Bewitching (20 page)

Joy slowly lowered her arms and both the chair and her husband hit the floor, hard. The glass fell from his hand and rolled across the carpet.

"Oh, Alec!" she said, running over to where he was sprawled on the floor, looking very undukelike. "I'm so sorry!"

She reached out to him.

He flinched and scooted back away from her.

"Alec . . . ”

He scrambled to his feet, never taking his wary eyes off hers.

She stepped toward him, reaching out. "Please."

"Get away!"

"I know this comes as a . . . a surprise, but—"

His look changed from shock to anger. "A surprise?" He spoke the words through clenched teeth.

She bit her lip.

"A surprise?" Now his neck was purple.

She stared down at her clenched hands. He was looking at her with such revulsion that she couldn't bear to see it any longer. It hurt too much, knowing that he considered her a monster. Her throat began to ache.

"A surprise is when one finds a forgotten crown in one's pocket, wife. Not"—he moved to the fireplace and waved an angry hand at the clock—
"not
when one finds out that one's bride is a . . . a . . . ” He waved his hand around some more while he tried to spit out the word.

She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed, but her tears spilled over anyway. "A witch," she whispered.

There was a full, torturous minute of angry silence.

"God Almighty . . . God Almighty!"

She opened her eyes only to watch all the angry color drain from his face.

"I don't believe this." He looked right through her. "I don't believe this— I married you, in front of witnesses, in a church." He started walking toward the door, trance-like.

Hesitantly she reached out to him—a plea—as he walked by, but he gave her a wide berth and passed without even looking at her. She swallowed hard, then heard him mumble, "The new Duchess of Belmore —
Belmore
— is a bloody witch."

Her throat tight, she swallowed again, her hand against her mouth as if it could keep her from crying aloud. The door clicked open. A second later, it slammed shut.

One deep quivering breath and she turned to stare at the closed door through blurry eyes. When his image finally vanished, little more than one brief memory, she turned slowly, her heart in her throat, and her chest so tight that taking a deep breath was impossible.

Wraithlike she crossed over to the bed and crawled into its center, wounded. Her mind flashed with the picture of his face, stunned, repulsed, angry. She had never told anyone she was a witch. She hadn't expected the revulsion. Tears tightened her throat. She disgusted him. Her own husband. How could someone love a monster?

Her stomach turned, churning until she thought she might be ill with shame. She drew her knees up to her chest and gripped the silk coverlet in her fists, as if it was the only thing in the world she had to hold on to.

Her chest shook with her hurt. Her breath heaved and she couldn't control it any more than she could control the tears that poured from her eyes. The ache escaped her throat in a harsh cry, like that of a bird shot from the sky, drowning out the sudden splatter of raindrops against the window. She twisted the coverlet in her fists, tighter and tighter, until she finally buried her head in the soft cloud of pillows and hid her sobs. Outside, the rain poured down, as if the skies were crying too.

***

"Wake up. We need to talk."

Joy sat upright at the sound of her husband's raspy voice. A second later she grabbed the falling bedcovers and shoved her tangled hair back away from her face, then watched him, standing at the foot of her bed.

He looked awful. His hair was mussed, as if he'd run his hands through it a thousand times. A dark shadow of a beard shaded his hard jaw, and the dark blue circles of a sleepless night gave his eyes a sunken, hollow look. He still wore the long green robe, but the velvet was wrinkled and the belt was crooked, its knot having twisted over to his side, making one lapel higher than the other. He smelled of brandy.

She averted her eyes, looking toward the long window beside the fireplace. Dawn shone pink through the bedroom windows, and the room was cold, the fire as dead as Joy's hopes. He would have the marriage annulled. It was the only way out. She had figured that out about three in the morning.

He began to pace slowly, thoughtfully, not looking at her. "First of all I should apologize for shouting. I never lose control. However, I hope that, given the circumstances, you will understand my lapse."

Joy nodded. He hadn't looked any happier levitating than she had when she'd flown through that church window. But an apology was not what she expected. She had known that since this was 1813, she needn't worry about being dunked in a river, stoned, or burned at the stake, but she hadn't imagined an apology, especially when something told her that Alec never had to apologize to anyone.

"I want some answers."

She nodded again, chewing on her lip.

"Are you . . . ” He waved his hand, as he did whenever he couldn't quite spit out what he wanted to say.

"Do witches . . . Is death . . . Are you mortal?"

"Do you want to know if witches live longer than mortals?"

"Yes."

"No. Witches and warlocks get sick and eventually die just like everyone else."

"Eventually?"

"Just like mortals."

"I see." He seemed to be digesting that.

"But I'm only part witch." Her voice was hopeful. "My paternal grandmother was mortal."

"So that part of your story was true?"

She nodded. “I was going to
Surrey
, and the Locksleys are my relatives, and they were terribly cruel to my grandmother." She paused and quietly admitted, "But there was no carriage."

"I see.” He paused, then said, “I am not sure I want to hear this, but how did you end up on that road?"

"I made a wee mistake."

"A wee mistake? If your wee mistake was anything like your surprise, I think I had best sit down." He walked over to one of the wing chairs, turned it around, and sat down, facing her with an expectant look.

"Perhaps how one views it depends upon who one is."

"Pretend you are me."

She took a deep breath. "Travel incantations are very difficult, but if you get it right, an incantation will just zap you from one place to another."

"Zap you?"

She nodded. "I suppose I could try to show you a wee one if you want."

He held up a hand, shaking his head. "No! I have seen enough wee surprises."

It seemed to Joy that he was taking this pretty well, considering his reaction last night. He was not shouting. She could take his sarcasm.

His arms were propped on the chair, and he raised his steepled hands to his mouth and was quiet for a thoughtful minute. "You said your grandmother was a mortal. What happened to your parents?"

"They died when I was six in a cholera epidemic. My aunt raised me."

"Is she a . . . one of your kind?"

Joy's face lit up like the dining room candelabrum. "Oh, yes! She's a MacLean witch, the most powerful of all the witches and warlocks. You should see her cast a spell. 'Tis magic at perfection. Everything she does is perfect, and she's so beautiful and commanding." Joy couldn't help but raise her chin a notch.

"She is a very important witch."

"Where is this paragon of witches?" He tapped a finger against his lips.

"She went to
America
for two years. She had some council work to do there."

"Council work?"

She nodded and opened her mouth to speak.

His hand went up again, waving a finger this time. "Never mind. The British are at war with the Americans. I don't think I want to know that either." He stared at the fireplace, then stood and walked over to the mantel where he silently watched the clock again.

The only sound Joy heard in the room was her own heartbeat

He clasped his hands behind his back and glanced up at the painted ceiling, then let his gaze come to rest on her, giving her a level stare. "I have reached a decision."

She waited, holding her breath, hands clasped, heart in her throat.

"We shall stay married."

"We shall?" She almost fainted from shocked relief.

"Yes. There has never been any blight on the Belmore name—no annulments and naturally no divorces—and I do not intend any shame to start with me. I need a wife. I need heirs," he paused. "I assume that is possible considering your mortal-mixed background."

"Well, yes . . . ”

"Then I do not see any problem. You will remain my wife. There will be no dissolution of this union. The marriage has been registered and witnessed. It is legal and remains only to be consummated. And if last night was any indication, I do not believe we shall have a problem in that area. You are my wife. You will remain my wife and the Duchess of Belmore,
but"
— he held up a finger— "there will be no more of this hocus-pocus." He waved his hand around again.

"You mean I cannot use my magic?"

"No, you cannot." His features were as hard as his voice. "I forbid it. I will not have the house of Belmore sullied by any scandal. And witchcraft would be the scandal of all scandals. Do you understand?"

She nodded, feeling guilty for not telling him before the wedding. But she had so wanted to be his wife. And she had to admit a part of her heart was rejoicing. She had a chance to make him love her. Perhaps the mortal human in her might make her a truly fine duchess. Perhaps her magic could, in time, help him. He merely needed to adjust. If she tried very hard, perhaps he would come to love her just a wee bit. Then maybe her magic would not matter to him anymore.

But there was one thing she still needed to tell him, since he brought it up and since she was spilling the soup, so to speak. "You should understand that if we have any children—"

"When."

"When what?"

"
When
we have children."

"You cannot know that for certain. Children are gifts from heaven."

"You believe in heaven?"

"Of course. I am a witch, not a heathen." She gave him a look of indignation.

"What about all that Devil worship business?"

"Propaganda. A white witch will not use her magic to hurt anything or anyone." At least not on purpose, she thought, then glanced back at him. "Did you say something?"

"Nothing of importance."

"Well, as I was about to tell you, I was raised to believe that God is in everything—the trees, the sea, the flowers, birds, and animals, even in our own hearts. You believe in God, don't you?"

"I was not raised a heathen either."

"Uhh . . . well, about the children . . . ” She twisted a lock of her hair around a finger.