The Rose of Blacksword (70 page)

Duncan’s ugly treatment of their prisoner infuriated Elgiva. Ordinarily the mayor of their village was merely pompous and overbearing. But he was afraid of Douglas Kincaid’s power, as was everyone in Druradeen, and his fear made him cruel.

Elgiva bit her tongue and watched anxiously. From the corner of her eye she saw Rob stiffening with anger. Kincaid’s dog shoved himself against Duncan’s legs and snarled.

“Aye,” Duncan continued grimly, and jerked Kincaid’s head back a little farther. “We should bring him to Scotland wearing a few good bruises.” He curled one hand up and started to slap him.

“No!” Elgiva and Rob said at the same time. Elgiva cupped her hands over Kincaid’s face. “He’s helpless, Duncan. He’s my charge. And I say you won’t hit him.”

Kincaid’s dog was now growling with a deep, wild tone. From the door to the cockpit came a crackling little voice. “Son? Duncan? We canna whack the poor helpless American unless he’s awake. Now calm yourself.”

Duncan stepped back, his eyes glazed with restrained anger. “I was just having a wee bit of fun with him, Mother.” Elgiva shot an amused, grateful look at the elderly sprite in a black woolen dress.

Mirah MacRoth was Elgiva’s second cousin four times removed, or some such thing—the clan genealogy was very complicated. Elgiva was glad to be related to Mrs. M, but sorry to be related to Mrs. M’s son, Duncan, even if he was the best mayor the village had ever had.

“I can’t wait to get this work done!” Duncan grumbled. “See that you don’t muck it up, Elgiva!”

“Watch how you speak to my sister,” Rob warned.

“Come, Duncan, and stop your naughtiness,” Mrs. M ordered. Duncan would always be ten years old to her. She had been Druradeen’s schoolmistress since 1949, and
every
adult in the village was still ten years old in spirit, as far as she was concerned.

Duncan stomped into the cockpit to sit with her and Andrew. After he slammed the door, Elgiva tilted Kincaid’s head to a comfortable position and resisted an urge to smooth the hair Duncan had mussed. She stood quickly. “Best go and get your mask, Robbie. Duncan will pounce on the least excuse to complain.”

Rob gripped Elgiva’s arm and gazed hard into her eyes. “It’s not too late for you to put on a mask too. We could change the plans.”

She shook her head. “I suspect that Kincaid looked me over
verrry
well when I preened in front of his silly little one-way mirror. I don’t think he’s the kind of man who’d forget the details of his kidnapper’s face.” She hugged her brother and swallowed hard to keep the tears out of her voice. “It has to be this way, Robbie. If we get what we want, I won’t be sorry. Sssh, now, you big-hearted brute.”

She stood back and shook him lightly by the shoulders, as if he were still smaller than she. His handsome angular features tightened with sorrow, and Elgiva tried to distract him. “Robbie, I think Mr. Kincaid’s got you beat. He must be a good centimeter taller.”

“Och! No!” Rob’s eyes glittered with dismay, as she’d expected. “The thieving bastard’s naught but a midget next to myself!”

“We’ll bring him down a notch or two. Don’t fret.” Douglas Kincaid’s dog licked her hand anxiously.

“Sssh, now, he’ll be fine,” she said soothingly, stroking the dog’s broad, golden head. “It’s me you should be worrying over, lad. I won’t get out of this as well off as you and your grand friend here.”

Rob touched her arm. “Go up and sit with the others, Ellie. I’m going to change his clothes.”

“No. I’ll help.” At Rob’s grim silence she glanced up. “Brother of mine, I was married for twelve years, you know. A man’s body is nothing new to me. And if I’m going to be alone with this one for a whole month, I’ll probably see more of him than I ever wanted.”

He cursed softly. “I must have been crazy when we decided this plan. A true man wouldn’t let his sister—”

“A true man knows when his sister is the best choice for a job. Now stop worrying!”

“If anything goes awry—”

“I’ll have done what my heart and soul told me to do. Now come. Let’s get this great, vain beast into some practical clothes.”

Together they began undressing Douglas Kincaid. By the time they finished Elgiva was quivering inside from touching him, and she knew for certain that living alone with him for the next month would be more dangerous than she’d ever imagined.

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Read on for an excerpt from Adrienne Staff’s
Spellbound

ONE

Slowly the clouds moved across the bright face of the full moon. Mysterious shadows cloaked the building where Jamie Payton tried to paint. For an instant it was as though the stage was purposely being dimmed; the scene was being set. Jamie felt a chill walk across her skin. She had the strangest feeling that something was about to happen, something unexplainable, something unforeseen. Something …

The lights went out. One minute Jamie was staring at her half-finished painting, brush in hand, and the next … total darkness.

“Damn!” She felt her way over to the wall near the door and flicked the light switch once, twice. Nothing. What was going on? Moving cautiously, she walked around the
wall to the windows, covered with heavy oilcloth to keep out the distractions of the city while she painted. She slid a fingernail under the rim of a thumbtack, the cloth sprang up, and light poured in.

The street lamps were on outside and there were lights in the row of storefronts across the way. Jamie frowned. She opened the window, leaned out, and saw that lights were shining from the windows in her own building as well. Damn! Wouldn’t you know? Just when she thought she was finally getting somewhere with her painting, something bad had to happen. It was probably the wiring in her loft or a blown fuse. But why now? Why her?

Tugging her fingers through her uncombed hair, she turned back to the darkness of her own room. For a moment she stood there immobilized by a childhood sense of dread, feeling the old ghosts closing in. But she shook them off and moved quickly through the loft, pulling open one drawer after another in search of candles. Her elbow hit the corner of a box, the vase on top teetered, and an entire still life crashed to the floor.

Jamie screamed. She didn’t mean to; it just happened before she could control herself.
Biting her lip, she bent and began picking glass shards off the worn wood floor. She was just reaching for another when there was a knock at the door.

“Now what?” she groaned. She was tempted to ignore it, but whoever was out there was very persistent. Setting the broken glass down in a neat pile, she walked over, checked the chain lock, and opened the door a few inches.

“Yes?” she said, peering out into the corridor. The guy standing there looked familiar, a neighbor most likely.

“Hi. I’m Kent. From next door,” he added, confirming her guess. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but I heard a crash, and a scream.…” He shrugged. “I just wanted to check that everything’s okay.”

Jamie gave him a thin smile. “I’m fine. Thanks. That was nice of you, but I’m okay.”

He stood there.

“Really,” she insisted. “My lights went out and I bumped into some things I’d left lying around. I’m a painter and—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “Abstracts. You told me a year ago when we first met. And I’m the actor from next door, the one who used to play his music too loud.”

“Oh yes, of course I remember,” she lied, feeling really embarrassed now. He
was
trying to be neighborly. “Well, perhaps sometime you could come over and we could talk about our work.”

He smiled. “You said that also. But you didn’t show up at my New Year’s Eve party. Or my St. Patrick’s Day bash … green beer and all. I was hurt.”

Jamie stiffened. “I must have been busy. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I just thought we could be friends.”

“Yes. That’s nice. And thanks again for being the good Samaritan.”

“No problem. Hey—just call if you need any help.”

“Yes, I will. Thanks. Good night.”

She shut the door and leaned back against it, feeling oddly shaken. The truth was, she could have used a little help right now. But it was just as true that she couldn’t ask. Ever. Before she could stop herself, she was always saying, “No, thank you, I’m fine; I don’t need anything.” It was just the way she was.

Pain squeezed her heart. She wanted to be different. She longed to be different, to be open, warm, and responsive, to be the kind of
person who was surrounded by friends. It would be wonderful to be the center of smiles and laughter, the giver and recipient of hugs.

Jamie’s throat tightened around forbidden tears. She pushed away from the door, away from her thoughts. “Now where the hell did I put those candles?”

Finally she had two lit and placed strategically in the dimness. Tomorrow she’d complain to her landlord. She’d have it out with him once and for all. He could either fix things so that she could paint without interruption or he could find himself another tenant. She’d move. She’d find another loft in Georgetown, or somewhere else in D.C. The classifieds probably had dozens of listings.

Reaching for an old newspaper, she knocked a week’s worth of mail onto the floor. When everything finally fluttered to a stop, there on top was a bill from the electric company,
FINAL NOTICE
typed across the envelope in bold print.

The electric company! Her hand flew to her mouth. The telephone company! Her rent! She’d forgotten to pay all her bills. She’d been so determined to finish this latest painting that she’d forgotten everything else. And for what? She still couldn’t get it right. She couldn’t achieve the power she wanted, the
dynamic tension of form and shadow. She couldn’t capture the light, that perfect but elusive light she saw in her imagination. But she was damned if she was going to give up. Hurrying to the easel, she picked up her brush, dipped it in paint.…

At that instant a gust of wind blew in through the open windows and snuffed out her candles.

It was too much; she couldn’t stand it anymore. Problems were piling on top of problems: the poor sales at her first one-woman show, then this painting, and now the lights—

She was going to cry. She knew it, hating herself for it, fighting against it. And even as the tears gathered she heard her father’s cold voice with its chill disapproval, its utter disdain: “Look at you. Out of control. Are you crying? Are those tears? What are you, a baby? A failure? A loser?”

His ghost chased her from the loft.

Jamie took the stairs two at a time, grabbing at the banister for balance. She ran out the front door and into the loud, impersonal noise of the street with its car radios, college students, and flood of tourists. Above her head, the sky was filled with strange, leaden clouds that seemed to catch the noise and
bounce it back down like an echo chamber. But even this was better than that voice.

Jamie stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and walked on, head down. It started to drizzle. Every store light, every car light, every traffic light flashing green/yellow/red was reflected on the wet canvas of the sidewalks. The lights streaked and spread. They flowed in elongated, mystical shapes. They arched into rainbows at the edges of curbs where oil and grease had been laid like wax crayon on gray paper. Colors and light, light and color— Why couldn’t she paint like this, with such random beauty, such freedom?

Drawing a shaky breath, Jamie tilted her face up to the rain. It made it easier to hide the tears.

She wandered along, turning right or left without thought. Night fell over the city and the stores closed. As the rain picked up, the streets emptied. But Jamie was reluctant to go home, home to the darkness, the silence, her own thoughts … and that awful voice.

Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she took a sharp left down a narrow, dark street she’d never seen before. Suddenly everything looked unfamiliar. Yet she almost felt, in her confusion and despair, as if her feet had led her surely to this place. But why?

One light shone up ahead, spilling a welcoming pool of yellow warmth out onto the sidewalk. The sign on the window was old and faded, the paint worn away:
MYST R UM
. The window was full of the strangest things: antique toys, rhinestone earrings, a feather boa and a silk top hat, cut-glass vases, a shawl with red silk thread and ten-inch fringes. They were odd, mismatched items but beautiful to an artist’s eye. Already Jamie was picturing how she could stand a vase on one end of the shawl, its fringe hanging down off the table’s edge as sunlight splintered through the glass. She could use layer upon layer of paint to create a jeweled, almost enameled effect.

Abandoning herself to her imagination, Jamie entered the store’s dim interior. Chaos reigned. Things were stacked everywhere in a topsy-turvy jumble. This store is as out of control as my loft, she thought, and almost smiled. She drew her fingers along the dusty countertops, traced the facets on a tiny vase, peered into the ancient, beveled-glass cases, gathered into her hands dry, threadbare fabrics that rustled under her touch.