Born Wicked: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One: The Cahill Witch Chronicles, Book One (12 page)

THE NEXT AFTERNOON I GRAB MYwatercolors and head to the garden under the pretense of finishing a painting for Elena. A goldfinch squawks nearby, lifting off with an angry flutter of wings. It swoops in a circle before settling in a nearby oak. I feel rather like squawking myself.
Instead I walk toward the hammering on the hillside. Finn is perched on the top rung of a ladder, nailing a roof beam into place. “Mr. Belastra!” I

Finn turns, startled. His movement sways the ladder, which slumps sideways, taking him with it. I cry out a warning, but it’s too late—Finn windmills his arms, snatching at empty air. He lands awkwardly, one ankle crumpled beneath him.
I run toward him, throwing my watercolors and sketch pad to the ground, cursing this damned corset.
“Are you all right?” I crouch beside him.
He’s sitting up, but his face is ashen beneath his freckles. He turns his head and curses like a sailor.
I gasp in mock outrage. “Mr. Belastra, I wasn’t aware you knew such words!”
He tries to grin, but it comes out a grimace. “Large vocabulary.”
“Shall I fetch John? Do you need help?”
“I can manage,” he huffs. From my vantage point I can see the back of his neck flush pink beneath his collar. He’s got freckles there, too.
I wonder how many freckles he’s got. Are they all over, or just where the sun’s touched?
“—your arm?”
I’m too mortified to meet his eyes. “What?” Good Lord, why am I thinking of Finn Belastra without his clothes on? My mind’s gone all muddled from the excitement of his accident.
“Your arm? Could you help me up?” he asks.
“Oh. Yes!” He grasps my shoulder and heaves himself upright, letting out another string of curses. I stand, too, and grab the overcoat he’s left folded on the floor of the gazebo.
We begin the slow walk back through the gardens, Finn leaning against me, his arm slung around my shoulders. I can’t help assessing him from the corner of my eye. Now that I know how fiercely he’d protect his mother and Clara, I—
I can’t help but think of him differently. If he was handsome before, now he’s doubly so. Still, I can’t go falling in love with the gardener. That’s like something out of one of Maura’s novels. And with the Brothers watching the shop so closely, any alliance with the Belastras would only put us under more scrutiny.
Finn catches me staring. “Don’t worry, I won’t faint,” he jokes.
“I hope not. I don’t think I can carry you.”
We limp along to the kitchen door. Finn props himself against the brick wall while I call for Mrs. O’Hare. She stops dinner preparations—possibly for the best—and bustles over. The kitchen smells like freshly baked bread.
“Finn fell off the ladder,” I announce. We deposit him in her old brown-flowered armchair by the fire.
Mrs. O’Hare clucks her tongue. “Oh, dear. Should I send for Dr. Allen?”
Finn shakes his head. “No, thank you. Just let me get my boot off and assess the damage.”
“Of course. I’ll get you some tea,” she says, ruffling his thick hair like a child. Mrs. O’Hare knows no strangers.
Finn pulls off his work boot and wriggles his gray-stockinged toes. When he attempts to roll his ankle, he lets out a pained hiss through his teeth.
Mrs. O’Hare hurries over, clucking. “Poor boy. Is it broken?”
“Just a bad sprain, I think.”
Mrs. O’Hare snatches up her sewing basket from the corner. Some of our chemises and stockings are piled there, waiting to be mended. I blush, hoping Finn won’t notice them. “Let me see. I’ve dressed more than one sprained ankle in my time. Cate here can attest to that,” Mrs. O’Hare says.
“No, no, I can do it,” Finn objects.
“Nonsense! Just give me one minute.” Mrs. O’Hare lifts the lid to stir something bubbling over in the pot. It lets out a tempting aroma of onions and butternut squash. Perhaps tonight’s dinner won’t be a travesty after all.
“Could you do it?” Finn asks, his voice low.
“Me?” I’m hardly a nurse. “You’d be better off with her.”
He looks at Mrs. O’Hare, busy over the pot of soup, then lifts his pant leg slightly—just enough to reveal the pistol strapped to his shin. “Please, Cate.”
Oh. I nod and kneel beside him. “Yes, of course.”
Mrs. O’Hare chuckles when she sees me fumbling with her roll of bandages. “You, playing nursemaid? What’s gotten into you?”
I blink up at her innocently. “I ought to learn how, shouldn’t I? In case anyone ever takes pity and marries me?”
“Lord help the man,” she laughs. “All right, but don’t tie it too tight or you’ll cut off his circulation.”
I give Finn a wicked smile. “Don’t you think a peg leg would be charming? Like a pirate? The first mate on the
Calypso
had one, didn’t he?”
“It would add a certain rakish factor. Have you got a spare eye patch?”
“Be serious, you two. Gangrene is no laughing matter,” Mrs. O’Hare scolds.
I look up at Finn, and his brown eyes collide with mine. My hand freezes an inch from his leg. I stare at him, stomach fluttering with nerves. I don’t know why I feel so shy all of a sudden. It’s not as though I’ve never seen a boy’s bare leg before. When Paul and I were children, he’d roll his pants up to his knees and I’d hitch up my skirts and we’d wade in the pond, trying to catch minnows in our hands.
But that was Paul, and we were only children. Somehow this feels a different thing entirely.
“Get on with it,” Mrs. O’Hare prompts, and I do, wrapping the bandage snugly over Finn’s instep and up his calf—which is sinewy with muscle, covered in fine coppery hair and more freckles. I’m fascinated by the pattern they form over his skin. Do they go all the way up his leg?
I flush scarlet at the thought.
“Now, you have some tea and leave that leg propped up for a bit, and then we’ll have John drive you back to town. Good work, Cate,” Mrs. O’Hare says.
I hang up my cloak in confusion. If I were to take notice of a man, it should be Paul.
But does your heart pound when he’s near?
My heart’s a hummingbird now, fluttering madly in my chest.
I drag a chair across the room to sit beside Finn. He’s staring at me, his eyes big and owlish behind his spectacles. “You needn’t stay here with me, you know.”
“Haven’t anything else better to do.” I shrug. Then I’m struck by the fear that perhaps he’d like me to leave. “Unless—do you want me to go?”
He chuckles—a nice, low hum of a laugh. I’ve never noticed that before. “No.”
“What, haven’t you got a book in your coat pocket?”
“I do, actually. But I only bring it out in dull company.”
Does he mean he enjoys my company? I smooth my green skirt, glad for once that I’m wearing something pretty, without mud on the knees and ragged hems.
We’re still sitting there, smiling foolishly at one another, when the kitchen door bangs open and Paul strides in, stamping his feet.
“There’s my girl! I’ve been combing the gardens for you. Maura said you were working on your watercolors.” He grabs up my hand and kisses it. I give him a warning look—he ought to know better than to take such liberties, especially in company. “Belastra, what have you done to yourself?”
Finn sips his tea. “Fell off a ladder,” he says coolly.
Paul’s lips twitch, and I feel a surge of protectiveness. “It was my fault,” I blurt.
“How’s that?” Paul cocks his head at me, confused.
I shift in my wooden chair. “I startled him.”
“No hard feelings. You did a grand job bandaging me up,” Finn says.
“Cate?” Paul laughs until he sees Finn’s smile, and then his jaw sets. “I ought to fall off more ladders myself, if it means having such a pretty nurse.”
“Stop,” I protest.
“Seriously, Cate, I could help John finish the gazebo. I wouldn’t mind an excuse to come by. I might even be able to make a few improvements to the design while I’m at it,” Paul muses, grinning.
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be right as rain in a few days,” Finn says.
“What?” I exclaim. “No. No more ladders for you. I won’t have you breaking your head next time.”
Paul chuckles. “Bossy as ever, aren’t you?”
Lord, I’ve just ordered Finn about the way I would my sisters. I grimace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so forward, I—”
“I don’t mind it,” Finn interrupts. His hand, on the arm of his chair, is very close to mine, on the arm of my chair. If I stretched out my fingertips, we’d be touching. It is suddenly, unaccountably difficult to resist. My entire body is tilted toward him. Is it very obvious, how enticing I find him? I fold my hands together in my lap.
Paul is watching us, a strange look on his face. “I don’t suppose you do. I like a woman with spirit myself.”
“With spirit?” I glare. “You make me sound like a horse.” Like something to be tamed and broken.
“Hardly.” He grins, grabs a wooden trowel from the hook on the wall, and takes up a fencing position.
“En garde.”
I look to Finn, mortified. Paul and I used to spar in the garden with sticks—and through the kitchen with cutlery—but that was when I was twelve. I shake my head. “Paul, no.”
Paul flourishes his would-be rapier at me. “Come now, I might actually stand a chance at besting you this time. I’ve been practicing at Jones’s club.”
Finn chuckles. “My money’s on Cate.”
“A gentleman’s wager?” Paul suggests, dropping a coin from his pocket on the table.
Neither of them have the money to waste on something so silly. “No, no betting. There’s only pride at stake,” I announce, seizing a long-handled spoon from the table and advancing on Paul threateningly.
“Cate!” Mrs. O’Hare wails. “I was using that. Put it down, you’ll get soup every—”
“Excellent!” I land a hit on Paul’s shoulder. The spoon leaves a squash-colored smudge on his gray overcoat.
“I’ll get you for that!” Paul waves the trowel at me. “This is a new jacket!”
We duck and dodge around the kitchen table, the icebox, and the stove. Mrs. O’Hare’s alternately chortling and urging me to behave like a proper young lady. I’m laughing, my hair tumbling out of its pins and down my back.
“Get him, Cate!” Finn yells.
I look at him over my shoulder, and he smiles. I catch my breath.
Paul sneaks up behind me, trapping me against his broad chest. He spins me around and taps the crown of my head with the wooden trowel. “Got you,” he says softly.
It’s under the guise of play, but it feels more than that. Staking his claim.
“Miss Cate?” The hall door flies open. One look at Lily’s face and I know something is wrong.
I disentangle myself from Paul. “What is it?”
“The Brothers are here.”
I freeze, but only for a second.
Maura or Tess? What could they have done when I wasn’t watching?
Why wasn’t I watching them better?
“Thank you, Lily,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake at all. I want very badly to look at Finn, but I don’t. If I do, I might beg him to let me borrow that pistol.
“Cate, your hair!” Mrs. O’Hare rushes over to fix it. When she’s finished, I smooth the wet grass from my hem and straighten my shoulders. I take some strength from the brave smile Mrs. O’Hare puts on, and then I follow Lily out.
Brother Ishida and Brother Ralston wait for me in the sitting room. Brother Ralston is a whiskered man with a big belly and a forehead so furrowed it looks like a spring field. He teaches literature and composition at the boys’ school; he’s a friend of Father’s.
“Good day, Miss Cate,” he says.
“Good day, sir.” I kneel before them.
Brother Ishida puts his plump, soft hand on my head. “Lord bless you and keep you this and all the days of your life.”
“Thanks be.” I stand but bite my tongue. I don’t dare ask why they are here. It would be impertinent.
They make me wait a long minute.
“Have you had any correspondence with Zara Roth?” Brother Ishida asks.
I raise my head, relief flooding through me. “No, sir,” I lie. “I wasn’t even aware I had a godmother until Mrs. Ishida told me about her. Isn’t she in Harwood Asylum? I didn’t think the patients there were permitted to write letters.”
“That is true, but there have been unscrupulous nurses willing to post a letter in the past. You haven’t had any contact with her whatsoever?” I make my gray eyes go wide with puzzlement. “No, sir. Never.”
“If you hear from her—if she attempts to contact you in any way—you must let us know immediately,” Brother Ralston urges. I clasp my hands before me and lower my eyes to their boots. “Of course, sir. I’d tell you straightaway.”
“She was a wicked woman, Miss Cahill. A witch masquerading as a devout member of our Sisterhood. She was treasonous to our government and to our Lord. I do not know why your mother, Lord rest her soul, would have appointed such a person to be your godmother.” Brother Ishida’s dark eyes focus on me, as though I am somehow tainted by association.
I glance up at the family portrait—Mother, serene and beautiful—and shake my head sadly. “I don’t know either, sir. Mother never mentioned her.”
“We hope it was only a matter of womanly frailty on her part,” Brother Ralston said. “You must be wary of the devil’s tempting whispers masquerading as the voice of friends, Miss Cate. Trusting the wrong sort of people can lead down dark paths.”
“We hope you will not follow in your godmother’s footsteps,” Brother Ishida says. “We noted that you visited Belastras’ bookshop yesterday.”
I start. They were following me? Why would they follow me? But Brother Ralston makes a calming gesture, as though I’m some skittish filly. “We have been watching the comings and goings of the bookshop for some time. It does not behoove a young lady of your station to linger in such a place, Miss Cate. The company a girl keeps is vital to her reputation.”
“I was only there on an errand for Father,” I lie.
“You didn’t leave with any parcels,” Brother Ishida says.
“I thought your father was in New London,” Brother Ralston adds.
Lord, they
are
monitoring things. I think quickly. “I was delivering a message. Finn Belastra is our new gardener. Only I got to talking and . . .” I hope they won’t ask why John couldn’t deliver the message. Or whether Finn and I were alone together in the shop.
Brother Ralston smiles fondly, only too willing to believe in my womanly frailty. If it weren’t to my advantage, I’d slap the smile from his face. “Ah, that makes more sense. Your father’s said you aren’t the clever sort.”
I grit my teeth. “I confess I don’t see the appeal in so much book learning.” I give them a look of doe-eyed distress, fluttering my spindly blond lashes. Sachi Ishida herself would be proud.
“There’s no harm in that. Too much knowledge turns a woman’s head,” Brother Ralston says.
“You won’t ever miss your godmother, Miss Cahill,” Brother Ishida says. “You have all the guidance you need. It is our duty to care for our sons and daughters, and we are happy to do it.”
I mask my fury with a smile. “Yes, sir. I’m very grateful for that.”
“When do you turn seventeen, Miss Cahill?”
Oh no. “March fourteenth, sir.”
Brother Ralston peers down at me, his jolly blue eyes uncomfortable. “You are aware of the importance of your next birthday, correct?” I nod, hoping that will be all, but he continues. “Three months before your birthday, you must announce either your betrothal or your intention to join the Sisterhood. In mid-December, there will be a ceremony at church in which you will pledge yourself in service to your husband or to the Lord. We take the declaration of intent very seriously.”