A Distant Magic (5 page)

Chapter
SIX

T
hough Jean would have liked to spend more time learning about African magic from Moses, the following weeks were a flurry of sightseeing, picnics and balls, and preparing for the weddings. Annie was the ideal companion because she also wanted to see everything and was eager to visit any church or hike any hill. Lily and Breeda would join their excursions, and Moses and Jemmy came when they weren't working.

Occasionally, as they enjoyed the mild, sunny days, Jean and Annie would speculate on what dreadful storms were battering the hills of Scotland. Jean had a tingly, magical feeling that she actually did know what the weather was like in Dunrath, but there was no way to be sure she was right. Maybe she just had a good imagination.

The weddings, when they finally took place, were beautiful. Breeda had laughingly insisted on a separate ceremony, saying that she didn't want to be overshadowed by Lily on her own wedding day. She needn't have worried—she was beautiful, her bright hair blazing under a lace veil, and Jemmy gazed at her as if she were the only woman in the world. A glow of light surrounded them, their love made visible to those with the power to see it.

That afternoon, Lily and Moses were joined in an equally moving ceremony. Jean wept unashamedly, as she had that morning. As she blotted her eyes, she had the ironic thought that both couples owed something to the despicable Lord Drayton. His wicked enthrallment had brought four strangers together and created deep, lasting bonds. These marriages had been forged in fire.

After the lavish wedding feast presided over by Moses's beaming parents, the newlyweds traveled to a private estate in the country for a fortnight's honeymoon. There each couple would have the privacy to explore their new relationship, but they also had the company of their dearest friends.

The Fontaine household was very quiet the next day as everyone recovered from the festivities, but Jean woke on Monday full of energy and determination. As she sipped her morning chocolate in bed, Annie entered the room, already dressed.
"I look forward to another peaceful day, Miss Jean."

"One day of quiet was enough. It's time I visited the Fontaine emporium. I haven't done a lick of shopping yet, and I have dozens of people to buy presents for." Invigorated by the prospect, Jean finished her hot chocolate.
"Will you join me?"

"Not today, miss. I need to mend clothes and write letters home." Annie moved to the wardrobe that held Jean's clothing and began to look for garments in need of work.
"I'll go there another day, if you tell me there are pretty things I can
afford."

"Very well." Jean rose and rescued her favorite green calico gown from Annie's growing collection.
"This can wait for mending. The tie that's broken isn't visible."

Annie sniffed but allowed it, and soon Jean was sharing a carriage to the waterfront with Monsieur Fontaine, Moses's father. A large man with a powerful presence, he was a gray-haired version of his son. In the previous weeks, as Jean had questioned Moses about African magic in odd moments, she'd learned that his father and mother both had some power. With that dual inheritance, Moses had surpassed both parents in his abilities.

As Monsieur Fontaine helped Jean from the carriage, he said, "You will have a peaceful time this morning. Most days the showroom is open to the public, but on Mondays only other merchants and very special private customers are allowed in." His African accent was heavy, but his French was fluent, and he spoke some English as well. As he ushered her into the building, he added,
"And you are a very special customer."

The showroom was part of the sprawling stone Fontaine warehouse that covered a whole block on the Marseilles waterfront. The working part of the warehouse faced the harbor. On the street that ran past the back, a modest but attractive entrance had been created. Lemon trees in tubs flanked the doorway, and a small brass plaque said simply
FONTAINE
. Lily had said that on busy days, the street was jammed with the carriages of those who came to find rare and special goods.

Inside, Jean surveyed her surroundings with interest. The large room was divided into cubicles, each containing one type of merchandise. On a public day, each area would contain a salesman to help and guard, but today the emporium was almost empty.
"The windows you put up by the ceiling light the space very well."

"And make thievery more difficult than lower windows. Moses suggested putting the clerestories in when we decided to open the public showroom." Monsieur Fontaine took a wicker basket from a stack by the door and gave it to her to carry her selections.
"Though we specialize in African goods, there is much that comes from other
lands as well. Choose whatever interests you, then we can discuss the prices."

"You must promise to give yourself a profit," she said firmly.
"The Fontaine family is large and needs to make money."

He smiled. "I promise that I will charge you more than the cost,
but not full price. We owe you too much."

"Lord and Lady Falconer rescued your son, not me."

"But they are not here." His voice softened. "Moses has told me
what it meant for four battered souls to come under your protection. He said
that you and Lady Bethany Fox were their sanctuary. You made them human again."

There was truth to that, though Jean was still embarrassed to be the recipient of such gratitude.
"It's the most rewarding work I've ever done."

He inclined his head. "I shall be in the offices if you need me. The doors are locked to the public, so you will not be disturbed." He turned and headed for the emporium offices.

Jean decided to start with a quick swing around the showroom to get an idea of what was available before she began shopping in earnest. Her resolve was continually tested as she found treasure after treasure. There were textiles, beads, and brasswork from Africa, silks and porcelain and lacquerwork from China, spices from the East, jewels from India, and much more. She would be able to buy a lifetime's worth of gifts here. Peeling off her gloves so she could feel the textures, she moved through the labyrinth of display rooms.

In the far-left corner she found an alcove devoted to buttons. Since two women were there, she started to withdraw. The taller woman made a beckoning motion with her hand.
"M'selle, if you visited a
modiste,
would you be willing to buy
such buttons?"

On her palm lay several buttons of different materials. One was carved green jade, another red cinnabar, others enameled with Chinese designs.
"These are wonderful!" Jean replied. "I would certainly be interested if I were
your customer."

The woman indicated the signs showing price and origin, which sat neatly beside each dish of buttons.
"My sister says they are too dear."

Jean saw the prices and blinked. "Dear indeed, but very
attractive. They would add distinction to any gown."

"We have an
atelier
in Paris," the shorter sister explained.
"We come here every year to find rare goods, but our customers are of the middling sort, not wealthy. I do not wish to sink a fortune into Asian buttons." The words were clearly aimed at her sister.

"Perhaps you could buy a sampling of different styles and your customers can order more if they wish?" Jean suggested.
"With the understanding that the set might not be precisely like your sample,
but would be the same material and general look. If you talked to Monsieur
Fontaine, I'm sure he'd be happy to supply buttons on that basis."

The taller woman looked thoughtful. "That should work. Thank you,
m'selle."

As the sisters debated which samples to select, Jean headed to the first quadrant of the showroom to begin serious shopping. The Parisiennes seemed to think that she was French, which pleased her. The weeks in Marseilles had improved her accent.

In a room filled with shining brasswork from Africa and Asia, she chose a large Chinese teapot with engraved patterns as a gift for her sister-in-law. For Lady Bethany, her honorary grandmother and friend, she picked a lovely ivory carving of a rhinoceros. Lady Beth had said once that the rhinoceros was the African version of a unicorn, and she had a fondness for unicorns.

After the sisters left with their bulging baskets, Jean had the showroom to herself. She filled one basket, set it by the door into the offices, and began to fill another basket. She was examining the area that displayed African beadwork when a man entered the showroom from the warehouse side.

Forgetting her manners, she stared in frank appreciation at one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen. The newcomer was dressed with expensive European elegance, but his strong features and dark coloring surely came from some more exotic land. Lean and a little above average height, he moved like a man who walked in dangerous places. And wherever he walked, women would notice.

The newcomer was so compelling that it took Jean several moments to realize that he was followed by a servant, or perhaps a slave, a black African who carried a basket for his master. The elegant gentleman examined several lengths of fabric before placing two in the basket, then moving to the next area.

Since he was coming toward her, Jean returned her attention to the bead necklaces she had been examining. They were so lovely and varied that she wanted to buy them all. Not all women would enjoy jewelry of such barbaric splendor, but Meg, the Countess of Falconer, would love this broad collar of brilliant red beads and tiny shells, while this delicate necklace of silver links and sparkling gemstones would be perfect for Duncan's small daughter.

She became so engrossed in her selections that she forgot the handsome stranger until she turned to leave the beadwork area and bumped into him when she stepped into the passage. She was knocked backward, but he caught her arm quickly.
"My apologies, mademoiselle," he said in flawless French as he released her.

Intensely aware of where he'd touched her arm, she said,
"The fault is mine, monsieur. I am so dazzled by the Fontaine treasures that I
didn't take proper care."

It was all she could do not to stammer since the man was even more compelling this close. The wavy black hair pulled into a queue was his own, not a wig, and his dark eyes had mysteries in their depths. She tried to read his energy, but it was tightly closed.

Switching to English with only the faintest trace of an accent, he said,
"Forgive my forwardness, but you are English, I think?"

So much for the quality of her French. "Scottish, actually, but
close enough."

"Scottish?" Hot, indefinable emotion flickered in those dark eyes.
"I knew a gentleman of Scotland once. Macrae of Dunrath."

"My father or brother," Jean exclaimed, pleased to have a reason to continue the conversation.

"Your father, I think," he said, his gaze intense. "It has been
many years since we met in Malta. You would have been hardly more than a babe.
He said that he had a son, Duncan, and a bonnie wee daughter, but I don't
remember the name. Would that be you, or an older sister?"

"I have no sisters and only one brother." She smiled at him. "I'm
Jean Macrae."

"I am called Nicholas Gregorio." His eyes narrowed. "Does your
father yet live?"

"He died ten years ago."

"So James Macrae is dead," Gregorio said softly. "A pity. I had
dreamed of meeting him again. I trust your brother is well ?"

"Yes, and with two bonnie bairns of his own."

"So the Macrae line continues." Gregorio's gaze became abstracted, as if seeing the past, before his focus sharpened on her again.
"May I shake the hand of James Macrae's only daughter?"

His intensity was beginning to unnerve her, but he still fascinated.
"Of course." She extended her right hand, thinking it might have been better if she'd not removed her glove. His hand was also bare, and the touch of skin to skin seemed dangerously intimate. But he had known her father, so he was not really a stranger.

He clasped her hand with a powerful grip and energy blazed through her. Darkness, fury—

—and the world shattered.

Nikolai's hand still held the girl's, which slowed her collapse enough for him to catch her before she folded onto the floor. Dear God, but she was light, scarcely heavier than a child! He stared down into the small, pale face. She must be in her middle twenties, but she looked much younger, a prim, sheltered child of the British aristocracy.

He felt an uneasy qualm. This girl was not the one who had betrayed him into slavery. But the sins of the father were visited on their sons, and on their daughters. For too many years, during burning days and bleeding nights, he had planned the revenge he would take against Macrae. He had reveled in it, and sometimes that lust for vengeance was all that had kept him alive.

Though he was bitterly disappointed to know that his enemy was dead, he was not really surprised, not after so many years. But until now the time hadn't been right for Nikolai to seek justice. He had needed to obtain freedom and power to put himself in a position to pursue Macrae and his family.

Ironically, he was in the Fontaine warehouse to purchase goods for his first voyage to London. He had planned this journey for years, for he was finally prepared to seek out his enemy. Now that enemy's daughter had fallen into his hands. Perhaps the force of his obsession had drawn her to him.

With Macrae gone, vengeance must be wreaked on the son who was now Macrae of Dunrath. And this pallid girl, who had become his by the merest chance, would be his weapon. He studied her with avid curiosity, thinking that her slight body had never known adversity or hard labor. Her coloring was delicate, and her hair so heavily powdered that the color was disguised. He hadn't really noticed her eyes. They might have been a light hazel.

But she was a pretty thing, in a fragile, high-bred fashion. He had a sudden violent vision of himself assaulting her, ripping off that expensive gown and hammering into her soft, pampered body.

The fierce desire that accompanied his vision left him trembling. He took a deep breath and laid her on the floor. He would not rape, not even Macrae's daughter.