Bewitching the Baron (32 page)

She tried to push the thought from her mind, feeling how it slowed her steps. Better to think of survival, first. She was exhausted from a day and a half without sleep and the healing she had done, and the only place of safety was Raven Hall, but the road that led there was at the opposite end of town. She would never make it.

She turned instead down the road that led to the mill, and the bridge that led across the small river and on to the road to Yarborough. With luck, she could leave the road somewhere and disappear into the forest. With luck.

She heard shouts behind her, and knew that the entire town would soon know of Charmaine’s poor children, and the demon sitting on Valerian’s shoulder.

Nathaniel,
she called out silently.
Help me. Please help me.

Chapter Twenty-five

Nathaniel rode slowly into town, his mind on Valerian. He had never had to break the news of a death to a family member, and he did not know how best to do so. At least it would not come as a total surprise, given how ill Theresa had been.

Lord Carlyle was still with the body, waiting for the women that Nathaniel had sent for from Raven Hall to take care of Theresa. If neither Valerian nor Charmaine had any objection, Nathaniel would have her buried in the cemetery at the hall.

He imagined that Valerian would want to stay on in the cottage, but he could not let her do that. It was no place for a young woman, alone. She would have to move in with her cousin, unless she had other relatives he did not know about. If this were London, he could set her up in a townhouse of her own, and no one would so much as blink an eye at the arrangement. But this was not London.

Which left Raven Hall, only she could not live there as a servant, as she was not one. And living there openly as his mistress would, he knew, be unacceptable to both her and the village.

Not that he would mind having her there. He liked the few quiet evenings they had shared on the couch before the fire, and he enjoyed talking with her. In fact, all questions of lust put aside, he rather liked her as a person.

He reined Darby to a halt, surprised by the idea. He had plenty of friends he found somewhat entertaining, but did not find commendable as people. He examined the strange, unfamiliar sensation he felt when he thought of Valerian, the one other than lust and pleasure. It felt, rather remarkably, like respect.

He nudged Darby and resumed his slow ride into town, examining this revelation. He had never before combined respect with feelings of desire for a woman. It was a novel experience. It occurred to him that she deserved more than what he had been giving her.

A shout in the distance brought him back to the present, and to the purpose of this journey. A quiver of self-reproach went through him, as he realized his thoughts had been on his own emotions, when he should have been thinking about how to soften the blow his news would bring to Valerian.

The village felt both alive and empty at once, and he began to pay a little more attention as he rode through. Here and there a door hung open, or a child peered out a window, although as far as he could tell there was nothing to see.

He dismounted in front of the cobbler’s shop, intending to wait downstairs until Valerian had finished with Charmaine. The front door here, as well, hung open, the shop dark, but there was light coming from the kitchen in back. He rapped on the open door frame. “Hello?” he called inside. “Is there anyone here?”

There was no answer, but perhaps everyone was upstairs. He was hesitant to enter his second house today uninvited, but then mentally shrugged and went ahead. After all, the door was hanging wide open.

In the kitchen he stopped short when he saw the back of the man sitting at the table, his head down on his crossed arms. “Your pardon, sir! I did not believe anyone to be about.” Which made him sound, he realized, rather like a housebreaker.

The man stirred at his voice, raising his head and turning, then staring blankly at him. “Pardon?”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude. I came to speak with Miss Bright. You are her cousin?”

He did not answer, only continued to stare.

“Miss Bright is here, is she not?” He was beginning to wonder if he had stumbled into the wrong house. They did all look alike.

“No.”

Nathaniel turned about, looking at the kitchen. Did the houses all look the same inside, as well? He could swear this was the same kitchen he had been in before. Then the man spoke again. “She has gone.”

Nathaniel felt his heart trip. She could not have gone home, he could not have missed her. He had promised Theresa. “When?”

“Five minutes past? Ten? Maybe longer.” The man resumed staring at nothing.

What was wrong with the man? Nathaniel gave up trying to gain any more definite information from him. He was already on his way out when the man spoke once more.

“I know she is not a witch, whatever they may say. She did all she could for my Charmaine and the babes.”

The words brought Nathaniel up short. “What do you mean?”

“I have no wish to see her harmed. It was not her fault.”

Nathaniel came back into the room, and lay his hand on the man’s shoulder, mustering all the patience he possessed. “What is not her fault?” Did he have to drag every word out of the man?

But the man would tell him nothing more, and pulled away from his hand, dropping his head back onto his arms. His shoulders shook, and Nathaniel knew he was weeping.

He ran back outside and mounted, the empty village and open doors now taking on an ominous cast. He rode back to where he recalled a child’s face at the window. She—or he, it was not clear which—was still there.

“Where have your parents gone?” Nathaniel demanded.

The child stared.

“Answer me!” Could no one in this damned village speak?

Another head came up beside the first, slightly older, hair in braids. She looked him over for a long minute, then pointed a pudgy finger down the street. “Mam and Pap went down there, with everybody else.”

“My thanks!” Nathaniel shouted as he wheeled Darby about and dug in his heels, urging the beast to a gallop, his own heart beating in his chest with a growing fear for Valerian.

A short distance past the edge of town the road led by the mill, and Nathaniel saw the lantern and torch light even before he heard the voices, raised suddenly in a cheer. He bent low over Darby’s neck, urging the horse to run as it never had before.

Whatever it was that made that mob cheer, he knew it could not be good for Valerian.

“She should be burnt!” Alice Torrance declared, backed by several assents.

“Hang her!” someone else opined.

Valerian cringed on the ground at the center of the group, listening to the low hatred that murmured from their throats. She was bruised but otherwise unharmed.

Jeremiah O’Connor, the smith, pushed through to the front of the group, meeting several gazes before speaking. “I am not convinced she is a witch.”

“Nor I,” said Mr. Miller, Gwendolyn’s father, as he came forward.

“What more proof do you need?” Alice shouted, and grasping Charmaine’s melded children by the feet, held up their naked body in the torch light as if they were trussed fowl.

“No!” Valerian cried, and rising tried to snatch the children from Alice. She could not bear to see them displayed so, these innocent children. At that moment, she thought she could see the true face of evil, and it belonged to Alice Torrance.

Alice jerked the body out of her reach, as someone else knocked Valerian back to the ground. “See how she craves to have it, as if it were her own child. Hers and Satan’s!”

“I do not believe she is a witch,” Sally said and pushed forward to stand beside the two men. “She has never harmed me or my children, has only used her gifts to help us.”

Valerian turned a grateful look at the threesome, and became aware of a shift in the crowd. A small, ever so small faction seemed to be growing behind the lead of these three. The majority, however, still had bloodlust in their eyes.

Alice lowered the body, letting the children dangle by her side as she held them by one foot. “If we are not certain, then we should try her in the old way.” The crowd waited, expectant. “By water!”

A moment of silence was followed by a murmur of assent, rising, growing in strength as the group considered and found the idea acceptable. Even a few of those who seemed to support her were nodding their heads. Then Gwendolyn offered to get rope from the stables, and new energy ran through the mob.

Aunt Theresa’s vision in the scrying came back to her, that she would be in the water with the light of flames about her. She had thought she had made it come true herself, when she took Nathaniel to the cave. She should have known better. Nothing ever came true as one expected.

Then, the final words of Theresa’s vision came back to her.
The baron is there.
She tried to see past the crowd, tried to find some hint of his presence, but there was none. Not yet. But he would come. He had to. She had to hold tight to that hope, even as she felt a shudder of fear run through her.

She tried to fight the fear by focusing on her breathing, on the beat of her heart, trying to find the calm that Theresa had taught her. She had to hang on to her reason, lest she panic and somehow bring about her own demise. The baron would come. He would come. The crowd and their intentions faded slightly from her awareness as she focused on that thought.

Gwen returned with the rope, and it was decided Valerian should be stripped down to her chemise, as the weight of the green gown might give her unfair advantage and help her sink. If she floated, however, it would prove that God’s water had rejected her and she was indeed a witch.

Sally stepped forward to tend to the task of undressing her, taking the opportunity to speak for Valerian’s ears alone. “We will pull you up as soon as we can. Hold your breath. We cannot stop the dunking, but perhaps we can make it shorter.”

“The baron will help,” Valerian said under her breath, her voice flat as she sought to deepen her trance. “He will come.”

Sally nodded, but Valerian knew she doubted her words.

Someone pulled Sally away, and then rough hands shoved Valerian to the ground and pulled her hands forward to tie them to her feet. A rope was wrapped around her waist, with which they would haul her out when they were through. The fear she had been holding in firm check fought to break through, and she trembled, but then forced her muscles to go slack. Her only chance of survival was in submission.

Your hair spreading in the water. The baron is there.
She clung to the words. He would come when she was in the water. He would come.

She shut her eyes as hands lifted her and carried her to the edge of the millpond, swinging her to build momentum. “One . . . Two . . .” the voices said in unison, “Three! . . . Heave!”

She was in the air, free for a moment, sung to by the cheer of the mob. She took a deep breath and hit the hard, cold water, a sudden smack against her body, and then was swallowed by the cold dark mouth of it.

Swallowed for long seconds, and she held herself from struggling, counting slowly in her head. She could last half a minute, she was certain, and perhaps a full minute or two if she had to, if she kept control of herself.

She reached eleven in her counting when she felt her back break the surface of the water. It was a moment before the significance came through to her.
I float.
They would drag her out and burn her, baron or no baron. Why did she float? Why?

The answer came to her as clearly as a diagram in an anatomy book. Her lungs were full of air, keeping her buoyed at the surface, her arms and legs beneath her.

Nathaniel, come soon,
she silently pleaded, and released her breath in soft bubbles. She twisted to the side, bringing the weight of her legs and arms over her body, and slowly sank to the bottom of the pond.

Chapter Twenty-six

Darby suddenly shied, a shadow dashing at horse and rider out of the darkness. Nathaniel struggled to bring the horse under control, finally succeeding despite the continued presence of the fluttering shadow.

“Baron Ravenall, is that you?” the shadow asked in a woman’s voice.

“Aye. Step aside there.” Impatient to get to Valerian, he would not be delayed.

“Wait! Miss Bright needs your help.”

“Tell me what is happening,” he demanded, his urgency matching her own.

“They have thrown her in the millpond. It has been too long already, we have not been able to get them to pull her up. You must help her!”

A witch dunking. Good God. His heart beat a wild rhythm in his chest as he spurred Darby to cover the remaining distance to the torchlight. No one noticed his approach, everyone’s attention on a brawl along the edge of the water. Two large men were struggling against at least four others, with much cursing and grunting, and bloodied faces on several. Beyond the onlookers, the smooth surface of the millpond threw back only the wind-rippled reflections of the torches. The lack of waves or splashing chilled him to his very soul.

“Cease!” he roared into the crowd, surprising the watchers, but doing nothing to break up the brawl. He had no time for that. He recognized the innkeeper’s wife at the edge of the water, and pinned her with his gaze. “Where is she?”

She looked quickly to the mob, then down at her hands. Nathaniel followed her gaze to the rope she held, the other end of which disappeared into the water. In the next moment she was sprawled in the mud, and he was hauling on the rope, barely aware that a few other hands had joined in, while the men continued their battle.

How long had she been under? Long enough for a fight to break out, long enough for a woman to run for help. Long enough for the last of her breath to break the surface and vanish, the water absorbing the last trace of ripples.

Her chest and every muscle ached with the need to take a breath. She had lost count of how long she had been under, her mind filled with the pain and the utter necessity of not breathing. A small part of her knew she rested on the bottom of the pond, in the cold silt, and could feel the pressure against her ears, the aching pain of the frigid water that was nothing compared to the pain of her body’s cry for air.