Jo Beverley (37 page)

“Then why didn't you sense it when you came to look for it?”

“I was in such a panic. Sneaking out of your house, then into here. Not finding it. Then hearing someone coming into the house. . . . The sense of the
sheelagh
is very faint, and I've been used to it in this house all my life.”

“Are you sure?”

Meg lay there and concentrated on the elusive music, then shivered. “It's here. It really is.”

She would have scrambled out of bed, but he held her back. “No rush. If it's here, we'll find it. Then you can keep your mind on more important matters.”

“Like my being suspected of murder? I suppose I
could
ask it to sort things out. I don't know, though. . . .”

“That wasn't particularly what I had in mind.” He moved his body against hers.

“Sax, you're
impossible
!”

“Women usually say it with more reverence.”

She pushed and he obligingly rolled off her.

She sat up, then slid down again. “It's so cold out there!”

“You don't want to look?”

Meg just fumbled for her dress, grateful to have remembered to put it under the covers. She could feel him doing the same with his clothes, then they bumped and wriggled together as they struggled into them.

“I'm very glad you're not wearing boots,” she said. “Which reminds me. Tell me about duchessing. You promised.”

“Ah. It's slang for hasty sex, where the man doesn't even take time to get out of his boots. Comes from a note in the diary of the first Duchess of Marlborough that her husband came home from war and pleasured her with his boots on.”

Meg paused. “Pleasured. I like that word. I can't be bothered with my corset.”

“Good. As for pleasure, it can be our word. Every time I ask, ‘What is your pleasure, my lady?' you will know exactly what I mean. What's on my mind.”

Meg laughed and slid out from under the covers, shivering in the icy air, and at the awareness of the
sheelagh.
How astonishing that Sax had swamped the stone's song.

“I think I'll do without the boots,” he said. “Then we can make a quick dash back into bed once you've found the statue. I suspect having it in the bed with us might be interesting.”

“Lord, you're wicked! Do you believe me, then?”

After a moment, he said, “I honestly don't know. You clearly believe it, but call me Thomas.”

“I'm not going to use it to prove it to you.”

“I won't ask you to. But you can't expect me to believe such a thing without proof.”

“Just let me keep it and guard it.”

“Of course.”

“Right, then.” Before leaving the room, Meg turned back to feel at the bed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Pulling your covers up to keep the heat in. Here, take an eiderdown, or you'll only end up shivering again.”

“My, if ever I'm caught in this situation again, I will be well prepared.”

“You have an unpleasant edge to your voice, my lord.”

In a moment, he touched her, drew her into his arms. “I'm sorry, love. I'm not used to being so inept. It stings.”

“I didn't much care for the feeling of being an infant in your world.”

He kissed her. “Any chance of a candle? This infant doesn't care for wandering a strange house in the pitch dark. I don't suppose the
sheelagh
is in this room?”

“No. I'm sure it's not. I think there are still candles in my parents' room next door.”

“And I did think to put the lighter in my pocket.”

“Well done.” She knew he hated feeling like an infant, but in many ways, that was what he was in her world.

Hand in hand, they groped their way out of the room, along the corridor, and into her parents' room. She halted for a moment, for it still held an ambience whose memory stretched back to her childhood. If anything, the memories sang stronger now, lacking sight. She could almost imagine her parents in the bed, there to be wakened if she had a bad dream.

She shook herself and worked her way to the chest of drawers. She pulled open the top drawer, and her fingers found the three partly burned candles. The red ones, kept for the
sheelagh.
Another fumble located the brass holder on the top. When she had one candle set firmly in it, she said, “Perform your magic, sir.”

He'd have to work by touch, and she suspected she'd be more adept at the task than he was, but she knew she had to let him do it. Sparks flew from the flint, and then the first precious glow from the tinder. With a breath, he coaxed flame, then lit the candle.

The sudden light startled them after so many hours of darkness. She looked at him, newly precious. Perhaps he felt the same, for he reached out to touch her cheek, just a light brush of fingers against her skin. Seeing the disorder he was in, she knew she must be the same or worse. Her hair must be a tangled nest down her back, and her clothes a creased disaster. It didn't matter at all.

“Right,” he said, picking up the candle. “Follow your music, my pretty witch.”

Meg turned away, needing to try to block the music that was Sax in order to find the
sheelagh's
song. It was hopeless. After a while, she turned back. “You'll have to go away. You drown it.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “I think I like that. All right, I'll go back into our room. But call out where you're going.” He picked up the extra candles and lit one. “I'll put this in the other holder.”

Once he left, she began to sort things out. She'd never tried to trace the
sheelagh
in this way, so it was hard, but slowly she began to distinguish a hum along her nerves that could only be from the wishing stone.

Owain Chancellor walked into Sax's house, ready to share his triumphs, despite an unease that had been prickling him all evening. “Where's the earl?” he demanded of an exhausted-looking Pringle.

“He's sent no word, sir. And Miss Gillingham and Lady Daphne have gone to Quiller's—the duchess is on her deathbed. And the parrot is in a state.”

“ 'Struth! The duchess is dying?” Then he put that aside. “Damn Sax. He was supposed to send word. What's wrong with Knox?”

“He just keeps calling his lordship's name, sir, and trying to get out of the cage.”

Owain ran up the stairs. Sax would blister everyone if the damn bird came to harm. Even before entering the room, he could hear Knox screeching,
“Sax! Want Sax. Sax home.”

In the warm dressing room, he found the bird clinging to the cage door, picking at the catch, Nims and Babs in attendance, wringing their hands. “Oh, Mr. Chancellor, thank heavens you're here! What should we do?”

Sax was always saying the bird was intelligent, so Owain went to the cage. “Come on now, Knox. Sax is out.”

The bird stilled, tilting its head to eye him. Then:
“No! Sax. Bad, bad, bad.”

Owain looked at Nims. “Did Sax do something to Knox before he left?”

“No, sir. As if he would. And anyway, he never came up here. He changed, if you remember, below stairs.” It was clearly a lingering wound.

“Knox doesn't usually get like this if Sax is away for most of a day, does he?”

“Not at all, sir, though he makes his annoyance clear later.”

The bird was still crying its owner's name. “Shut up!” Owain snapped at it.

Knox went silent, then said,
“Damn dragon.”

“Jupiter!” Sensible Owain could hardly believe that the bird might be talking sense, never mind showing psychic powers, but then again his own neck had been prickling despite the feeling of success. The duchess was dying, though, wasn't she? “All right, Knox. I'll go and check.”

As he walked toward the door, however, the parrot started an ear-splitting screech. When he turned back, it was clinging to the door and glaring at him balefully.

“It's freezing out there, you stupid bird!” But then he unlocked the cage, praying the damn bird wouldn't try to take his finger off. “Come on, then.”

The bird hopped onto his hand.
“Sax?”
It was a distinct question.

“Yes, we'll go and find Sax.”

Feeling three-quarters idiot, he tucked the large bird inside his jacket for warmth, repressing all thought of droppings, and hurried downstairs. He thought he knew who'd done the murder, though no one at Jakes's house knew the man's name or address. He had a description, though, of the man who'd been asking questions about the Gillinghams.

In the hall, Jeremy stood waiting, Brak whining at his side.

“Don't tell me the dog's uneasy, too.”

“It won't settle. What's going on, sir?”

“I'm not sure, but I'm going to Quiller's Hotel.”

Jeremy was staring at his chest. “Excuse me, sir, but . . .”

“Yes, I've Knox in here. Unless he's run totally mad, he's predicting danger.”

“
Predicting,
sir. But . . .”

“Believe me, I know. Pringle, my riding cloak! Do you want to come?”

Jeremy rolled his eyes, but said, “I suppose so.”

“Damn dragon,”
muttered the bird.
“Bad. Bad.”

Owain fastened his heavy cloak, covering the parrot as best he could. He knew the world had turned topsy-turvy when cowardly Brak insisted on coming with them.

Meg circled her parents' room carefully just in case, but the sense of the
sheelagh
was no stronger in any spot. Sir Arthur would never have hidden it here, anyway. Too obvious. Where, then? She headed for the stairs up to the attic.

“Is it upstairs?” Sax called from her room.

Meg paused at the top of the attic stairs. “I don't think so. I'm going down instead.”

As soon as she was halfway down, she knew. “It's downstairs. I'm sure.”

She paused in the front hall, trying to find some sense of direction, but the swirling, maddening song was too ethereal for that. “I'm checking the rooms down here,” she called, entering the bleak study. “Nothing so far.”

She followed what she thought was a thread to the kitchen, but ended up frustrated and went slowly back to wander the hall.

Then she halted, swamped as if the
sheelagh
had suddenly decided to summon her. “The parlor,” she said, knowing by the light that he was on the stairs.

“Is it dangerous?” He kept his distance.

“No, why?”

“You sound frightened.”

“No. Just . . . it overwhelms me.”

“Can I help?”

“I don't think so. Not until I've found it. Then you can carry it.”

She went cautiously into the room, hoping to see the
sheelagh
in the open. She'd point it out to him, and need never touch it at all. It wasn't visible, however, and the sense of it was still without direction. She worked her way around the room, increasingly dazzled by sensations so like those Sax could bring to her, and yet unlike.

Inferior.

Tainted.

Or perhaps just lacking the trust and closeness that made sex into love. She wished she could call to him to come to her, to hold her, but the
sheelagh's
song working with Sax's magic was already building an excruciating chord.

Frozen in the center of the room, she made herself focus instead of fleeing. Then, shaking, she forced her feet toward the heavy chair that had been her father's favorite. She knelt and peered underneath.

“It's here,” she said unsteadily. “Can you come and get it, please?”

“Perhaps you'd better do that, Lady Saxonhurst.”

Meg turned to see a stranger there, a stranger with a pistol pressed to Sax's head.

“As you see,” Sax said at his glossiest, “we have a guest, my dear. Would you care to introduce yourself, sir?”

“No.”

“What do you want?” Meg demanded, standing up.

“The treasure.”

“Treasure? What treasure?”

“Whatever's under that chair.”

“It's a stone statue. It has no value.”

The stranger grinned, and she recognized the man she'd seen with the housekeeper in Sir Arthur's house. “A stone statue that can give riches,” he was saying. “Don't give me any trouble, my lady. I know all about it and you. You're going to wish me up riches, and then we can all go on our way.”

Like an icy stream, she realized the man was probably the murderer. She saw Sax read her. He winked.

It was all very well for him to wink. The man was a killer. He'd shoot without hesitation. He'd
kill
him!

She had no idea whether the
sheelagh could
produce instant riches. Even if it did, would this man let them live?

Perhaps everyone could read her. The man said, “You don't have to worry, Lady Saxonhurst. I only kill when I'm paid my price. Once I have what I want, I'll be off and out of the country before anyone can find me.”

“How did you find out about my wife's magical stone?” Sax asked, still sounding as if this was a social occasion.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

The sneer flowed off Sax like oil. “Yes.”

Meg could almost have laughed at the familiar expression of exasperation on the man's face.

Sax was Sax.

“Hell, why not? It's nothing to me and no one's rushing to your rescue. Sir Arthur talked a lot to his housekeeper, and she talked a lot to me. You remember me, don't you, Lady Saxonhurst. You saw me . . . conversing . . . with Hattie when you were there killing Sir Arthur.”

“You killed Sir Arthur.” There was no point in pretending.

“Perhaps I did at that. I was sent here to kill you two, but I don't reckon I'll get paid for it.”

Meg saw Sax become serious. If he'd had his quizzing glass, it would have come into play. “Who's your employer?”

“Who do you think, my lord?”

“The Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield, of course.”

“Bull's-eye. Countess, get that statue and get on with it!”

“Have you been in her employ long?” Sax asked, as if the man hadn't issued the command.

“Quite a while, aye.”

“Steward of one of her estates, I hear.”

“So?”

Meg wondered if she could launch an attack, but at a movement, the man's eyes flickered back to her. She slid a look around. The fireplace and poker were too far away. All that lay to hand were some tiny ornaments and the man had his pistol still pressed to Sax's head.

“Though I don't suppose you started as steward,” said Sax, his voice chilly as the air.

“Don't suppose anyone does, my lord. Countess—”

“Fifteen years ago, perhaps?”

A strange silence hung in the air. “You've always known, have you?” He gave a sharp laugh. “No wonder you've set yourself against her.”

The two men seemed totally focussed on each other. Meg began to inch toward the poker.

“You killed my father at her command.”

Meg froze, and turned to stare at Sax.

“Water under the bridge,” said the man, and turned to Meg. “Get back there and get on with it. Believe it
or not, I only kill for pay. Shower me with wealth and you'll never see me again.”

“Did you get a bonus for the deaths of my mother and sister?”

“Damn near got scragged. But I'd stashed away some evidence about the others. Your uncles. Unlucky lot, the earls of Saxonhurst. Mad, you know.”

Sax stood like a statue of ice, perhaps shocked insensible by all this. But he'd known. All along, he'd known his grandmother had killed his family. And Meg had thought he was overreacting.

“Get on with it, Countess!” The man jabbed the pistol into Sax's head so he jerked.

“It's not that easy!” Meg protested.

“Tell me what we have to do then. And be quick about it. It'd be dead easy to put a ball in my Lord Saxonhurst where it'll cripple but not be fatal.”

“You have to be careful what you wish for,” Meg said quickly. “Once I pick up the
sheelagh,
I'll be under its power. We have to form the wish first.”

“You make up the poxy wish, or I swear to heaven he'll never be the same!”

“What do you want, then? Tell me what you want!”

“I told you. Riches!”

“Just riches?”

“Just riches,” he sneered. “Fine for you who've lived in luxury all your lives. Riches, lovey. Shower me with it. Jewels. Coins. Anything.”

Meg looked at Sax. He was burning with icy rage. This man had killed his family, and he wanted his blood. His eyes met hers, and it was as if he spoke.
Kill him for me, Meg.

Did he believe? Or was it just a wild hope?

If he did believe, could she risk the
sheelagh's
sting for murder?

And what would happen once he did believe, and knew she'd trapped him?

Whatever, she burned as fiercely as he. She thought of the child, blighted by murder, of a family hounded by a vicious, possessive woman. “Careless,” he'd said earlier, of his father's death. Of course, they'd only intended
to kill his father, leaving his mother to be dragged back into the dragon's claws.

She wished the horrible, twisted duchess were here, too.

Meg bent down and pulled out the bag. The power began and she wasn't touching it yet. She almost giggled when she realized they'd used the red candles. She didn't know if they mattered, but now two of them lit this moment.

“Shower you with riches,” she repeated, loosening the drawstring. She glanced at Sax, trying to send a message, though she had no way of knowing whether the
sheelagh
could grant an instant wish. Always before it had taken time for a wish to come true.

“Lots and lots of riches,” said the man. “Get on with it.”

Meg sat on the chair, and drew the cloth down off the statue.

“What is it, then?” asked the man. “Show me.”

She turned it, keeping cloth between her hands and the stone, watching the men's faces.

Despite his fury, Sax laughed. “Jupiter, Meg, no wonder you're not easily shocked!”

Surprisingly, the murderer protested. “There ought to be a law against it! Turn it away, and get on with it.”

Meg obeyed, and couldn't see any excuse to delay. With a final, meaningful look at Sax, she said, “On your head be it,” and let the cloth fall. She put her hands to the cold, rough stone of the
sheelagh
and braced herself.

It was worse than before.

Worse!

Sucked into a ravaging whirlwind, she remembered her wish, and cried it into the void. “A shower of riches on him!”

Then, because she truly feared that this time she would die, she cried, “Keep Sax safe! Let him be happy!”

The whirlwind smashed things, crashed things, ripped her in and out of torment. She screamed. People screamed. Everything groaned as if the whole world around her was being mangled apart.

Christ,
Meg prayed, hoping Christ and the pagan gods
were not antagonists,
help me! Don't let it kill me now, not now I've found Sax.

It hurt. Hurt more than before, with a tearing of muscle and a breaking of bones, and a terrible, final agony in her head. Her flesh slowly turned liquid and puddled on a bloody floor. . . .

Christ!

“Christ, Meg, come back to me.”

Meg forced open leaden lids, aching in every joint and muscle, to see a white-faced Sax staring down at her. She was so sorry to be dying. Then she vomited all over him.

When she could speak, while Sax wiped her face with a damp cloth—where had that come from?—she gasped, “Did it work?”

“Something did,” he said in a shaken voice.

“What happened?” He was keeping his body between her and the rest of the room, but she had a vague sense of voices. Many voices. And groans. Had the groans been real?

“What you wished for,” he said. “A shower of riches. A huge shower of pennies that battered him to the ground. But—”

“But?”

“But . . . Meg, the ceiling above him gave way. I suppose there must have been a leak and the plaster rotted. Perhaps someone stashed the coins up there.”

Meg laughed weakly. Trust the
sheelagh.
And it didn't matter whether he believed or not.

“Meg?” Astonishingly, Laura appeared, pale, wide-eyed, but looking rather excited. “Are you all right?”

Meg struggled to sit up straighter. Was she dreaming? Was she dead? She looked around the room, lit now by a couple of lamps as well as candles, and knew she was not. There were a lot of people here, though.

Someone—it sounded like Sax himself—was muttering,
“Sax. Bad. Dragon. Bad.”

At her look, Sax said, “Knox is here. And Brak. And your brother and sister. I'll explain later.”

“That man was sent to find you!” Laura exclaimed. “But I didn't like him. I didn't feel easy about it. I was so glad when Mr. Chancellor turned up and brought us over here. And the parrot is so clever! It knew.”

“Lots and lots of riches,”
the bird suddenly exclaimed in a passable imitation of the villain's voice, then it emitted a scream.

Meg shuddered, and Sax gathered her into his arms. “Don't think about it. It's still freezing here. Let's get you back to Marlborough Square.”

She was indeed shivering, though it wasn't entirely with cold. “Yes, please. Laura, don't forget the
sheelagh.
”

He stood with her in his arms. They were both crumpled and dirty, and stinking of her vomit. She saw a couple of angry marks on his temple, showing he hadn't entirely escaped her deadly shower.

Safe in his arms, she looked at last at what she had done. His parents' killer lay groaning among his wished-for wealth, guarded and tended by Sax's servants and a snarling Brak.

Even though she'd envisioned it, she hadn't been sure that coins would do that much damage. Each copper penny weighed half an ounce, though, and there were a lot of them. The man's skull was surely cracked, and he was bleeding from mouth and nose.

She wasn't sorry, but she looked at Sax.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything. Especially, for summoning me to your side.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. “You believe?”

“I'd be a clod not to, though the stone covers its tracks remarkably well. I find it fascinating.”

Meg groaned. The impossible man was probably going to want to play with it like a scientific toy!

“What about the duchess?” she asked as he carried her out of the room.

“She really is dying. I think she sent him here to kill me because she wanted to take me with her. I'm tempted to go and tell her she's failed, but I'll let God and the devil take care of creating an appropriate hell for her.”

Meg rested her head on his shoulder and gave thanks to gods, Christian and pagan.