Eternity: Immortal Witches Book 1 (The Immortal Witches) (13 page)

The trapdoors dropping. The girl falling, the entire weight of her body hurtling toward the ground and then stopping short at the end of that rope. The way she’d jerked at the bottom. The way her head snapped. And then the way it had fallen upon his shoulder when he cut her down, as if her neck were boneless, or made of water.

Steel collar. There had been no steel collar.

The flames leaped and danced, and he thought of the fire he’d seen dancing in Raven’s onyx eyes. Hellfire? he wondered. Or something else?

If he were truly a man of God, he wouldd tell what he knew. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. Nay. If he spoke out, she’d be arrested. Harmed. Killed, perhaps. He could not believe that to be God’s will, no matter what she was.

Had she done something to him? Put some spell on him? Willed him to feel these things for her? Was such a thing even possible?

Heavy steps sounded outside, and he opened the door before old Elias Stanton could announce his presence. The man’s face, whiskered jowls and all, seemed grim. And he said, “We have to talk. There’s...something you need to be made aware of.”

“Come in,” Duncan said. And he wondered why he was irritated at the interruption. He ought to be glad to be distracted from thinking about her. To think of her was too confusing. Seeing her again—God, his preoccupation with the woman was bordering on obsession now that he’d seen her. ‘Twas all he could do to keep himself from going to her. Right now, tonight.

“I had not intended to trouble you with this, Reverend Wallace, but upon seeing you in the church with Mistress St. James this morning, I felt it necessary.”

This concerns Mistress St. James, then?”

Elias nodded and, clasping his hands behind him, began pacing much as Duncan had been doing only moments ago. “Reverend...I fear the woman is trouble,” he said. “You recall our conversation at the Boar’s Head, do you not?”

Duncan nodded, and instantly knew what Stanton would say next.

“The temptress I spoke of is none other than Mistress St. James herself.”

A cold hand seemed to clutch Duncan’s heart when Elias’s words confirmed what he had already guessed. He lowered his head, hoping to hide the flare of alarm that widened his eyes. Nay. Not again.

“I fear, my friend, she may be more than just a temptress. Much more.”

“Say what you mean, Elias. I dislike guessing games.”

Elias shrugged. “Surely ‘tis obvious. The woman could easily be a practitioner of the black arts...a witch.”

The hairs on the back of Duncan’s neck bristled, and he found himself instinctively defending her, not even giving his words thought before speaking them. “Dinna be ridiculous, Elias. Why would you think such a thing?”

Elias turned slowly, his eyes narrow. “She’s unnaturally beautiful, is she not?”

Holding that gaze, Duncan nodded. “Incredibly beautiful,’’ he said. “But why do you say ‘tis unnatural?”

“Because of the way she flaunts it before the men of this congregation. I’ll wager not a one has escaped her wiles. All of them lusting after her, I tell you, no matter how God-fearing they be. And that’s her plan, Duncan. To lure us all into sin, and damn us before she moves on to the next God-loving congregation.”

Duncan felt his lips pull into a grimace of distaste. The man was a fool. “Aye, no doubt the ruination of mankind is all the lass lives for.”

He’d meant it as sarcastic and biting. Elias only nodded in enthusiastic agreement, which made Duncan sigh, and try another approach with the thick-skulled man. “You said before that even you have felt this witchly allure she exudes,” he said.

Lowering his head, Elias said, “Yes. Though it shames me to admit it.”

“An’ you dinna believe it could simply be the natural feelin’ of attraction any man might feel when he sees a woman of such exceptional beauty?”

“Never,” Elias denied flatly. “‘Tis witchery, I tell you. I be above desires of the flesh. Or was, ‘til she worked her devilish wiles on me.”

Nodding, Duncan said, “I’m glad you’ve come to me with this, Elias.” And he was. Glad, because in seeing how ridiculous the things Elias believed of Raven were, he could see more clearly how foolish he himself had been, only moments ago. Spells, indeed. He was drawn to the woman and had been since he’d first set eyes on her. And ‘twas no more due to witchery than was the sunrise or the changing phases of the moon. He desired her. And maybe more than that. Maybe much more than that.

He searched Elias’s face as he concocted his lies. And it occurred to him that he’d rarely lied in his lifetime, had always made an effort at utter honesty. But for her, for Raven, he lied without pause. Without the slightest hesitation.

He thought he’d likely be willing to do far more for her. Die for her, should the need arise.

“I’ve seen many witches durin’ my time in England,” Duncan said. “An’ I can tell you beyond any doubt, Raven St. James isna one.”

Elias’s face fell, eyes widening. “How can you be so sure?”

Duncan tilted his head “Have you never seen a witch?”

“No,” Elias admitted. “But I was sure I had the day she arrived.”

Searching for a plausible lie, then latching on to the first one he thought of, Duncan said, “The eyes of a witch are two different colors. The left is green, and the right is blue.”

“The hell you say!”

“Aye, Elias, ‘tis true. And the forefinger of a witch’s hand is longer than the middle one.”

Elias’s eyes narrowed, and Duncan was certain he’d pushed it too far. Damn, he’d had the man believing him for a moment.

“But a skilled witch,” Elias speculated, “could likely disguise those things. Don’t you see, Duncan? Something is not right with the woman! Her crops, her wealth. ‘Tis not by natural means she succeeds at everything she sets her pretty hands to. All without a man to aid her!”

“Could it be that she is simply wise an’ strong, an’ perhaps a hard worker?” Duncan put forth.

“I want you to go out there, Duncan. Mistress Foxgrove claims they’ve taken in another strange young woman, and I tell you, she’s likely another of their coven.”

“Their coven? Really, Elias, I believe your imagination—”

“Go out there tonight, Duncan. They liked you, the both of them. Pretend to be making a social call. And see what sorts of things they keep about that cabin. See how they behave when they’re alone and not in the public eye.”

“You want me to spy on them?” Duncan asked, already formulating the firmest refusal he could concoct.

“Yes. And if you won’t, Duncan, I'll do it myself. However, I’m loath to get that close to her. I fear she’d bewitch me even further. You’re a man of God, Duncan, surely you’d be far safer than I?”

Closing his eyes slowly, shaking his head, Duncan recalled the distaste he’d seen in Raven’s eyes when this man had touched her. She would not like him snooping around. And suppose Elias should find something?

He hadn’t admitted it, even to himself, at least not consciously, but Duncan knew there must be something to find. Some truth to Elias’s suspicions. Raven was magic. Everything about her was mystical and potent. She’d cured him of whatever illness he’d been suffering aboard the Sea Witch. He did not doubt these things.

But she wasn’t evil. No matter what else she was, she wasn’t that.

And even if there were nothing for Elias to find in Raven’s cabin, almost anything could be construed by his suspicious, fearful mind as evidence. At least if Duncan went himself, he could return with a favorable report.

“All right, Elias,” he said softly. “I shall go. But meanwhile, do one thing for me?”

“Of course, Reverend.”

“Tell no one else of your suspicions. Should you be wrong about Mistress St. James, you could easily destroy her good name with such gossip. And you wouldna wish to do that should she be innocent, would you, now?”

He grunted and huffed, saying clearly that he could not believe her innocent, would not be proved wrong.

“Please,” Duncan urged. “‘Twould only send the town into panic.”

Elias’s face softened then. “All right, I shall keep my suspicions to myself. For now. Except for....” He narrowed his eyes on Duncan. “Never mind.”

“Except for what?” Duncan asked, and he felt a cold foreboding in his heart. “Have you already spoken these suspicions, Elias?”

Elias averted his eyes. ‘Tis of no concern to you,” he said. “You’ll report back to me upon your return?”

Shaking his fears away, Duncan faced the man. “Aye, I’ll report to you, but on the morrow, Elias. ‘Tis a long walk, an’ I’ll no doubt prefer sleep to conversation when I return.”

“Tomorrow then,” Elias said, and touching the brim of his hat, he backed out the door.

* * *

He wasn’t going to her so he could spy on her, as Elias wished him to do. He was going to warn her. Duncan was certain she could have no clue what Elias suspected of her, or she’d have fled this place by now.

For just a moment, as he followed the road that led along the southern edge of the peninsula, overlooking the sea, he paused to wonder at the irony of what he was doing. Raven St. James had been convicted of witchery and sentenced to death. He’d seen her die with his own eyes, only to find her alive and well, and again suspected of witchcraft. And yet, he, a man of God, was about to warn her.

Worst of all, it wasn’t that he disbelieved the accusations against her. Not that at all. ‘Twas that he simply did not care. He did not care. He remembered all too well the way he’d seen her standing in the moonlight, and had felt the power surging from her hands into his body that night aboard the ship. It could have been a dream, but he didn’t think so. And still, he didn’t care.

He only wanted to see her again. To get to know all there was to know of her. To understand the workings of her mind and the mysteries of her soul. To know what she was thinking. And to see to it she remained safe from harm.

Nothing else mattered. And as little sense as that made, he didn’t question it. It simply was.

Duncan knew what he would report to Elias, no matter what he found at Raven’s cabin tonight. In the morn he intended to assure Elias all was as it should be, thus ending the elder’s speculation.

But not, perhaps, ending his lust.

Duncan’s flesh heated and he tugged at the too tight collar that suddenly chafed his throat. He wore an ordinary pair of breeches and a white shirt, this night. For some reason, he disliked the thought of going to Raven in the robes of clergy. He sensed the clothing threatened her, and that wasn’t what he wished to do.

He didn’t like thinking about the way Elias looked at Raven St. James. He didn’t like Elias’s insistence that all the men of Sanctuary must be looking at her the same way as he. And he didn’t like that he himself was just as drawn to her as the rest. Because he wanted to believe that with him ‘twas different.

At last her cabin came into view, and he saw the soft glow of candles in one of the windows. ‘Twas a simple home, graying logs, set high on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. Pretty curtains of white, perhaps made by Raven’s own delicate hands, hung in the few windows of imported glass. And the door was hand hewn, a single thick board sawed from what must have been a mighty oak tree once. The area around the house was lush with gardens. Herbs grew in tangled patches along with vegetables and flowering plants. All bathed tonight in the light of the moon, so that the place looked wild and untamed and mysterious. The waves crashing against the rocky shore far below were like a chorus, a magical chorus. This place made him think of the enchanted palace where the sleeping princess of a fairy tale awaited rescue.

Duncan moved closer, lifted his hand to tap on the door, only to pause when the sound of singing reached his ears. Raven’s voice, rich and beautiful, drifted over him like warmed honey. He’d heard that voice in his dreams often over the past three years. Heard it ringing out in condemnation of a crowd of bloodthirsty bigots. But he’d never heard it sweetly singing the words of a love song.

I’ve longed to taste your kiss, my love. To hold you would be sweet bliss, my love. My heart shall break, ‘ere you wait too long. Come to me, come love me, come answer my song.

“Raven,” he whispered. His heartbeat quickened, and his stomach muscles clenched as if in response to her words. He steadied himself, or tried to, but he was shaken to the core. And even as he told himself not to, he leaned closer to peer through the window beside the door, where the pretty white curtains stood slightly parted.

Raven St. James reclined in a large metal tub, water and bubbles brimming around her. Her arms moved, long and graceful and shiny-slick with moisture. One hand squeezed a cloth she held high above her as she leaned back in the tub. Water trickled over her neck and shoulders. Bare skin glistened in the candlelight as she tipped her head back, eyes closed as if in some secret ecstasy. And he wondered if she was thinking of him as she continued to sing.

For two years, in secret, I’ve yearned, my love Forever it seems I have burned, my love, our love is forbidden, you can’t want me, too. Come to me, sweet Duncan, and tell me you do.

She ran her fingertips slowly along the underside of her chin, tracing a path down over her neck, her chest, and lower, to where he could no longer see.

And then, quite suddenly, she stopped. Slowly she lowered her head and leveled her gaze on the very window he was peering through, and Duncan caught his breath. Her eyes met his—though he was certain she couldn’t see him out here in the darkness. Still they met his, and held them. He couldn’t look away. Not for the life of him. It seemed to Duncan as if every cell in his body came to vivid life in that moment, stirred by her gaze and aroused to action. He tingled with awareness. As if he were the one caught naked and she the one shamelessly looking on.

And as he remained there, riveted, he heard a voice call the woman’s name from another room. Raven’s head turned toward its summons. A brief glance toward the window again, and perhaps a very slight smile. So slight he could have easily imagined it. And then she rose from the water like a Pagan goddess of old, and Duncan felt himself burn. Rivulets streamed down her body. She gleamed in the golden light of the dancing candles. Gleamed and shone as she daintily stepped from the tub onto the folded rug beside it. She showed no shyness, no shame as she blotted herself dry with a small cloth. Nor should she, for she was truly magnificent to behold. Sensuality surrounded her like a nimbus, her every movement as graceful as a dance. And he was aroused, tempted as he’d never been before.