Mia Marlowe (25 page)

In the woods below, the riders had far outpaced the beaters and taken their station in a frost-kissed meadow at the base of a rising peak. The beaters thrashed through the underbrush. If there was a boar hidden among the brambles, they’d drive him to the men armed with spears and crossbows.

“Truth to tell, I’m more worried for Lord Bonniebroch during this hunt,” Jane said artlessly. “He’s no’ touched by the curse, so we must hope the boar doesna touch him either.”

Clarindon had bowed out of the boar hunt, deciding instead to spend the morning chasing a charming upstairs maid about the castle, hoping to catch her beneath a kissing bough. Alex wished he could have done the same with Lucinda.

As Alexander shifted in the saddle, the creak of leather sounded preternaturally loud.

Of course, one of the best things about this blasted hunt was that everyone was forced to be quiet lest they warn the quarry of their presence. Lord Rankin couldn’t pontificate on everything under the sun. Sir Darren MacMartin couldn’t make sly remarks, laden with innuendo and half-truths. As they waited for the beaters to flush out the boar, Alexander was alone in the crowd of English nobles and their retainers with only his thoughts to keep him company.

As he looked down the line of hunters, bristling with weaponry, he mostly pitied the boar.

Then their quarry shot out of the woods in a black blur with a pack of baying hounds nipping at its heels. The boar was of monstrous size, almost four feet at the shoulder and his back measured more than six. Alex estimated its weight at over five hundred pounds. It turned in the center of the clearing and one of the hounds leaped up to grasp it by the ear. With a toss of its massive head, the boar ripped open the dog’s guts, sending it keening and writhing in agony.

Alexander revoked his pity for the boar in a heartbeat.

Forewarned, the rest of the pack circled at a respectful distance and took turns rushing the beast, harrying it with nips on the heels and keeping it turning in tight circles to face new threats.

Lord Rankin was first to raise his crossbow. Alex clamped a hand on his forearm to stop him. “You’re likely to hit one of the hounds. Those dogs are facing enough danger without our adding to it.”

Rankin’s lip curled in distaste. “Never figured you for squeamish, Mallory. Very well. Spears, it is. Likely more sport that way, in any case.”

Lord Rankin strapped his crossbow across his back and untied the long spear that had been affixed to his saddle. Alex held Badgemagus still as he watched Rankin barrel across the clearing toward the beleaguered pig. Between the racket from the beaters who ringed the clearing, the tearing teeth of the hounds, and the dozen or so mounted hunters, the boar had no chance.

Nothing sporting about this,
he decided.

Alex wouldn’t have minded the boar hunt if the castle was short of meat and needed to fill its larder so that people might eat.

But to kill another creature merely to watch it die made his stomach turn.

Rankin cantered around the boar, looking for an opening. After circling once, he hefted his spear and lofted it into the air. It struck the boar’s shoulder, penetrating the tough hide deeply enough to embed the blade, but not far enough to damage any internal organs.

In an instant the momentum shifted between hunter and quarry. The spear shaft quivering from its shoulder, the boar squealed with rage and charged Rankin’s horse. As it streaked past, it slashed the gelding’s belly with its long tusk. The horse reared and toppled, kicking and screaming. When the gelding landed on the iron-hard ground, Rankin’s leg was trapped beneath it. He bellowed for help.

The boar turned, its piggy-eyes flaring red, and began to dash back toward the fallen man.

“Do something, Mallory,” Sir Darren demanded, his voice shrill enough to make his mount dance sideways in nervousness. “This is your hunt. Your responsibility.”

A number of the other mounted Englishmen quit the clearing and headed into the woods, fleeing back to the castle as quickly as their horses would take them.

For the first time in his life, Alex was ashamed of his English blood. The dogs had fallen back, so he raised his crossbow and loosed a bolt. Because of the angle, he could only strike the boar in the flank, which only served to madden it further, but slowed it a little.

Alex kicked Badgemagus into a full gallop, but knew he’d never close the distance in time to save Lord Rankin, who was swearing the air blue above the screams of his dying horse and the grunting pants of the advancing boar. Both Rankin and his mount were doomed.

Then suddenly a man leaped from the woods and danced across the path of the boar.

It was Lucinda’s brother, Dougal.

He was unarmed, save for his dirk, but he spread his arms wide, to make himself as large a target as possible and shouted to the boar in Gaelic. It swerved to focus on him instead of the fallen Rankin. At the last possible second, Dougal stepped to the side with the same masculine grace he’d exhibited in the dirk dance and buried his blade in the boar’s back, hoping to hit the spine.

He missed his target, leaving his embedded dirk in the beast’s back. Red streaming from its wounds, the boar ran past Dougal, but instead of turning this time to charge its attackers, it made a beeline toward Sir Darren and his horse.

MacMartin panicked and caused his mount to rear instead of bolt away. He slid off the horse’s rump and landed on the frosty ground with a thud. The horse cantered away and the boar followed it for a few yards before stopping to turn back toward Sir Darren, who seemed frozen in place.

The boar seemed to be considering its options. It glared back in the direction of Lord Rankin, whom Dougal was helping out from under his dead horse, then toward the unhorsed MacMartin. Even Alexander could tell which was the easier target, so he galloped to Sir Darren.

“Get up, man!”

If MacMartin stood up, he might have faced the boar down, but all Sir Darren could do was whine and scrabble backward toward the trees.

“Help me!” MacMartin wailed.

The boar lowered its head. If Alex waited for it to charge, he’d be too late. For a large animal it was wickedly fast and light on its absurdly tiny feet. He had to guess where it would go and take his chances.

He leaped from Badgemagus’s back and gave the gelding a smack on the rump to send him fleeing back to the stable. Even though Badgemagus had been nothing but trouble, Alex didn’t want to see him gutted like Lord Rankin’s mount. Then he waved his arms to attract the boar’s attention and strode to meet it, pulling his loaded horse pistol from his deep jacket pocket.

There were few kill spots on a boar, especially from head on. And Alex had only one shot.

 

 

White-knuckled, Lucinda leaned on the balustrade. They could see the clearing in the distance, though rising mist obscured their vision enough to make the women wonder what became of the first man who charged the boar on horseback. Many of the hunters were fleeing so Lu figured that wasn’t a good sign.

The men were far enough away that she couldn’t make out their features, but she recognized Dougal by his blue and green Black Watch plaid. She held her breath as he danced with the boar and escaped untouched. She’d finally begun to breathe again when he ran toward the fallen horseman.

Then another Englishman lost his mount, but Lucinda hadn’t seen how.

“Ooo!” Jane said, her cheeks painted with an excited flush. “Would ye look at that? Someone else is going after the boar afoot.”

It wasn’t just someone. It was Alexander. Lucinda would know that determined stride anywhere.

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she forced herself to stay upright and not look away. She covered her mouth with her fingertips to keep from crying out.

Oh, God. Help him, God,
she chanted in her mind. She couldn’t make her voice work, but surely the One who weighs hearts knew what was in hers.

Alex extended his arm and a flash erupted, followed by a loud bang. Billowing smoke combined with the swirling mist. Both the gunman and boar disappeared from her sight.

 

 

A whooshing noise rushed through Bonniebroch Castle, as if a howling wind were suddenly loosed inside. It roared through the corridors, billowed the tapestries as if they were mere bed curtains, and shot up the chimneys. Every fire in every grate flared. The kitchen blaze ruined the brace of pheasant Cook was roasting on a spit. She began shrieking for the bootblack boy to fetch a pail of water to put it out, but then the flames suddenly dissipated as quickly as they had flared.

The sound grew louder. It wrapped itself around every soul in Bonniebroch, trapping them inside the eye of a personal squall. Then as if someone had grasped the noise by the tail and given it a shake, the sound abruptly stopped.

An awestruck silence fell upon the castle. No one moved. No one spoke.

Except for Mr. Farquhar and Mr. Lyttle.

“Did ye feel something?”
Farquhar asked.

Lyttle nodded shakily as he helped Mr. Farquhar replace his secret journal behind the faulty brick in Lord Bonniebroch’s fireplace. “Aye, it was like a gale had been loosed inside me.”

“Wish I could have felt it,”
Farquhar murmured. His was the only head of hair in the castle not standing on end.
“Three hundred years we’ve waited.”

“Ye mean . . .”

Mr. Lyttle did a jig, pirouetting in place. Then he shoved Farquhar’s journal into the secret alcove in the fireplace and jammed in the brick till it was flush with the others.

Lyttle scraped the brick forward so it canted out drunkenly from its fellows. “Why can we no’ just leave the journal out on the end of his bed for his lordship to find? We could even leave it open to the proper page.”

“But we’re hoping he finds yer journal and reads it?”

“Aye. There’s nothing in the curse that precludes his lordship discovering things for himself. Nor strictures against us giving him a nudge in the right direction so long as we dinna tell him directly.”
Farquhar floated toward Lord Bonniebroch’s long mirror so he could return to his tower room by the most direct method.
“The last task is the hardest. And I’m thinkin’ he’ll need to ken the stakes if he’s to make the right choice this time.”

“In a pig’s eye!” Lucinda closed the
Ladies’ Guide
with a snap and hurled it across her bedchamber. It splatted on the far wall and landed on the polished hardwood, rumpling the open pages and cracking the binding.

It wasn’t right. Alex had no need to keep things from her, especially now that Dougal had won the favor of Lord Rankin by saving him from that charging boar. Rankin was so grateful, Dougal’s royal pardon was all but assured. Of course, she hadn’t heard about that from Alexander or from her brother either. It had come to her through Jane or Janet, she wasn’t sure which, the fresh gossip spilling out of the maid like sausage from a meat grinder.

Lucinda’s husband didn’t seek her out after returning from the hunt to reassure her that he was uninjured either. His valet had informed her that the laird was hale and hearty when he met her at Alexander’s door, along with the fact that his lordship was enjoying his bath and didn’t wish to be disturbed.

By anyone.

So Lucinda moved back to her own chamber, grateful she’d left enough of her things there to muddle by.

“Heaven forefend I interrupt Himself at his bath because I need a fresh pair of stockings,” she muttered tetchily.

She paced the length of the room, trying to look on the positive side of matters. Alexander had helped her brother by sending him away instead of arresting him. Once the promised pardon came through Dougal would be able to resume his normal life. Maybe even court Enya MacKenzie, if she wasn’t already promised. By protecting Sir Darren MacMartin during the boar hunt, Alexander had satisfied the second requirement for the curse to be lifted. So all in all, things were looking up at Bonniebroch.

Except for the state of the laird and lady’s marriage.

After that frenetic coupling in the woods, they’d barely spoken a dozen words to each other. Their bodies seemed to know how to join, with predictable frequency and devastating effect, but their hearts . . . that was another matter entirely.

Lucinda was sick over it.

Alex only seemed to seek her out when he was either angry with her or wanted to bed her. He’d even left her to play hostess to their houseguests while he remained closeted in his chamber for the rest of the day and into the evening.

Again, with orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed.

His barred door was a crippling blow to her heart.

Verra well,
she decided as she slid the bolt and climbed into her cold bed.
My door can be locked too.

Lucinda blew out her bedside candle and stared into the dark. Blood coursed in her ears like retreating footsteps as she waited for sleep to claim her.

It never came.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she followed the dancing shadows cast by the banked fire, small gray parodies of the Nimble Men she and Alex had watched in the northern sky. She’d been so hopeful that night on the battlements, so sure their made marriage would grow into a love match and they’d be happier than any two people had a right to be.

Lucinda sighed.
So much for hopes.

Still, she wasn’t entirely surprised when long after midnight, the secret panel in her wall whirred open and Alexander stepped through. She sat up in bed.

“I didna invite ye here,” she said, pulling the coverlet to her chin.

He came over and sat on the side of her bed. “I don’t need an invitation to enter my wife’s chamber.”

“But I need one to enter yours apparently.”

He sighed. “I was busy.”

“In your bath?” A horrid thought struck her. There were any number of housemaids she hadn’t met yet and likely a few wouldn’t mind a tumble with the laird. “Or maybe ye had company ye didna wish me to discover.”

Alex swore so vehemently Lucinda was surprised the Almighty didn’t blast him with a lightning bolt on the spot.

“I was alone all day.” His eyes blazed at her. “What do you take me for?”

“I dinna ken, Alex. One moment ye’re cold and distant. The next ye’re hot as a furnace. I never know who ye’ll be when ye come to me.”

“No need for you to wonder now. I’ve come as your husband and I need you to be my wife.”

He reached for her but she straight-armed him.

“Nae, ye only need me to soothe the urges of your body, but ye willna let me know what’s going on in your head and your heart. That’s no’ a wife.” She steeled herself to resist him. “Ye have me confused with a light-skirt.”

He stretched out on the bed beside her without touching her again and laid a forearm across his eyes. “Well, you’re right about one thing. I’m confused.”

Against her better judgment, she asked, “What about?”

His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh. “The curse.”

“Seems to me things are going well on that front. Everyone is delighted with the progress ye’ve made.” If she wasn’t going to offer him the comfort of her body—and she absolutely wasn’t till he’d offered more of his heart—the least she could do was encourage him about the Bonniebroch curse. “There were so many toasts over it at supper, ’tis a wonder anyone was able to leave the tables upright.”

He peered at her from under his arm. “I’m glad they enjoyed themselves this night because there won’t be any more progress.”

“Why not?”

“Because I found Mr. Farquhar’s journal behind a brick in my fireplace. I’ve been reading the blasted thing all day. Three hundred years’ worth of rumination takes some concentration, but now I know the final task to lift the curse,” he said wearily, “and I can’t do it.”

“What is it?”

He sat up. “I have to kill an old friend. The only person in this castle who qualifies is Clarindon. He and I have saved each other’s lives a dozen times over the years. I’d sooner cut out my own heart as hurt him, let alone kill him.” His eyes wells of sadness, Alex met her gaze. “I won’t be able to lift the curse.”

“Then everyone in Bonniebroch is doomed,” she whispered.

“I know. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Her chest constricted and she felt his despair as if it were her own.

“It’s plain you want nothing to do with me,” he said, “but would you . . . do you think you could bear for me to hold you for a while?”

His ragged tone crushed her heart.
So much for withholding meself to punish him.

“Only if ye join me under the sheets,” she said as she lifted the coverlet. He crawled under it and snugged her close against him. When she settled her head on his shoulder, she felt the tension leave his body.

As good as his word, he only stroked her hair, her arm, and occasionally down the length of her spine in slow caresses. His breathing slowed and eventually his hand stilled, fingers splayed on the small of her back.

Sometimes,
she decided as sleep began to snatch at the edges of her mind,
love doesna have to proclaim itself with flowery words. It doesna always blaze in quick passion. Sometimes, ’tis plainest and sweetest in the sharing of a pillow and shutting out the world.

 

 

Even though each day was very like another for Morgan MacRath, sometime-sorcerer and sole occupant of the castle dungeon, he gained strength with every dawn. The laird of Bonniebroch wasn’t the only one who was glad to see the weeping woman gone from the other cell. She’d disturbed Morgan’s concentration and set his plans back by keeping him from growing in power while she was there. Now, unimpeded by the distraction, he fed on his hatred for the residents of Bonniebroch who were counting down the days till Twelfth Night with riotous celebration in the castle above Morgan’s head.

He seethed with loathing. He wallowed in spite for the people who’d inadvertently trapped him all these years. And with each malevolent thought, Morgan MacRath’s strength returned.

He was no longer a black blob of amorphous goo. The sorcerer was now able to assume a spectral body like the one inhabited by that infernal pest Farquhar. The bars of his cell no longer held him, but the exits to the dungeon were still warded against him. He could only wander the deepest reaches of the old keep.

That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He discovered some subterranean spaces he was sure no living person knew existed. They would suit his purposes well, provided he could find a way out of the dungeon.

He couldn’t assume physical form yet, but that wasn’t a total impediment to his plans and what with the setback caused by the weeping woman he probably wouldn’t be able to become corporeal by the appointed hour. Of course, he could always borrow a body, provided he could get close enough to one. The trick was to escape the dungeon and do it before Twelfth Night was over.

Morgan made another circuit of the large central chamber, hoping to discover a secret unwarded exit through the gray stone. From the tail of his eye, he caught his reflection in the long mirror hanging in the center of the room. He was drawn to the looking glass to admire his own face for a moment.

After three hundred years trapped as an entity with roughly the same consistency as a raw egg, it did his heart good to see himself again. He stroked the beautifully tended chin whiskers that had been his pride when he was alive. He was a damned handsome man, if he did say so.

Damned handsome . . . whatever I am now,
he silently amended.

Then he noticed a flicker in the mirror, a streak of light that hadn’t come from behind him. It was from inside the looking glass.

“I wonder . . .” Morgan lifted a hand and touched the glass experimentally. To his great surprise and delight, instead of skimming over cool silvered glass, his fingers sank into a gelatinous substance. He’d seen Farquhar come through the mirror with the new laird of Bonniebroch some days ago. Morgan cursed himself for not trying this sooner.

So, the question of what he’d become was answered. He was pure spirit, like Farquhar, capable of projecting whatever image he wished. Morgan concentrated all his energy and morphed his spectral shape into an exact replica of the old steward.

“Ye wee bird of a man,”
Morgan said to his own reflection, looking back at himself through Farquhar’s calm eyes.
“How did ye ever best me all those years ago?”

Then he relaxed and returned to his own tall, devilishly handsome form.

It wasn’t too late. By his reckoning, this was the day. Epiphany. Twelfth Night. The last day those dupes above his head might hope to end the curse. Perhaps it was fitting that he hadn’t found the way to escape until now.

Besides, he hadn’t learned the name of the body he’d be assuming until very recently. Like Farquhar, he heard everything that transpired, every conversation spoken in Bonniebroch, and he’d been paying particular attention to the new laird’s pillow talk with his young wife. Lord Bonniebroch couldn’t kill his old friend.

Morgan pushed through the surface of the mirror and found himself moving steadily down a corridor of light. He paused briefly before each looking-glass exit he chanced to pass, looking for the right one.

“Where are ye, Englishman? Come out, come out, wherever ye are,”
he almost sang. It was only a matter of time until he found him.

Sir Bertram Clarindon had to be here somewhere.