reminder to avoid spell casting when among humans.
“Is that approaching carriage yours, perchance?” the countess asked.
Dewer silently cursed his luck. Now, instead of a tense situation with humans in peril, he might end up with a full fae-witch war on his hands, with the humans caught in the middle. As if he did not already have enough counting against him with the Warlock Council, if this situation exploded, they might ban him from ever returning to Wales.
His shoulders and neck muscles bunched tighter as he admitted ownership and made his introduction.
“Excellent. I hope you are in a position to transport us to the nearest inn in Bristol, sir? Your kindness shall be amply rewarded, I assure you.”
His carriage rolled past with Miss Adair and her grandmother peering out with avid interest. The wiser hellhounds had withdrawn from sight. Probably smelled this trouble a mile back. His vehicle drew to a halt ahead on the narrow gravelly roadway.
Dewer dismounted and bowed to Countess Westerly. “I shall inform my companions about your situation. Excuse me.”
Ifan obediently trotted behind him as he marched toward his carriage, pondering how to deliver this bad news to the three witches. He opened the carriage door and Farfur and Bartos bounded out and raced up the road as if wanting to run away. The carriage horses shied from the enormous hounds running past them.
Miss Adair’s whistle, startlingly strong for a woman, and ringed with power, halted the hounds. They stood still and glanced back with misgiving but made no move to return, seeming as alarmed by his mother’s presence as Dewer. Smart hounds.
Inside the vehicle, all three witches were well armed with staffs at the ready. Miss Adair’s staff had a leaf sprouting near the tip. A tap of her forefinger and the vine fell off.
He quirked his eyebrow at that odd growth, but avoided her searching green gaze. This bad news required her mother’s wise counsel. “Countess Westerly is requesting passage with us to Bristol.” He met Harridan’s suspicious stare straight on. Would she read the warning in his eyes? “I suggest we send help back once we reach our destination instead.”
“How many need assistance, Mr. Dewer?” the elderly witch whom he had nicknamed Dotty asked. Her hand holding her staff was trembling. A shiver of sympathy arrowed into Dewer’s heart at having alarmed the silly old witch.
“There is room for only one more to sit in here with comfort,” Dotty added before he had a chance to respond, her worried glance fell to the empty space beside her.
He had not thought of the seating arrangements. Had his mother? A gleam of pure deviltry tickled him. She might not know that three witches were in here. This might work out after all.
“Two ladies require transportation, ma’am,” he said. “The countess and her companion. The workers would have to stay with the vehicle and horses to guard it until repairs are made or help comes.”
As he spoke, he pictured his mother standing on the cold metal dummy board beside the footman at the rear of his vehicle. By the time they reached Bristol, she would be soaked and shivering. Serve her right for trying to impose herself into his matters. With a wicked grin, he added, “There is room for the servant at the back of this vehicle.”
“It is raining.” Miss Adair glanced at the two women on the road.
“Should we invite them in?” her grandmother asked.
Dewer shook his head. “No.”
At the same moment, Grace’s mother, the Harridan, snapped her response. “Absolutely not!”
Yet again, they were in accord. Her ferocious glare withered his unwise impulse to grin at their parallel thinking.
“Mr. Dewer,” Harridan said in a cold voice, “I am wary of either of these women riding inside with us. Why are you so anxious for this companion to ride outside? Who is she? Pray, honor me by not dissembling, sir.”
Despite her plea, her wary gaze suggested she expected him to lie. That hurt, though he was unclear why. Harridan’s opinion of him should be immaterial.
Under the continued pressure of Harridan’s intent stare, Dewer leaned back on his heels. It was in his mother’s nature to lie to everyone, including him. He had learned the same trick at her knee since boyhood. At this moment, however, with Harridan’s heated gaze boring into him, every lie he had ever spoken clogged in his throat.
He swallowed that squirming lump and said what came unnaturally. “That other woman is my mother.”
Miss Adair gasped and leaned out the open door, coming deliciously close to brushing his cheek with hers. She sat back. “I never would have guessed. I saw her so clearly this morning.”
At that admission, her guilty gaze clashed with Dewer’s. He expected her to skewer him with a similar recriminating stare as her mother’s. Instead, she retreated but then as swiftly recaptured and held his gaze. Then her long lashes dropped as she bent and kissed his white rose.
Dewer’s heart pounded at that come-hither invitation. He had to steel himself to keep from leaning forward and capturing those luscious lips with his. Only remembering her mother sat beside her and would flay him alive if he tried to steal such a kiss, while his mother’s gaze bore into his back, kept Dewer rooted to where he stood.
He shook his head, thoroughly confused. Why would Miss Adair flirt with him after implicitly admitting she had overheard his conversation with his mother where he had torn apart her character? He’d also just confessed that his dark fae mother was not twenty feet away, probably hoping for an opportunity to kill her and very likely all of her family. Past experience had shown that his mother’s reprisals knew no boundaries. He would never understand witches.
“Mr. Dewer,” Harridan said, “I thank you.”
“I beg your pardon?” Did she just thank me? His startled attention swung from daughter to mother.
“I appreciate your honesty.” The baroness spoke slowly, as if the words were being dragged from her throat. “As much as I would enjoy your mother suffering on a ride into Bristol on the back of this carriage, I cannot countenance such an outcome. Your footman is human, am I correct?”
He nodded, wondering where this went.
“We cannot leave him to her less-than-tender care at the back of the carriage. Those two men working on the broken wheel and this Countess Westerly are also human?”
Again, he nodded agreement, now sensing clearly where this led. Nowhere he wanted to follow.
“Then we also cannot depart and leave your mother with them,” Harridan said with a deep sigh that spoke of regret. “It is a witch’s sworn duty to protect all humans from harm. A price we gladly pay for our past crimes.”
Gammon! Dewer kept his epithet and disparaging views about Harridan’s last statement unspoken.
How much responsibility Wyhcans bore for the witch hunts that had resulted in many innocent humans being brutally tortured and murdered by other humans was a longstanding argument. Warlocks maintained they were not to blame for the unint
ended mistake that instigated the hunts, while witches insisted they were all entirely at fault. It was the Wyhcans’ unexpected arrival on this alien earth and their practice of mind-magic that had been the lit wick to the witch-hunt fever.
Dewer’s fae mother, on the other hand, had long claimed that witches were idiots to take the blame for humans’ actions.
Whatever the veracity of anyone’s beliefs, the disagreement over the cause of witch-hunts had split the Wyhcan community for hundreds of years. The catastrophe at Bedfordshire had widened that rift. Though he had heard a strange rumor recently that the breach between the Wyhcans was beginning to heal.
Nevertheless, Dewer was not about to set foot in this scorpion’s nest of a topic, so he kept his peace. Hands clasped at his back, he patiently waited for Harridan to decide her course of action. After all, she and her family would be the ones riding inside this carriage with a queen of the underworld.
Once she considered the matter, she would see the best course was the one he outlined. Though, after his last discussion with this family, he doubted that wisdom was a strong family trait. Meanwhile, having shown a decided lack of good judgment himself lately, he continued to moon over Miss Adair. It was near impossible to not stare as her perfect bosom as it rose and fell with every nervous breath.
A difficult accomplishment when she sat so close her jessamine perfume wrapped its tendrils around him and enticed him nearer. Feet firmly planted to keep from swaying toward the temptress, Dewer kept his sights trained on Harridan.
A nod to her daughter indicated the baroness had made her decision. She shifted to the far side of the carriage. After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Adair did the same on her side, her legs swinging sideways to where he leaned in at the open doorway until her delicate knee brushed his chest and sent his nerve endings ricocheting.
He quickly stepped back and took a calming breath, trying to decipher what the witches were up to.
Love Spell in London Page 6