Charming the Devil (11 page)

Faye sat in silence. Her head was spinning with information. Perhaps that was why it throbbed dully. Or had a lie caused the pain? And if so, was the lie her own or another’s?

Glancing about, she remembered the surreal allure that had brought her here. What had caused that unusual phenomenon? Rising to her feet, she turned, and in that moment the light flickered off, shutting darkness into the room.

F
ear turned Faye’s legs to lead, her throat to marble. She tried to push out a question, but she couldn’t speak. Foolish. She was safe, after all, surrounded by others.

But was she? She realized suddenly that she couldn’t hear a single noise from below, for the walls were thick, the doors the same. The room was simply, inexplicably dark. She turned, searching the interior, then she saw it. A hunched shadow.

“Who’s there?” Her voice trembled, barely audible to her own ears. Fear quivered up her limbs, trembled in her soul. Lucifer had found her at last. Just as Tenning had said he would. Had found her and would punish her for her lies. For her disloyalty and…

But no. All that was behind her.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was stronger now, and she managed to step toward the door.

But suddenly the shadow was there, looming in front of her.

She tried to scream, but a hand shot out, covering her mouth, freezing her breath.

“So you’ve come.” His voice was a whisper from hell as he pressed up against her.

Panic suffocated her, freezing her limbs, her mind.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

She shook her head, trying to drive away the nightmare. But he remained. She was pressed into a corner, her spine cutting into the books behind her.

His free hand groped her breasts. She tried to scream, but he leaned closer still, breath hot against her ear.

“Quiet now. Quiet so we can enjoy this the more.”

She sobbed something inarticulate.

“Do you understand me?”

She jerked a spasmodic nod.

“Good. Good,” he said, and yanked up her skirts.

Memories flooded in, dark and terrible. Her mind scurried for cover, for hiding as it always had. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight back.

“Such a sweet little piece. So delicate. So fragile,” he hissed, but it was a lie. She knew it suddenly. Knew it in her head, in her core. She lurched forward, throwing every ounce of her weight against him, making him stumble back a pace. Hope made her strong. Anger made her wild. She flew at him, clawing like a feral beast, but he caught her hands.
Something struck the side of her head. She wobbled to the right. Consciousness wavered. Her knees buckled.

But fury still roared in her mind like a maelstrom, and suddenly the ceramic angel flew forward. There was a resounding crash. Her attacker crumbled. She bolted past him, but even as she did so, he reached up, snagging her skirt.

“Come back, witch!” His voice was guttural as he tried to yank her back, but she had reached the door and snagged the handle. His fingers slipped, and she was through. Safe, slamming against the far wall of the hallway, twisting about, staring wide-eyed at the yawning rectangle of the doorway. Standing outside of hell, the light all but blinded her.

“Faye!”

She turned with a jolt to find Madeline just a few yards away, worry stamped on her face.

“What happened?” Shaleena appeared, holding her skirts with both hands as she rushed up the stairs.

“In there,” Faye whispered, and tried to point, but her arm was too shaky, her body too weak.

“Where? What?”

“The Devil!” Faye rasped.

Shaleena met Maddy’s worried gaze for an instant, then the latter stepped inside.

“No!” Faye forced herself to take one wooden step forward, to try to save the woman who had saved her. But Madeline was already inside, and
try as she might, Faye could not find the courage to go farther.

A diffused shaft of light fell from the hallway at an oblique angle, slanting through the library’s doorway. From where Faye stood, the room looked empty, innocuous. She shook her head, waiting desperately for Madeline to return.

And then light sprang into the room. Madeline strode back into view. Unscathed but somber.

“Are you certain someone was there?” she asked.

Madness stalked Faye like an ogre. She shifted her gaze from Madeline to the library.

“Are you certain?” she asked again.

It took all of Faye’s faltering nerve to step toward the room, all of her flagging strength to enter it; except for the trappings of the rich, the room was empty. Only the angel was displaced, facedown on the plush carpet, arms outstretched, the tiniest scrap of mint fabric caught on the tip of its wing.

Faye scanned the room once and again, then shook her head. “I’m not mad,” she whispered. “I’m not,” she said, but even she was uncertain whether her words were true.

Madeline was staring at her, brows furrowed. “Perhaps he escaped through the window,” she said.

With one glance, Shaleena strode past them to the far wall and tugged at the heavy wood that encased the thick pane. “Locked,” she said, “from the inside.”

Faye skittered her gaze to Madeline, and in the shadow of her eyes, Faerie Faye saw doubt.

“Let’s get you home,” Maddy said. Wrapping her shawl around Faye’s shoulders, she glanced at Shaleena.

“I’ll find him if he’s here,” said the other.

Madeline nodded. They stepped together into the hallway.

“Is something amiss?” Lady Lindale asked, hurrying toward them. “I heard a noise.”

“Mrs. Nettles is feeling unwell,” Madeline said. “Might you have someone fetch my husband? I think it best if we see her home.”

Hailing the nearest servant, Lady Lindale gave instructions before turning back. “Whatever could be wrong?” Her worried gaze skipped to Faye.

“He was there,” Faye whispered.

“I’m not exactly certain,” Madeline said. “If you’ll excuse us—”

“He came for me,” Faye whispered.

“Is she well?” Lord Gallo was there suddenly, eyes dark with intensity.

Faye jerked back, feeling invaded, feeling struck, but he turned his gaze from her, settled it on his wife.

“Yes. Certainly,” Madeline said, “Just overtired.”

“He was there,” Faye murmured, voice low as she searched Maddy’s eyes. There was worry there. And uncertainty.

“Who was there?” asked Lady Lindale, face paler than ever.

“The Devil.”

“Most likely a dream,” Gallo said. “My wife tells me Mrs. Nettles is prone to fitful nights.”

“Of course,” Maddy said. “That must be it. She was feeling a bit unwell. Might you have fallen asleep, Mrs. Nettles?”

They were treating her like a child. Or worse, as if she were mad. But there was entreaty in Madeline’s eyes, forcing Faye to nod, to play along, to hope they were wrong, that she wasn’t crazy.

“I was resting on the…on the lounge. Perhaps I nodded off without knowing,” she said, and felt her head begin to throb in earnest with the force of her lie.

“We’ll get you home straightaway,” Madeline said, then to Lord Gallo, “Could you have Joseph bring the carriage round?”

He nodded and disappeared.

Madeline tightened her arm about Faye’s shoulders and eased her forward. They didn’t allow madwomen to remain without chaperones.

At the bottom of the stairs, the crowd seemed to surge toward her, lies pounding at her brain, but Madeline steered her through the mob.

The night air felt cool and soothing as Lord Gallo ushered them inside the dark landau.

The springs creaked beneath them as they bent to enter. Madeline sat close to her side. In a moment, they were alone. In another, they were moving.

Faye tried to remain quiet. Tried to pretend,
but she could no longer do so. Not to Madeline. “I was not dreaming,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Faye caught Madeline in a fleeting, hopeful glance.

“You believe me?”

“You are the truth finder, Faerie love. Why would you lie?”

“I would not. Not to you. Not intentionally,” she whispered, then winced, remembering a thousand childhood memories: a hulking shape watching from her window. Scratching at her door. In trembling whispers she had mentioned her fears to Cassie, but the scullery maid had scoffed. Lucifer did not walk among them. There were no giants at Bettington. “But maybe Shaleena is right. Maybe I am mad.”

“She didn’t say that,” Madeline said.

“She thought it.”

“Reading minds is not your gift,” Madeline said, and smiled gently before drawing a careful breath. “What happened?”

She wanted to answer, wanted to spew forth the truth, but the painful events were stuck in her soul. She glanced to the left. “What of Shaleena?”

“She’ll not ride with Joseph at the ribbons.”

Faye fidgeted. “And Lord Gallo?”

“He stayed behind as well.”

She felt restive suddenly, jumpy. “He should be with us.”

Madeline’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “Even though he’s male?”

“It was not he.”

“No,” Madeline said, and if she thought Faye insane, she did not show it. “But who was it? Were you able to see his face?”

Faye managed to shake her head.

“But it was a man.”

She nodded. It was always a man.

“Did you recognize his voice?”

“It was low. And quiet. Whispered.” Like the Devil himself. She stifled a shiver.

“What else do you recall?” Maddy asked, and hugged her closer.

Warmth flowed through her at Madeline’s touch, granting her a modicum of strength. “He was big,” she whispered, and felt a tear slip down her cheek.

“Tall or broad?”

She controlled a wince. “Both, I think.”

“Taller than Jasper.”

She swallowed, closed her eyes, managed a nod.

“Taller than Ella’s husband?”

“I…It was dark and I was—” Words failed her.

“You were scared,” Madeline said. “There is no shame in that.”

And suddenly Faye remembered similar words. Remembered and felt herself go pale.

It couldn’t have been McBain. It couldn’t. But he had warned her not to lie to him. And she had sinned.

J
asper stood beside Madeline in the doorway of Faye’s bedchamber.

She was curled tight beneath the covers, knees drawn up, face nearly hidden. All that was visible was one smooth cheek and a halo of sun-bright hair.

“What did you give her?” Jasper asked.

“Motherwort and goat weed.”

“She’ll sleep till morning?”

“I’m not certain. She’s distraught. I wish Ella were here.”

“Then she will be soon,” he said, and, closing the door softly, turned toward her. “This is not your fault.”

Torment crossed her beloved face. “I was the one who said she was ready.”

Reaching out, he took her hand and led her down the hall to their own chambers.

“Who is to say she’s not?” he asked.

“Ready?” she said and huffed a harsh laugh. “Look at her, she’s—” She winced, then collapsed
into the winged upholstered chair near the window and drew her knees to her chest as if she could block out the world.

“What is she?” he asked.

She shook her head, miserable. “She’s scared out of her…” She stopped, expression breaking.

And he could no longer bear the distance between them. Crossing the room, he knelt beside her chair.

“So the fact that she’s scared means that she’s unready?” he asked, and took her hand in his.

She shook her head. “No. It’s the fact that she is…” She paused.

“What?”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Hallucinating,” he said.

“I told her I believed her.”

“And for that you feel guilty.”

“Truth means everything to her. It took all the power that’s in me to make her believe. What will happen if she realizes I lied?”

“Esperanza,” he said softly. It was the name he had called her in his mind for all the years he had held her in his heart but could not hold her in his arms. “It is your
caring
that means everything to her. Your support.”

Her eyes were haunted. “There was no one in that room, Jasper.”

“No one you saw,” he corrected.

She let her feet slip rapidly to the floor, eyes sud
denly alight. But that was her way. Ever the optimist. “You found something.”

He shook his head, untied her slippers, the right, then the left, before tossing them aside. “No.”

“But you felt something,” she said, and let him urge her to her feet.

“I am no witch,” he reminded her, and, turning her back to him, unlaced her gown, then pressed a kiss to that favorite spot at the base of her neck. The spot that called to him even in the midst of a crowd.

“But you can feel—”

“Shh,” he said.

She turned toward him, ready to protest, but he pressed a finger to her lips. “Do you remember her last conversation with Shaleena?” he asked.

She scowled. She was so beautiful when she scowled. Almost as beautiful as when she slept or smiled or laughed. He tugged the gown from her shoulders. They were perfect. He kissed the right one.

“She defended herself,” she said.

“For the first time since her arrival at this house.”

She opened her mouth again, but he kissed the corner of it, shushing her.

“Because of you. Because of your faith in her,” he said. “There are worse things than lies, my love. And indeed, sometimes lies are truths yet unseen.”

She lifted her gaze to his, soul on fire. “Why are you so good?” she whispered.

“Because I have you,” he said, and kissed her again.

Outside Lavender House, Shaleena sat in dark silence. She could not sleep. Rarely slept, in fact. Tonight was no different. Thus, she had slipped outside to gather strength from the waxing essence of the garden around her. The purity of thyme. The peace of loosestrife. The magic of wolfsbane. The experience would have been better, fuller, if she were sky-clad, but the boy named Cur was often slinking about, and he made her feel…naked.

But this night it was thoughts of another that disturbed her solitude. Someone unseen. Someone…

Joseph!

Anger surged through her. Why was he here? Pretending he was another. It was insulting enough that he had fooled the others into believing he could be trusted. But to make her uncertain of her own thoughts, to make her imagine things that were untrue…that was unforgivable. Madness did not suit her. She was not the type to take her own life. Even less so to spend her days in an institution gabbling at the walls.

Swiping moisture from her cheek, she rose to her feet. None would see her cry. None had. Not for years. Not since she had realized she was alone.
A serving girl in a foreign land, carrying her master’s grandchild.

So much for love, for devotion, for all the sweet delusions he had whispered in the pulsing heat of the darkness. She had learned much that winter: Men lie. Hearts break. Babies die. Life continues, even when you hope it will not.

But perhaps the most important lesson learned was that she was strong. Stronger than any impostor. Not that this Joseph professed to know her. He merely watched her, but there was something in his eyes…Something that said they had shared hope, passion, dreams. But it could not be. Mariano was dead. She had seen to that herself. And this intruder would meet the same fate if he was careless.

But in the end it wasn’t Joseph she found beneath the ancient rowans.

“Why are you here?” She asked the question from inches behind the giant intruder and waited for him to gasp, to start. But he did neither of those things. Instead, he turned slowly toward her. And it was in that instant that she felt another’s presence. So, the pretender, too, had felt the Celt’s presence and come out of hiding. Good.

“Might this be the house where Mrs. Nettles lives?” His voice was little more than a growl.

She raised an impervious brow at the sound of it. “You must be the Scotsman?”

He paused, his brows lowered. “I am
a
Scotsman.”

She studied him, circling. So what she had heard of him was true. He was strong. Yet his power was not attributed to his size alone. “Why have you come?”

“I was told the lady was…” He paused. She could sense some emotion in him. Frustration perhaps, or worry barely restrained. “I heard there was trouble at the fete this night.”

“Oh? And what fete might that be?”

Impatience ticked in him. “Is she well?”

“Tell me, Scotsman, did you come all this long way…” She glanced about, but if he had a mount nearby, she could not see it. “…on foot, in the dark of night just to pose that question?”

He stared at her.

She smiled. “I believe you came for other reasons,” she said, and, reaching up, touched his chest, just below his loosed cravat.

He stood, unmoving but for the massive muscles that twitched heavily beneath her hand.

“Is she well?” he asked again.

She shrugged. “That is a matter of some discussion,” she said, and flicked open the top two buttons of his shirt. It was a gift of hers, this ability to undress men so neatly.

“Discuss it now,” he said.

“Physically, I believe she is well enough,” she said, and circled him, skimming her gaze down his length. The man called Joseph was behind her and to the right some forty strides, unseen in a copse of horse chestnuts.

“Well enough?” asked the Celt, and turned his head to watch her over his shoulder. His neck was broad and corded.

“Unharmed so far as I know,” she said. “But mentally…” She shook her head and trailed her fingers across his back. Even there she could feel the shift of his muscles. “She is not terribly strong.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

She laughed as she faced him again. “So, are you her champion then?” she asked, and, reaching up, flicked open two more buttons.

He caught her wrist and her gaze, grip unyielding as a vise.

“What are you to her?” he asked, but she barely heard the question, for her attention had dropped back to his chest.

“Tell me, Scotsman,” she said, attention welded to the dark furrows that scraped his skin. “How did you come by those scratches?”

He lowered his gaze to his own chest, but at that moment, there was a rustle of sound.

“Leave him be,” Joseph said.

She jerked toward him, temper flaring as she pulled her wrist from the Scotsman’s grasp. “Who are you to tell me what to do? Who are you at all?”

Silence filled the darkness, then, “You know me.”

“You lie!” She hissed the words.

“Not to you, Becca.”

A sob tore from her throat. “I know no one by that name.”

“That is unfortunate. She was everything to me once,” he said, and stepped toward her.

“Everything!” she spat, and choked a laugh. “You left…” She caught herself, fighting off the madness of hope. “I am not this weak-kneed maid you speak of.”

“You loved—” he began, still approaching, but she jerked her hands up, palms out, mind burning with power, throwing him back a half a pace, where he remained, frozen.

“Love is for cowards!” she hissed.

“Then a coward I am,” he said, and, wresting free of her spell, took a broken step forward.

“What goes on here?” rumbled the Scotsman, and she remembered, just barely, that they were not alone.

She lifted her chin. “This man is attempting to molest me, giant. You were once a soldier. ’Tis your duty to protect and defend.”

He watched them both, eyes shadowed. “And I would do so if only I knew which needed me protection the more.”

“Protect
her,
” Joseph said, and with his words, illogical anger flared in Shaleena’s soul yet again.

“I don’t require your help. I don’t need any man’s help.”

“Require it? No,” Joseph agreed, and suddenly his tone was filled with such tender agony that she felt the very fabric of her heart rend. “For you
are strength itself,” he said. “But love, it can never come too—”

“I do not love!” she hissed, and, gritting her teeth against hope, raced back into the shadowy refuge of Lavender House.