Love Spell in London

by Shereen Vedam

  Then with a defeated-sounding sigh, Dotty stood and took her place between her daughter and granddaughter.

  Then the unthinkable occurred to him. They are making room for Mother to join them!

  At one unanimous tap, their three staffs faded from view, but their combined powerful presence vibrated inside his carriage and acted as a shield from the tips of their toes to the top of the ceiling.

  “Invite the countess and her companion to ride with us,” Harridan said in a grave voice.

  “Yes,” Dotty said. “Despite these cramped conditions, I am curious to meet your mother. There is so much noise about her exploits, one can hardly credit which reports are valid.”

  Miss Adair had visibly paled as if, of the three, she was most fearful. She should quake. His mother detested competition for his affection and Miss Adair was rising in his affections by leaps and bounds.

  Dewer swallowed his protest at this foolish decision and bowed acceptance. Time to inform his mother she had won, but he remained flummoxed by this turn of events.

  What was wrong with these witches? Why did none of them act as he expected? Immutable facts were fluid to them. More important, what was wrong with him that despite all the perils circling his head like hungry vultures, he wanted nothing more than to take Miss Adair in his arms and see if her kisses lived up to her eyes’ promise to enthrall?

  He had tried to dislike her, attempted to discount her character and to dissuade his body from desiring her. All to no avail. Now his mother had twigged to his struggles and he feared he might fail to protect a woman who was fast eclipsing Merryn from his heart.

  His blossoming addiction to everything that was Miss Adair was completely inexplicable. Including this longing to want to protect her silly grandmother and, apparently, also to make her dragonish mother proud of him.

  GRACE TUCKED HER FEET in as Countess Westerly and her companion entered the carriage. The vehicle tilted to the left as the large woman slid over to sit across from Grace’s mother and grandmother. Her companion, Mrs. Burns, sat directly across from Grace in the little space left on the seat.

  Her grandmother circled Grace’s cold trembling fingers in a fiercely protective hold that offered great comfort.

  There was little comfort from the hellhounds who had decided to finish the rest of their journey on foot.

  Cowards.

  From the open doorway, after making introductions, Dewer lingered watching Grace with a deeply troubled frown as rain drummed on his riding hat. His hesitation spoke of his uncertainty at leaving Grace alone in his mother’s precarious company.

  His concern mirrored hers. She wished there was room for him to cuddle next to her, but with three on this seat, her grandmother’s hip was already snug against hers.

  His worry made him look cross. Finally, he stepped back but before he shut the door, something grazed Grace’s face. It was as if he had tenderly brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. Yet, he could not have, for he had been standing too far away. Unless he used magic. Her skin tingled with that remembered caress.

  Dewer returned to his mount without a backward glance. Disappointed, she turned her attention to the new occupants and her startled gaze clashed with his mother’s censorious glare. Her unspoken reprimand merely confirmed Dewer’s illicit touch. His ethereal gesture, along with his mother’s animosity, proved he was growing to care about her. Grace tucked her head down to hide a triumphant grin.

  The vehicle trundled forward, wheels turning on the wet gravelly road, splattering mud. The two men remaining with the broken-down vehicle stood back to avoid getting smeared by the flying dirt, and waved them off.

  Meanwhile, inside the carriage, the fae queen continued to pretend to be no more than a timid British country woman in her early forties. Her mousy brown hair was tightly combed into a bun and tucked under a dowdy straw hat that dripped water from its brim onto her narrow shoulders. She had rounded cheeks and age lines around her eyes and mouth. She could easily have been mistaken for one of Grace’s neighbors.

  In her mother’s rose garden, the queen had appeared tall, with a pallor of death over her smooth face and her raven hair spitting flames.

  Who was the real Eolonde?

  Had Dewer ever wondered that about his mother? Probably all of his life. Grace’s chest swelled with compassion for a boy with such a deceptive mother.

  “Thank you dearly for transporting us to Bristol.” Countess Westerly shifted her enormous bulk more comfortably onto her seat, taking up three-quarters of the available space. “We were at our wits end about what to do, were we not, Burns?”

  “Indeed, my lady.” Burns’s tone was quiet and submissive as she slid to the far edge to give her mistress more room.

  Joy’s energy vibrated a warning in Grace’s palm and her clandestine grip on her staff tightened until her shield merged so tightly with her mother and grandmother’s, their invisible barrier might have been a steel cage door dividing the carriage interior in two.

  “How long has your family been in these parts, Lady Westerly?” her grandmother asked, though her gaze remained fixed on the lady’s maid.

  “Nearly two centuries,” the countess said. “Aside from our estate, we own several dairy farms in Somersetshire.”

  “What brings you away from home?”

  “I am on my way to London.”

  Movement above Burns’s head caught Grace’s attention. The seat cover’s fabric distended outward as if something moved behind it. Grace’s breath caught as the creature crept upward. The material’s distorted shape resembled one of those human-headed snakes she’d seen in the garden slithering between Dewer and Queen Eolonde. It was making its way upward. Did it think to cross over to their side of the vehicle through the carriage ceiling, and thereby bypass their shield? She prepared a spell to counter such an aggressive move but her mother was quicker. A tap of the baroness’s staff and the creature gave a high-pitched squeak and then vanished.

  Lady Westerly appeared not to notice the altercation, gazing peacefully out the window, while Burns’s lips twisted in a mockery of a smile.

  Grace sucked much needed air into her constricted lungs. She wished Dewer would rush back in and carry her out and up onto his mount. Except, she could not in good conscience abandon her family to the peril in here.

  The seat cover beneath where the snake creature had moved remained stretched and sagging. Her grandmother’s forefinger resting on Grace’s hand tapped twice against her knuckle, and the cloth shrank back into place.

  These two witches’ exceptional skill and elegant dexterity with their craft had always awed Grace. It was her goal to one day become as deft with her healing magic as her mother and grandmother were with their spells.

  “A late entry to the entertainments to be had in London, is it not, Lady Westerly?” Grace’s mother said casually, as if she had not just destroyed a dark fae creature seeking to infiltrate their shield. “The Season began months ago.”

  An understatement. It was now going on late June and her father had been in Town since Easter break ended in early April, when he returned to his parliamentary duties, accompanied by Grace’s three younger sisters. Grace, her mother and grandmother’s absence from that party meant the baron had no one to act as a buffer for months against his daughters’ girlish chatter, which was guaranteed to annoy him.

  “I had not meant to attend the Season this year at all,” the countess said. “I find London loud and busy and definitely too wet. The constant rain these past two years has proved entirely tedious for travelling about Town. I intended to skip the festivities and stay home.”

  “Yet, here you are, on your way to London,” the baroness said in a soft, dangerous tone normally reserved for moments when one of her girls was being particularly tiresome.

  Burns stiffened in her corner, and a chill wind tickled Grace’s neck hairs.

  “My husband will be surprised to see me, indeed,” the countess said, oblivious to the tension. “I told hi
m I was too weary to make the trip, then suddenly this morning I took the notion that I must go. Is that not odd?”

  “Almost as if someone put the idea into your mind,” her grandmother suggested.

  “One must follow one’s inner urgings, my lady.” Burns patted the countess’s hand. “God speaks to us in mysterious ways.”

  “Or the devil,” Grace muttered.

  Burns chuckled, but there was nothing amusing in the harsh sound. “That is my pet name for my son.”

  “What is?” the countess asked.

  “Devil. My little joke. You see, as a child, my son was a terrible little tyke.”

  Her grandmother squeezed Grace’s hand. “Tell us about him. I love hearing about children.”

  Burns glanced at her mistress for permission.

  Lady Westerly gave a gracious nod of encouragement.

  The lady’s easy acquiescence surprised Grace. Those of the Ton did not normally afford such latitude to a servant to converse with those of higher station. Could she be under a mind spell?

  Witches were forbidden from casting such thought-altering spells on humans, and by this world’s objection to the usurping of human willpower. The fae were under no such ban. Burns could easily be swaying her mistress’s will to lend her the leniency to speak. If so, what was her game?

  Why was she really here? If she wished to destroy Grace, why had she not attacked her yet?

  Chapter 5

  LLYN GWEL ANNWN, A young water goddess from Wales, skimmed the surface of a lake on the outskirts of Bristol. To an onlooker, she appeared a spray of mist under the setting sun. She travelled straight to the Three Horse Inn. At least as straight as a water goddess could travel, which involved swerving around reeds and dipping into a lake to glide underwater and wiggling her blue tentacles in joy at being immersed in her natural environment.

  She then surfaced and transformed into one of her air forms. Wings fluttering, she flicked droplets in every direction before surveying the peaceful terrain

  Life looked good.

  After years of being imprisoned by a druid, her beloved brother, Llyr, was home. The invading Wyhcans, who had claimed Earth as their home three centuries ago and settled in England, were finally living in peace. After three centuries of their constant strife, the underground streams between Cornwall, where witches resided, and Wales, where warlocks ruled, once again flowed in harmony. Even the dark fae queen who had caused so much disruption last year had been banished back to the underworld. Again.

  Life should be good.

  Yet, rumor said that underworld creatures were amassing to invade London. On this day, a powerful fae/warlock had set off from Callington on a mission to save that beleaguered city in the heart of this wonderful country. He planned to break his journey at this inn. In his company, travelled a healing witch.

  Llyn was here to ensure that, come morning, the fae/warlock, Devlin Chase Dewer, travelled on to resolve the invasive problem in London alone. For, at this crossroad, the healing witch, Grace Elizabeth Adair, must be persuaded to turn away from her intended path eastward and toward Llyn’s underwater home beneath a lake in Snowdon, in the north of Wales.

  Because life was not good.

  All was not well.

  Llyn’s father, the Water God of Britain, was dying.

  At the lakeshore, a firefly waved to her and she flew closer and bid him good eve. “Has the healing witch arrived?”

  “No, lass.” The firefly fluttered his wings. “There is commotion up that road.”

  What a time for a delay. Llyr said their father was fading fast. “What kind of commotion?”

  “Queen Eolonde has returned to the upper world in search of her son, who is said to be smitten by another witch. This time, her sister refuses to interfere on behalf of the Wyhcans. Says this hubbub is of her nephew’s making, a pattern with him, which speaks to bad upbringing. The matter is to be left for his mother to settle. Queen Orlagh has forbidden any fae folk to lift a wing to assist.”

  “Fine time for Her Majesty to give her sister rope to hang herself. I thought she was cozy with the witches after the Coven Protectress gifted her that scrumptious crimson ball gown?”

  The firefly flew closer to whisper in Llyn’s ear. “We suspect she may be in hiding. No one has seen Her Majesty in two days.”

  “Bother!” Llyn flicked her wings in annoyance. “I had better see what I can do then. Perhaps my assistance will win me the healing witch’s favor. Wish me luck.”

  She flew along the road, the firefly’s “Luck!” echoing in the wind.

  DEWER ACTED AS A REAR guard and rode twenty feet behind the carriage transporting the witches, Countess Westerly and his mother. It gave him the advantage of keeping an eye on the vehicle on the off-chance Miss Adair waved.

  Bartos and Farfur loped ahead of the vehicle on their self-appointed vanguard duty. Farfur looked back so often, Dewer expected the hound to tumble into a hole, of which there were many on this public road.

  His groom, Peter, was driving the carriage and did a good job of ensuring the vehicle avoided those cauldron-sized holes. Peter’s brother, Jack, was Dewer’s footman. He suspected Jack, though appearing to stand at full attention at the back, might be asleep. A tolerant smile twisted Dewer’s lips.

  Both lads, now in their early twenties like Dewer, had been in his family’s service since their childhood. The boys’ grandfather had died protecting then five-year-old Dewer on the “day of the attack,” as he labelled that fateful day his father was killed. His muscles stiffened as always at that painful memory and he rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

  Fact: Dewer would one day enact retribution for his father’s death and on behalf of those who died to save him.

  The mantra, as familiar as the walls of Dewer’s tower, eased his tension and restored his good cheer. After all, he had much to be thankful for, not least of which were these two lads being back in his service.

  Warlocks naturally distrusted humans, but once they befriended a family, they took them into the fold, trusted them with some of their secrets and protected them for life. His mother called the practice of collaborating with humans unnatural, saying the fae, and even witches, knew better than to spill secrets to a human. Dewer shook off that criticism, for he valued that in exchange for gaining his trust. The humans were loyal and maintained an odd arms-length companionship that avoided awkward questions about his background.

  Yet, reeling from Merryn’s rejection, Dewer’s shattered heart refused to countenance any mollycoddling from his servants who were like family. So, despite their strident objections, he had discharged the lot of them and then quietly ensured each found alternate employment in the surrounding villages. That would have been that, but when the Warlock Council requested his assistance in London, Dewer reached out to Jack and Peter again. The two lads were fiercely loyal and exactly whom he wanted guarding his back.

  For a good twenty minutes after they travelled on toward Bristol, their next resting spot, all remained ominously quiet. Then suddenly one of his mother’s snake men, a pythos, popped its head out of the roof, a look of panic on its tiny human face. As if it were escaping from danger within the carriage, it scrambled overtop the baggage. Jack, confirming he was asleep, did not react to the pythos’s appearance.

  Good. Dewer clenched his right fist, and his staff, lying on the carriage roof, rose and transformed into a snake. The pythos yelped and backed away, an expression of horror on its tiny human face. His staff lunged and wrapped around the pythos and squeezed. In moments, all signs of his mother’s monstrous creation were but dust blowing in the air. He hoped she had brought only one of those abominations with her, but even if there were more, this one’s attempt at a rapid escape from inside the carriage suggested the witches were more than capable of defending themselves.

  The knots in Dewer’s back unwound and he unclenched his fist. His staff returned to a supine position on the carriage roof. The footman jerked awake as if the staff had rat
tled as it settled between two leather portmanteaus. He glanced around with a guilty expression and then back toward Dewer, before facing front.

  Ifan tossed his head in greeting, and Dewer glanced down to see Farfur running alongside his horse. Bartos stayed far ahead but sent fretful looks toward his lagging companion. Farfur’s oddly friendly behavior had intrigued Dewer for a while now, so he gave the hellhound a closer study.

  “Afternoon, Farfur.”

  “Woof.” The hellhound wagged his tail.

  “Did you miss me?”

  “Woof!”

  The earnestness of that response tilted Dewer’s lips into a smile. Then he received an impression of him ruffling the hound’s forehead in the Adairs’ parlor and his smile died. Had Farfur sent him that image or did he merely remember the moment? He shook his head. Farfur was a hellhound. He could not speak. Sending images would only occur if Dewer spelled the animal to record and report back on what it saw.

  Yet, the specificity of the vision and the perspective intrigued him. Dewer had visualized someone tussle his forehead. With a long ride ahead, he was tempted to explore this interesting line of thought, even if it led up a blind alley. Especially since his expectations of fireworks inside the carriage had fizzled with the pythos’s emergence.

  “What do you think of Miss Adair?” he said in a soft enough tone that the footman, who was finally doing a credible job of scanning for highwaymen, was unlikely to overhear.

  Instantly, Dewer was in a lavender-scented bedchamber where Miss Adair slept beneath linen sheets. Bartos and Farfur were snuggled around her lower limbs, which were plainly outlined beneath the linen covers, since the hounds’ heavy presence pulled the sheets tight around her seductive form.

  Dewer’s breath caught at the peaceful look on the lady’s face as she lay in repose. He wanted to cuddle next to her alongside Farfur. No, what he really wanted was to toss the two hounds off the bed and wake up the lady and ravish her.

  “Enough.” He dispelled the image with a wave of his hand. “She is a witch. Not for me.” The words rang hollow.