Heather Graham (10 page)

“Indeed, ’tis a good day, woman,” Lord Bryant told her. “Has your mistress decided to attend the hunt?”

“I believe so,” Mary Kate murmured uncomfortably. Why did they both look so sly?

“Ah, then you would be planning on coming along later to attend to her, am I right?” Jerome asked.

“Of course!” Mary Kate said. What did these two rogues have up their elegant sleeves?

They had come upon one of the innumerable nooks in the walls, and to her alarm, Mary Kate realized she was being pressed toward it.

“Now, my lords—” she began nervously.

“Now, my good woman!” Jamison said with a wink.

“I’m afraid that we just can’t allow you to attend your mistress this particular evening,” Jamison said sadly.

“Afraid not,” Jerome agreed.

Mary Kate stared sternly at Jamison Bryant. “But, my young lord—”

She never finished her sentence.

Something was thrown over her head. And her protest died in her throat.

Rose was dressed and in the midst of choosing what belongings to take along for an overnight stay when she realized that Mary Kate had been gone a long time. She stepped into the hallway, but did not see the woman returning. She came back into her room and sighed. Where had she gotten to? If Rose didn’t see her soon, she would have to leave without saying good-bye. But then, she would see Mary Kate soon enough as the servants’ party would certainly reach the inn by nightfall.

There was a tap at the door a moment later. She threw it open with a smile, certain that Mary Kate had returned. But Jamison stood there, dressed in elegant velvet and frills, leaning against the doorframe. “Hello, cousin. I assume you intend to accept His Majesty’s invitation to the hunt?”

“Yes.”

“Then may I escort you? They are all gathered outside in the courtyard, near ready to ride. Have you your things? If you’ll allow me, my manservant, Beckman, is with me, and can carry your belongings.”

“I wasn’t quite ready—”

“I can wait, Rose.”

“I was hoping to wait for Mary Kate.”

“You do seem to be losing the woman quite frequently lately,” he commented. “Did you ever find her last night? Perhaps your father should have provided you with a more dependable servant.”

She smiled stiffly. “Mary Kate is extremely dependable.”

“But she is not here. And you are invited to ride with the king. Imagine your father’s horror if you were to refuse His Majesty’s invitation because of a tarrying servant!”

“My Lord Bryant, she will not tarry long. You must go ahead, without me. When she returns, I will come along.”

“I’ll wait with you,” he repeated.

Rose hesitated. She would see Mary Kate tonight. And she didn’t like waiting here with Jamison.

She waved a hand in the air, moving back from the door. “Fine, Lord Bryant. Your man may take my things. You’re right. Mary Kate will come along later.”

Jamison smiled, quite pleased. Rose felt a little shudder of unease. She had written her father the moment that she had learned of the elder Bryant’s death, certain that Ashcroft would immediately find her a guardian more suitable than Jamison. But though ships traveled swiftly, it could easily be three months before her letter reached her father, and his response reached England. So she’d have to tread carefully, steadfastly going her own way, yet courteous enough to Jamison to make him think she paid him some heed.

“Rose?” While his servant fetched her leather bags, he offered her his arm. She took it, exiting the room, closing the door behind her.

For her part of it, Beth had hurried to a tiny cottage deep in the woods when daylight had just broken.

She had to admit to being frightened, for she had known about Madame Bonnie from the time she had been a child. Madame Bonnie could do things. She could rid a woman of an unwanted child. She could make a man fall in love. She could bring about the death of an enemy. She was a very powerful woman, probably the only woman Beth had ever imagined to be as powerful as a man, and for that, she feared her greatly, and admired her.

Bone chimes hung from the trees before the tiny cottage. There were numerous other telltale signs of Madame Bonnie’s vocation as well, and Beth was certain that the woman could be easily convicted of witchcraft. In the days of James I she would have certainly hanged, since he had been rumored to have had a fury against witches.

But Madame Bonnie had bided her time through the old king’s rule, and through Cromwell’s. The new king, Charles II, was a tremendously tolerant sovereign; all the people said it. He did not hunt down witches. Perhaps he didn’t even believe in witchcraft. He was wrong, Beth knew. There was magic. Magic could be bought.

Beth hesitated just a second outside the door. She had only come to Madame Bonnie once before in her life, when she had been young and foolish and had nearly ruined her life by tarrying with a stable hand in the barn. She had used her entire savings to buy Madame Bonnie’s magic then. Now she had Lord Jamison Bryant’s gold coins, and she could afford to buy all manner of marvelous things.

Before she could knock, the door creaked inward on its hinges. A long, bony finger beckoned to her. “Come in, come in. Speak to me.”

Beth entered the cottage. She looked around. Small dead creatures hung from the rafters. Something boiled in a kettle above the fire. The floor was simple earth, the windows shuttered. It was dark and dank, and it smelled as evil as Madam Bonnie looked in her dingy brown dress and robe. Wisps of gray hair framed her face; her eyes looked like pitch-black orbs within the gray-toned pallor of her face.

“Speak up!” Madam Bonnie commanded.

“I need a special potion.”

“For what?”

“Something to drug and seduce. Something powerful enough to delude the mind, yet heighten desires as well. Something to trick and deceive—”

“You ask a great deal! An opiate and an aphrodisiac! What you seek is surely dangerous. Dare you dabble so with life?”

Beth inhaled and exhaled quickly. The room seemed to be growing smaller, darker. The smell of the herbs that simmered in the pot seemed to be strangling her.

She slipped her hand into her pocket, producing all of Jamison’s gold coins. Madame Bonnie’s black eyes sparked. She seized one of the coins and bit down on it, then stared at Beth again. Beth found some courage.

“Give me a potion! It must work! It must. I need enough for three. Something to slip in their wine when they sup. It must cause them to grow weary, to sleep, yet they must all awake later, seduced, willing to allow their minds to believe that they are with the one they love.”

“There are no guarantees!” Madam Bonnie warned, a crooked, bony finger pointed Beth’s way.

“You must! You must make this happen. My master is a powerful lord. He will see that you hang if you fail—and he will give me more gold to bring if you succeed!”

Madame Bonnie turned away. She walked to the fire and threw some dust from her raw wood mantel on it. It fumed out, sparking, taking on startling colors. Beth watched the colors, amazed.

Drugs, Madam Bonnie thought. The peasant girl wanted magic; all that she needed was the proper chemistry. The wine itself could be a sound base as both opiate and aphrodisiac. All that Madam Bonnie had to do was add the right combination of other concoctions from her extensive larder. She thought for several moments, the colors in the fire buying her time with the mesmerized girl.

Then she began to pick and choose among her vials and stock, mixing a colorless potion before the flames. She made it take time. She whispered incantations and pretended to add a drop of bat’s blood for good measure.

Then she gave the mixture to Beth. “Don’t forget, old woman,” Beth told her, “you will hang if this fails!” But her threat sounded very weak. She was anxious to leave.

Madam Bonnie smiled and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t threaten me, young woman! Death is the easiest magic of all!” She began to cackle gleefully.

And Beth began to run.

It was one of the most enjoyable days Rose could remember.

The king and queen behaved as sweetly as any two young lovers, leading the party through the forest.

Several fine bucks were spotted and brought down. The king killed one himself with a fine display of archery.

Another was brought down, Rose noticed, by the never-faltering Lord DeForte.

Rose found the Italian astronomer, Lionel Triolio, a very handsome and charming man, lean and dark, with flashing brown eyes. From the moment he helped her mount her mare, his admiration was alive in his eyes. She rode with him listening to him explain the way that the stars moved in the heavens, why the moon could be so full and beautiful. His accent was delightful.

Jason Padraic was the architect, a student of Sir Christopher Wren, and he was equally amusing. He had sandy-colored hair, warm hazel eyes, and a most pleasant look of adoration on his face. A Lord Samuel Newburg was also with them, a young count from the Yorkshire countryside. All of them seemed to vie for her attention. She was enjoying herself immensely. Despite the fact that Jamison Bryant followed behind her, the day was beautiful. All that marred it was DeForte. She caught him watching her once with a silver sparkle of mockery in his eyes, and when they chanced to meet on one occasion, she discovered that he mocked her indeed.

“You’re acquiring quite a stable of admirers, Mistress Rose. Let’s see, a count, a builder, a reader of the stars! Why, imagine, these poor fellows follow at your heels like puppy dogs, seeking some small handout!”

“Would you please go about your own business, DeForte?” she demanded.

He smiled, shaking his head. “The poor fellows! How you do tease and charm!”

“I believe they’ll survive,” Rose told him wryly.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He was suddenly staring at her in a way that seemed to judge and condemn. “Do you have any idea at all what you do to men? Ah, perhaps you know exactly what powers you possess, and enjoy the tempest you create.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she responded angrily, uncomfortable with the way that he was looking at her. “The gentlemen are a pleasure, a change from certain people I have become acquainted with at court! They are attentive, courteous, cultured—”

“They are lusting after something far different from a poetry reading!” he advised her. “You are as tempting as a perfect apple, dangling from a low branch of a tree. The very flash of your eyes beckons beyond belief!”

Her temper seemed to soar and snap. She fought to control it, since she could hardly pitch herself against him and pound her fists into his chest, as she longed to do.

She leaned forward to speak regally to him. “Just what is it, my Lord DeForte, that so irritates you? The court is filled with flirtations! Is there something you want that you fear I will cast too freely to others?”

“Something I want?” he inquired, his brow shooting up. He smiled slowly. “Dear Mistress Woodbine. You forget. I am the Duke of Werthington. If I wanted something, I would take it.”

“The great DeForte!” she returned. “Really? I don’t think so, sir. As I’ve told you, I think nothing of titles. Power, my lord, lies within a person! If I wanted something, DeForte, I would have it! Believe me.”

A slow smile curved into his lip, and his brow arched high again. “Mistress Woodbine, you are an intriguing creature. A slim little girl, and you think to have the world by the throat! If you wished to wed me, then, you would do so?”

Her heart shuddered suddenly. She was being far too flippant, but he brought out the worst in her. She lifted her chin and gave him a superior smile. “If I wished it, sir, it would be so. But fear not. In all of my life, I have never met a more arrogant, conceited fellow—with or without a title! I would rather wed an ape!” she finished in sudden fury.

She was startled when he came closer, his horse jostling hers, his hand falling upon her wrist. “And I am the arrogant one?” he demanded. He was as angry as she, she realized. More so. Waves of fiery heat seemed to wash off him, cascading over her. She was dismayed by the strange trembling that had begun within her when he had come so close and his hand had fallen upon her. She flushed, feeling color race to her cheeks. He would know, she thought in panic. In a matter of seconds, he would know. He would realize some heat had grown within her, he must feel it now, searing the air between them. He was staring at her in turn, his jaw set hard, not seeming to notice the blush that suffused her face. His eyes caught hers, fell to her lips, to her breasts, then rose to her eyes again, silver anger bright within them.

“Stop it!” she hissed. “Let go of me! I do not need your warning!”

“Don’t fool yourself, Mistress Woodbine! A man needs only to see the fire in your eyes to know that he could reach heaven in your embrace!”

“A man?” she challenged. “Any man? You—milord DeForte?”

He seemed startled by the question, then emotions seemed to speed quickly through him—anger first, followed by amusement. “A fair question!” he said, staring at her hard. “All right, Rose. Yes. When I see you, the fire in your eyes, the blaze of your hair, I must admit to a feeling that’s definitely carnal! Any man would feel the same. But take care! You will tarry where you do not mean to, and find that you are in trouble.”

“How dare you!” she cried. She wrenched free from his grasp. Her mare pranced backward and forward. “I shall always be where I intend to be, milord. Don’t concern yourself with me! You’ve the Lady Anne at your side, milord.” She smiled at him sweetly. “But then again, perhaps the Lady Anne will be saved from herself. Perhaps some God-sent fellow will mistake you for a deer and set her free!”

“A deer?” he demanded sardonically. Away from her now, he seemed to find a certain wry amusement in her. “You have made a complete menagerie of me, Rose. First I am a horse, then a jackass, and now a buck.”

“I was mistaken,” she said swiftly. “In truth you are never anything but a jackass, my Lord DeForte!”

She nudged her horse hard. Her mare went leaping forward, startled by her sudden command.

And she rode on past DeForte, hearing the echo of his laughter in her wake.