The Huntress (16 page)

Closing her eyes, she conjured up an image of his golden hair and his handsome visage. Her heartbeat quickened and her cheeks warmed as she murmured his name softly to herself.

“Sander.”

Chapter Nine

“M
ERDE
!”
M
ARTIN BREATHED, ENTIRELY FORGETTING HIMSELF
. He nearly dropped the candle, hot wax spattering his hand as his gaze roved about the chamber. The candlelight flickered, casting eerie shadows over rough stone walls lined with shelves holding jars and bottles filled with all manner of murky liquids.

By far the most alarming was the table in the center of the room, the oak surface draped with a bloodred cloth gilded with stars, pentagrams, and other mysterious-looking symbols.

The objects placed atop the table were equally disturbing, a mortar and pestle, a dusty old book, a set of scales, and a small iron cauldron.

Martin’s blood iced in his veins. “What the devil is all of this?”

Ned staggered into the room. He clapped Martin on the shoulder and smirked.

“Magic, my good man.
Sorcery.
”

Jane stood on the threshold, refusing to come any farther. She looked pale with fear, rapidly making the sign of the cross, and Martin didn’t blame her.

It had been years since he had blessed himself but he did so now. During his youth he had possessed a healthy fear of all things supernatural, often fashioning himself charms for protection against witches.

After he had met the Cheney sisters, he had learned more of the true nature of wise women, how much of the so-called ancient knowledge could be good, Ariane’s gift for healing, and Miri’s extraordinary ability to communicate with animals.

But he had also seen the darker side of magic through Cassandra Lascelles, with her seductive perfumes and cursed medallions, her hellish skill in conjuring the dead and drawing out a man’s thoughts with but a chilling touch of her hand.

He had experienced much that he never wanted to experience again or for Meg to, either. Especially not Meg. And now he was surrounded by everything he had tried to protect her from, everything he had sought to cut out of her life.

His hand shaking a little, Martin set the candle down upon the table, his eyes drawn to the dust-covered tome. He had been told there was only one
Book of Shadows,
one compilation of the worst of the ancient knowledge. But there were other old texts that could be dangerous enough.

Martin looked at the book and shuddered, unable to bring himself to crack the cover. Anger flashed through him and he spun around, seizing Ned by the front of his doublet.

“You damned young idiot. Do you have any idea of the kind of dark power you are meddling with? How cursed dangerous all this stuff is?”

Ned blinked, momentarily stunned by Martin’s assault. He scowled and struck Martin’s hands away.

“There is nothing dangerous or sinister about my workshop. Bigod, you—you sound just like m’sister.”

“It is true,” Jane spoke up in a distressed voice. “I have tried to warn him so many times—”

“Bah! You’ll both sing another song when I succeed.”

“Succeed? Succeed at what?” Martin demanded.

Ned swayed on his feet, stealing a drunken glance around him as though the walls possessed ears. Leaning closer to Martin, he whispered, “The philosopher’s stone.”

“What?”

“I am trying to create the philosopher’s stone, so I can turn lead into gold. I nearly did it once. When I do, I’m going to be fab-fabulously wealthy.”

Martin stared at him, choking back an outbreak of hysterical laughter. That was what his lordship was doing down here?

Turning back to the table, he flipped the cover of the book open, reading the title.

The Art of Alchemy.

The book might be dusty, but it wasn’t old, just one of those cheap texts that could be picked up for shillings at the Leadenhall Market.

Martin expelled a deep breath. No treason, no witchcraft, no sinister plot to use dark arts against the queen. Only a bored young nobleman playing at being a magus. If there was one thing Martin’s acquaintance with the ladies of Faire Isle had taught him, it was how to tell the difference between true magic and utter nonsense.

He closed the book, feeling so giddy with relief, he had to suppress an urge to scoop Lady Danvers up and give her a reassuring hug.

The poor woman still hovered in the doorway, fingering the gold chain of her crucifix and looking sick with apprehension.

Martin smiled at her. “Your brother is right. He is not doing anything dangerous.”

“Haven’t I told her that many times?” Ned rocked back and forth on his feet. “She’s like a frightened rabbit. But women don’t understand about magic. They’ve got no head for—for—”

Ned trailed off, his complexion turning a greenish hue. “Ohhh. Think I’m going to be sick.”

Jane’s timidity vanished. She darted past Martin and fetched the cauldron in time to prevent Ned from retching all over his elegant shoes.

J
ANE DREW THE COVERS ABOUT HER BROTHER, RELIEVED TO
have Ned tucked up in his bed at last. His valet worked quietly in another part of the room, folding His Lordship’s discarded finery into the wardrobe chest. Timon was a solemn, dependable man and a good Catholic. Jane valued him for his discretion. She wished she could be as sure of all her other servants.

It had been so long since Ned had flown into one of his rages. Jane could usually recognize the warning signs and defuse her brother’s temper. But the message from the queen had caught her unawares. If only she could have intercepted the queen’s messenger first and relayed the bad tidings herself. She could have softened the blow.

Jane tenderly stroked Ned’s brow. Poor boy. Her Majesty had so cruelly disappointed him. Ned stirred beneath her touch, his face waxy and pale. His eyes opened to narrowed slits and he whispered, “Sorry, Jane. So sorry. I disgraced you tonight.”

A tear leaked from his eye. “Such a worthless scoundrel. All I bring you is heartache.”

“Nay, hush, Ned.” She feathered away his tear with the tips of her fingers, just as she used to when he was a small boy.

“Butterflies, Neddie. Butterflies come to drink away your tears.”

“You are as ever my one joy,” she assured him. “None of this was your fault.”

“But—but you must be vexed with me for showing Wolfe the s-secret room.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said softly. “But I daresay it will all come right. I will see to Master Wolfe. Now you must try to sleep.” She bent and brushed a kiss against his brow.

“Dear Jane. So kind. Like a mother, always looking out for me,” Ned mumbled, his eyes drifting closed.

“And so I always shall, little brother,” Jane vowed silently, compressing her lips in a steely line. Leaving her brother to Timon’s care, she tiptoed out of the room.

When she reached the top of the stair, she could see Marcus Wolfe waiting for her in the hall below. He paced restively, his cape swirling off one strong shoulder. The candles’ soft glow played over his rich sable hair and trim beard.

To Jane’s dismay, she felt her heart miss a beat. She was far too old to go all fluttery over a man she knew little about except that he had saved her life and had once been an actor. Hardly a reputable occupation, but it would not be the first time she had been charmed by a rogue.

Would she ever be able to escape the memory of her past sins, the grand folly of her youth? She’d been but fourteen when she had become wildly infatuated with the handsome young groom in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s stable.

“
Your passionate nature will lead you to disaster, child,
” her old nurse had scolded. And Marie had been right. The evidence of that lay buried in an obscure churchyard, a little girl who had mercifully been stillborn.

If all the religious orders had not been dissolved in England, Jane supposed she would have bundled off to a convent. The only other alternative had been a respectable marriage.

Ned might deplore the fact that she had been forced to wed a sickly boy like Richard Arkwright, but Jane herself had been made to see the sense of it. A callow youth would be much easier to deceive into thinking his bride still a virgin.

Poor Dickon, Jane thought. He had never noticed much beyond his constant ailments and complaints. He’d perished from a bout of tertiary fever during the first year of their marriage. By the time she had wed her second husband, the wealthy wine merchant, Sir William Danvers, Jane had been a different woman entirely. Sober, sensible, dutiful, the fires of passion and rebellion long forgotten until recently…

Taking a moment to compose herself, Jane lifted the hem of her skirts and traipsed solemnly down the stairs. Wolfe glanced up at her approach. He stepped forward to greet her at the foot of the risers and smiled. Not his roguish grin but that warm expression that threatened to melt even the most resolute woman inside.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, my brother is asleep at last. He is well, or at least he will be until he wakes tomorrow with—”

“I misspoke myself. I meant to ask, are
you
all right?”

Unaccustomed to having anyone inquire after her welfare, Jane scarce knew how to answer. All she could do was nod.

He reached out to take her hand. She should not have allowed him such liberties. But it felt so good, her skin clasped against his warm hard palm. She let her fingers linger in his grasp a moment longer than she should have before drawing away with a nervous smile.

“Oh, Master Wolfe, I can’t imagine what you must be thinking—.”

“I think nothing except that your brother had too much to drink, something that can happen to any of us.”

“Thank you for being so understanding, but I could see how disturbed you were by Ned’s strange pastime down in the cellar. I have long been troubled by his interest in—in sorcery.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing for you to worry about. I have heard that many young noblemen dabble in alchemy, hoping to discover the secret for turning lead into gold. It is harmless nonsense.”

“Nonsense that can result in accusations of sorcery. The queen’s own astrologer, Dr. John Dee, was obliged to flee abroad for taking his studies too far, trying to raise the spirits of angels to speak to him.”

Jane fingered the gold chain of her crucifix. “My faith teaches me that it is all very wrong. God never meant us to pursue such forbidden knowledge.”

She gave a wry half-smile. “Ned likes to tease me. He said if I had been the woman in the Garden of Eden, the apple would have remained untouched.”

Wolfe smiled, daring to touch her cheek. “Then there would have been no fall from grace and that would make you an angel.”

Jane shook her head, thinking how little Marcus Wolfe knew her. Nor did her own brother. “Ned should not say such blasphemous things. He really needs to make confession.”

She spoke before she thought, a rare thing for her. She searched Wolfe’s face for some sign of disapproval of the Catholic rite, but his expression was merely grave as he asked, “It is hard for you, being denied the practice of your faith?”

“It is hard for a good many Catholics. But I survive, quietly praying my rosary at night where there is none but God to see.”

She sighed. “The men in my family have never been as sensible. You—you are no doubt aware of our unfortunate history. My grandfather lost his head fighting for the Catholic cause. My father was killed as well.

“And Ned…” She fretted her lower lip. “He is not exactly the most pious of men. But he is young and ambitious, longing to make his mark on the world. That is why I was glad when he became a patron of your theater. It gave him an interest in something besides that horrible alchemy. I dread that one day he too may do something rash and end up in the Tower.”

“That he will not! Not if I can help it.”

Jane’s eyes widened at his impassioned words. Wolfe looked a little taken aback himself by his rash promise, but Jane could not help feeling grateful to him for it.

Impulsively, she rested her hand upon his sleeve. “What a good friend you have been to both of us.”

He gave a dry, mirthless laugh, his eyes going strangely dark. “I would be honored to call myself your friend, but I dare not presume. I fear I am nothing but a common rogue.”

“No, you are very far from common, Marcus Wolfe,” she said softly. Her hand seemed to move of its own volition, caressing his arm.

His eyes flew to hers in surprise. Their gazes met and locked for a long, intent moment. Then he leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips.

Jane should not have welcomed the kiss, but the warmth of his mouth stirred in her an unexpected hunger, a longing to bury her fingers in his hair and taste him more fully, feel the hot thrust of his tongue.

She shrank back, flushing. It seemed the fires of her youth had not been entirely reduced to cold ash. One spark remained and Jane did her best to douse it as she bid Wolfe a breathless good night and fled back up the stairs.