Bewitching (38 page)

Alec took a deep breath. Things appeared to be returning to normal. Then Henson turned, that snoring weasel hanging off his stiff collar like a long white queue.

"Beezle!" His wife plucked the rodent off his footman's back and then tried to tug something out of the animal's mouth. Alec could have sworn the thing was sound asleep.

Still tugging on whatever, she glanced up at Henson. Her wide eyes and her concerned face gave him fair warning that something was amiss.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Alec's narrowed gaze followed hers. Henson's queue, tied with a shredded riband, was little more than a nub the size of a walnut, and there were two bald spots behind the man's ears. Joy jerked the rest of the gold ribbon from the weasel's mouth and gave the animal a look of reprimand. The fat vermin had eaten his footman's hair.

Commendably, Henson remained composed, his face holding nothing but respect for the duchess even though the remnant of the ribbon dangling from his head held little hair. Joy scowled at the weasel— whatever its name was. Alec seemed to recall that it appropriately had something to do with hell. He watched her take the thing upstairs with her, Polly clucking and following her wake, a stack of fresh clothing in her hands.

"A half an hour," Alec reminded them, watching his wife pause at the top of the stairs. She gave him a silent nod then disappeared in the bedroom. He turned, another order on his lips, but Henson had already anticipated his command. Dignity unflagging, Henson turned and went outside, leaving Alec to stare at the pink-skinned twin bald spots on the head of his master footman.

A strange sense of beleaguered camaraderie hit Alec. It was the first time he could remember feeling that he had something in common with a servant. Taking a quick swipe at his still abundant gray hair, intact behind his own ears, he made a mental note to increase Henson's yearly stipend substantially.

***

The Duke of Belmore's traveling coach and wagon rumbled down the icy road. Inside the carriage hung the silence of two people who had been fighting—he fighting her hold on him and she fighting to hold on tighter. In a matter of minutes the ducal vehicles disappeared over the rise, and the lonely, quaint little inn that served as their refuge slowly faded into nothingness. The magic had gone.

***

Seven hours later the Duchess of Belmore sat in the carriage, her pink cheek pressed against the cold window, her bright eyes as eager as those of a kitten with a dish of fresh cream. Her unflagging enthusiasm should have annoyed the hell out of Alec. Instead of asking himself why it didn't, he gazed out the window and tried to quell the recurring visions of scaffolds and nooses and roses.

"I once read that
London
was 'the flower of Cities all.'"She turned to him with rapt anticipation on her face.

"I do not smell the scent of flowers." Alec stopped pulling at the nooselike tightness of his cravat. "Muck, yes. Stagnant water, yes, but not flowers. But I suppose Londoners can be a foolish and loyal lot."

Her smile dimmed, and she turned back to the window." 'Twas a Scot who called
London
so."

Alec grunted a response, choosing not to metaphorically step on her tail and tell what he thought about Scots. She was wonderstruck by, of all things, the outskirts of
London
.
London
. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to will away the thoughts of what could happen should the ton discover their secret. Seven hundred years of dignity and distinction—gone in a puff of magic smoke.

She turned her pert little face toward him, distracting him from his dire thoughts, and the brightness in her eyes changed to concern. She tilted her head and placed her small hand on his forearm. "Can you not see it, truly?"

"See what?"

"Out there." She tapped the glass. "Look."

"I've seen it all before."

Her lips thinned into a stubborn line and she crossed her arms. "Then tell me what you see."

"London."

She sighed the exact long-suffering sigh he wished to heave himself. "No. I meant right at this moment.

Look outside and tell me what you see."

"Why?"

"What else have we to do?"

"Pray you don't sneeze."

"I have not sneezed for over three hours."

"The coaching house at Pilldowne Crossing will never be the same."

"No one noticed," she said quietly. " 'Twas only a little smoke. Truly, you heard them. They thought something was stuck in the chimney."

The clamor of horses' hooves on the paving stones rang out in the tense silence. "Satisfy my curiosity and tell me something," Alec said.

She nodded.

"What were you thinking about when you sneezed at the coaching house?"

Her face flushed with guilt, and she turned to the window and mumbled something.

"I cannot hear you."

She sighed again, then turned back. "I was thinking that all those horrid plumes of choking chimney smoke were blowing on the poor wee post laddies and the horses outside the building. You saw it and heard them cough. One could hardly breathe. And I didn't do it on purpose. It just happened."

"Next time you feel a sneeze coming, do me a favor, don't think." Alec could almost feel the noose growing tighter and tighter around his neck.

The carriage made a sharp turn and rumbled onto a cobbled street. Daylight had just begun to fade into the distance, and she turned, her face cast in pink light for a brief instant. She watched him. He could see the urge to speak itching at her lips.

"Spit it out, Scottish."

Her face broke into that smile, young and eager and bright enough to dull the sunset and make his chest tighten.

"Isn't it the most wonderful thing?"

"What?"

"London. The sights, the sounds. Listen to that."

He frowned, hearing only the annoying clang of bells, the sharp tinny trumpets of the gazetteers, and the gibberish of hawkers calling out their cheap wares. An irritatingly squeaky hackney rattled past, a child screamed, horses clattered by. There was nothing but the harsh city din.

"Did you hear? They sell gingerbread on street corners. Imagine that . . . gingerbread." She gave him a wistful smile. "I love gingerbread, with currants."

Alec grunted a response.

"Whenever I eat it I think of All Hallows Eve." She leaned over and whispered to him, "Witches always eat gingerbread on All Hallows Eve, you know."

He hadn't the foggiest notion what gingerbread tasted like, but knowing it was connected with witchcraft did little to inspire him to sample the stuff. They'd probably serve it to him as his last meal, near the gallows.

She began to hum a bright lilting ditty.

The mournful strains of a funeral dirge played in his head.

Alec stared at her. The Duchess of Belmore was humming. Better than sneezing. She wiped the fog from her window and swayed her head to some tune only she knew.

She looked at him, smiling, her head still swaying. "Don't you hear the bells? I love bells. They remind me of Christmas and sleighs and"—she froze, as if to cut off what she was about to spill—"and the things I love."

It was there again, the look that made him feel as though he held the fate of her heart in his hands. He didn't want to feel anything. It was safer.

He looked at her, hoping to see something to help steel his reserve. That face. That strange, odd little face. She derived glowing pleasure from the most minuscule and ordinary things. Joyous.

She turned her face to his as if she'd heard his thoughts. "I've never ridden in a sleigh. Have you?"

"Yes." He stiffened, inexplicably irritated by her question and the path of his thoughts.

"Was it wonderful?"

He tried to think back, but could feel only the tension that was coursing through his body. "I have no memory of it. I suppose it was cold."

"Oh." She stared at her folded hands. "There weren't any sleighs on Mull. It only snowed once, and then but a tad."

In an effort to cut her off, he stared out the window, looking at London but not seeing it because he had to think of some way to get them through the next few weeks without the ton finding out that the Duchess of Belmore was a witch. The only solution he had been able to come up with was to hide her, keep her away from the nosy ton until it was absolutely necessary to reveal her. Perhaps he could pretend she was ill. Yes, that might do it. Just until she met the regent. Then they could get the devil out of London.

He stood and tapped on the driver's box above her seat. The trap slid open. "Jem, take the river streets to Belmore House, and use the back entrance."

The carriage whipped into a sharp right turn. Alec grabbed the back of the seat and braced his legs. Joy fell forward and clung to his left thigh, her face level with the buttons on his trousers. He glanced down and stopped breathing. The image that filled his mind was blatantly erotic. Then she righted herself, looked up at him with that innocent face, and apologized. He closed his eyes and stood there for the longest time.
Control yourself. Control.

He pushed away and sat back on the seat. She is a witch, he thought, watching as she turned to look out the window. There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do. He might be a duke, but he couldn't change the past or the weather. He couldn't give her rainbows and stars and diamonds in the snow and all that other rot. He had enough trouble not giving her a piece of him, of not letting her smiles and sighs and rose petals bewitch his heart. Bloody hell. He hadn't even known he had one.

He looked at her face and the unbidden thought of making love to her came to mind so strong that he had to take a deep breath. His rational mind told him their lovemaking had been at the root of his downfall. Perhaps he was only suffering from a good healthy dose of lust. He'd gone through it once before, at eighteen. But he was older now, more seasoned, smarter. Lust he could fight and control. It was something with which he was familiar.

For the next ten minutes they rode in silence—his stony, hers enthralled.

She squirmed in the seat, casting covert glances his way. She wanted to ask him something. Finally she found her voice. "What do you see when you look out the window?"

He looked outside. "Fog and dirty snow."

"Is that all?"

"That's all there is."

Her voice held a tinge of sadness that made him want to look away. "The fog is like the mist at home. The Scots say that a thick mist is just a wee bit of heaven drifting down to earth." She looked outside again and a few minutes later quietly asked, "Do you suppose there's enough snow for us to take a sleigh ride?"

Annoyed by all the talk of sleighs and bells and gingerbread—things he knew little of—he gave her the answer he assumed she sought. "Perhaps in the park."

But she continued to wait, her face expectant. He looked away, casting a covetous glance at a prime team of bays. Horses fit for a prince.

"What did you just see that so pleased you?"

He turned, startled that she could read his expression. He waited, then answered, "Horses."