Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon) (3 page)

The gaoler
returned carrying a small candle that shed a paltry light into the dimness of the
hallway. He roughly pushed aside a queue of prisoners who had left their cells
and were attempting to get out of the narrow hallway and up the stone steps.

“Get back
into your cells ya mangy beasts, or I’ll get me whip and beat ye.”

Griffin
winced at the man’s threat and the obvious pleasure the lummox derived from
terrifying the poor unfortunates lined up around him. He wanted to pummel the
man, but he heard Morgan gasping weakly for each breath.

Griffin
grabbed the candle and held it closer to his friend’s face. A wide band of fear
clenched his heart at the image the candlelight revealed. Morgan was deathly
pale, blue tinged his lips, and the shadows that circled his eyes looked as
black and blue as bruises. Most frightening of all, a thin trickle of blood
edged the corner of his mouth. Lord Cranbourne was fatally ill, and Griffin
knew he needed to rush his friend back to Mabley Hall and put him under the
care of a physician as soon as possible.

“You there—”
He pointed at the other gaoler, still plastered against the wall where the wind
had planted him. “Help me here.”

The command
was lost on the man, as he wordlessly pointed to the timber where the accused
witch had been lashed to an iron ring with leather straps and held prisoner.

Griffin’s
gaze followed the man’s pointing finger. His mouth went dry as the meager light
of the candle illuminated the darkness. Two thick leather straps lay empty
against the pillar.  “The devil’s work,” cried the man, still posed frozen
against the wall. “She’ll bring the evil one’s wrath down upon us all.”

“God’s
teeth,” whispered Griffin. “Perhaps she truly is a witch.” He shook his head to
clear the thoughts that whirled about in confusion. “That cursed wind has put
us all in an odd mood. ’Tis likely someone forgot to close the upper doors and
the storm outside sought refuge within this stone keep.” He turned back to his
friend. “She took advantage of the chaos.”

“She has
escaped,” gasped Morgan. “I shall be held responsible for this, I know it.”

Griffin
wanted to reassure his friend, but before he could utter a word Morgan fell
forward and would have collapsed at his feet. Only Griffin’s lightening
reflexes, honed by years of military training, saved his friend from crushing
his nose against the unforgiving stone of the floor.

Chapter Two

Griffin
grasped his best friend beneath the arms in an attempt to haul him to his feet.

“To hell
with this witch folly, Morgan. This wretched place is bound to kill you if we
stay.”

Glaring at
the gaoler, Griffin shoved at him with his free hand.

“Clear a
path out there so I can get Lord Cranbourne away from this hell-hole.”

Morgan’s
complexion was ashen as he gasped for each precious breath of air. Griffin knew
his friend’s episodes of lung fever had increased of late, but he was shocked
at the severity of this attack. When he pressed a handkerchief to Morgan’s
lips, more blood tinged the cloth. Morgan tried to take a deeper breath, but
fell into another fit of coughing.

As Morgan
leaned heavily against him for support, Griffin was astonished to discover how
thin and wasted his friend appeared. Dragging the ailing man with him down the
damp stone hallway, Griffin began to regret his plans to leave Shrewsbury so
soon. But passage was booked and arrangements had been made for him to claim
the tobacco plantation he’d recently inherited. More was at stake than his
eager desire to get away from England. Much more.

Thin, boney
hands stretched toward them in the dim light as they made their way down the
hallway. Voices crackled with pleading, for help, for freedom, and some simply
for pity.

They were
poor wretched prisoners, more likely to die from illness and starvation than
the hangman’s noose. Griffin tensed his muscles, threw back his head, and
bellowed a rough order to get back. The ragged army of damned creatures smashed
themselves against the wall. Griffin hauled Morgan’s limp form up the stairs of
the gaol.

“Who goes
there?” a smelly hulk questioned, barring their way. His feet were planted at
the top of the stone steps as he brandished his sword.

“Lord Cranbourne
is deathly ill, and if you do not let me pass I will drop him only long enough
to remove your head from your shoulders, you horse’s arse.”

The man
quickly stepped aside. “I’ll open the doors for ye, milord.”

Griffin’s
stomach clenched at the sour odor of the jailer as he stepped to the massive
oak door blocking the way to the entry hall. “Be quick about it then, for he
needs fresh air.” Near as much as I do at this moment he thought, nearly
gagging. His stomach roiled at the foul air surrounding them.

The guard
fumbled with the keys. Griffin shifted the weight of his friend and glanced
down at him. Morgan’s eyes were closed, his face like a mask of death, his
chest rattled. Death rattle? It was a terrifying thought.

The door
swung open, and the guard shuffled out of the way. Griffin could hardly see in
the dim light stretching to the end of the entry hall. The strange wind must
have howled through here too, although the idea confused Griffin. How could a
draft seep under a massive oak door that was tightly locked and put out all but
one of the rushes used for light?

He shrugged
off the question as he struggled to get Morgan out of the damp, cursed darkness
and home to warmth and the care of a reputable physician.

He paused once
again to shift Morgan and reach for the iron handle of the door leading to the
courtyard where his coach was waiting for them beyond the outer gate. A soft
rustling behind him stopped his hand in mid-air.

“I will heal
your friend if you help me escape.”

The soft
cadence of the woman’s voice told him she was Welsh. He turned slowly, and
though he couldn’t see the figure shrouded deep within the shadows, Griffin
knew he faced the witch.

No, his good
sense argued with him, the woman accused of being a witch. She stepped toward
him, and her features became visible. The arched eyebrows, the slightly tilted
eyes a startling shade of blue that reminded him of spring skies. A mouth that
was small but so finely shaped, Griffin wished he could lean forward and trace
the outline of her lips with one finger.

Despite her
efforts to gather the torn bodice of her gown, the soft mounds of her breasts
peeked through the rived fabric. Thick russet colored hair curled over her
shoulders and framed her heart-shaped face.

“You’ve been
accused of attacking a man using magic. How do you know I won’t call for the
gaoler and have you thrown back into that cell? And how did you manage to get
up here in the first place?”

She took
another step toward him and pointed at Morgan, now gasping for each thin breath
of air he could pull into his lungs.

“You
treasure this man’s life, and I can help him. We should assist each other.”

Griffin
considered her words. “Are you a healer, then?”

A shimmer of
silver lit the edges of the blue and her eyes grew brighter.

“Better than
a surgeon, who is more likely to kill your friend with his bleeding leeches and
purging potions then cure him.” She tilted her head.

“The death
rattle is in his cough and his lungs are filled with blood. My mother was a healer
of great renown, and I’ve seen this type of illness before.”

“Your mother
taught you to heal, then?”

She gave him
a thin, sad smile. “My mother taught me many things.”

The noise of
several men thudded up the stairs. Gaolers, from the sounds of the heavy
footfalls and rough voices.

When the
woman turned her head, bright silver glimmers of light, like dust motes caught
in sunlight, formed a halo behind her. The huge oak door slammed shut behind
them.

He blinked,
and his vision cleared. The wine he’d drank earlier in the evening had affected
him more than he’d realized.

“You must
decide quickly, there isn’t much time.”

Her voice
was gentle, and it carried an assurance that somehow comforted him. He didn’t
struggle with his decision, despite his own doubts that this woman could
perform any kind of healing on his friend. He simply couldn’t abide the forfeit
of a life, especially the life of a beautiful Welsh maiden, for the sake of
superstition. Witches were a folktale created to frighten children.

Griffin quickly
pulled at his cape and tossed it with one hand to the woman. He handed her his
hat.

“Cover
yourself with these, then you can help me carry Lord Cranbourne to my coach.
Stay quiet and say nothing!”

She quickly
complied and nodded her agreement.

The door
scraped open, and the gloomy night blew into the hall, making shadows dance
along the stone floor like ancient wraiths released from the grave. Rain fell
in heavy sheets in the courtyard, where one guard stood in a small ramshackle
hut before the gate. Just beyond the iron bars, Griffin's coach stood waiting.
Carter would wait for him until the hounds of hell arrived, he was that loyal.

“Who goes
there?” The guard peered at them.

“’Tis Sir
Reynolds of Hawthorne House, and I’m anxious to get Lord Cranbourne to his
estate. He’s had an attack of lung fever and is dangerously ill.” He avoided
the small flicker of light issuing from the doorway and walked directly to the
huge lock on the gate. “Be quick about this, man, lest he die here and I inform
his father, the Earl, ’twas your fault.”

The guard
stumbled. All of Shrewsbury knew the Earl doted upon his only son. They also
knew the old man had a wildly unpredictable temper, and no one would willingly
become his enemy. Griffin was counting on that knowlege to help him get away
quickly.

The guard
found the key and inserted it into the lock. Before they moved through the
gate, a large, meaty fist blocked their way.

The guard
nodded at the companion on the other side of Morgan. “Who’s this then?”

“Lord Cranbourne’s
servant you fool,” Griffin said with authority. “Do you think he’d enter this
pisshole without someone to guard his back?”

“’Course, I
got to know. Been strange doin’s in the gaol tonight.” The man’s eyes bulged
with a fearful look as he pulled the gate open. “There’s rumors a witch has
called down demons upon us.”

Griffin
pulled his friend through the space, grateful for the help of the woman on the
other side. He paused to reassure the guard as the gate slammed shut behind
them.

“I’ve heard
if you rub garlic and chicken fat upon yourself, it will protect you from
demons.” The man on the other side grunted. “Aye, I believe I’ve heard the same
thing. Thank ye for the advice.”

The woman’s
shoulders shook as she and Griffin shuffled Morgan to the coach where Carter
had already jumped down to open the door. He gave them an inquisitive look, but
said nothing as he helped them settle Morgan onto the seat.

“Let’s be
off quickly,” Griffin ordered, as he arranged a thick woolen blanket around the
legs of his friend who was now unconscious. The woman hovered above the sick
man, and with a sudden move she grasped Morgan by the shoulders and gave him a
hard shake.

Griffin
grabbed her upper arm roughly, “Be careful how you treat him, Miss.” She
shrugged off his grasp and opened Morgan’s mouth, leaning forward to peer
inside.

Her brusque
manner perturbed Griffin, but before he could pull her away from Morgan the
carriage jolted forward, flinging her back into Griffin’s arms. She gasped.

Griffin felt
of sizzle of heat climb up his leg and settle heavily in the region of his cock.
He gave her a mischievous grin while realizing he wasn’t immune to the woman’s
charms.

“A perfect
seating arrangement, wouldn’t you agree, milady?”

She pushed
at his shoulders and a flicker of defiance blazed in her eyes before she
lowered her gaze and lifted herself from his lap.

“I beg your
pardon, sir.”

Her gaze
caught his and a flash of curiosity sizzled through him. She crouched before
him, one hand on the seat next to Morgan to steady herself.

“I believe
’twould be better for Lord Cranbourne if we stretched him out upon the seat. I
think the air might move in and out of his lungs more easily.”

He stood,
moving Morgan so he now rested across the seat. Griffin covered him more
securely with the blanket and sat back to watch as she placed a hand gently on
his friend’s chest. “His breath moves in and out more easily and he’ll rest
comfortably without being folded in the middle. I have no doubt he’s been bled
overmuch. Look at the pallor of his skin.”

Griffin
nodded. “He’s lost a great deal of weight, too.” He drew his fingers through
his damp hair. “I’ve only just returned from Ireland, and I’m shocked to see my
friend in such poor condition. I swear I don’t know what he was thinking to go
out to an inquiry on an evening such as this.”

The woman
lifted her head. “But ’twas an inquiry of witchcraft, so how could he resist?
Aren’t all men eager to see a witch punished?” The tone of her voice was flat,
but defiance blazed in her soft blue eyes.

Griffin
pondered the question.

“I admit
some men are fascinated by the trials of witches. But Lord Cranbourne is not
such a man. If he went out into the storm tonight, it was to insure that you
would be given the opportunity for a fair trial.”

“And afterwards,
he would be sure to see that I was executed swiftly and efficiently.” She
tossed her head. “I am confident of that.”

“Are you a
witch, then?”

She gazed up
at him from beneath thick, dark lashes fringing her sapphire eyes. A smile
formed at the edges of her mouth, lifting the corners.

“Of course.
One would never even be accused lest there were irrefutable proof, is that not
so?”

Griffin
leaned back. “Of course. Well, ’tis good to have that settled. Will you be
calling upon demons to cure my friend of his affliction?”

She shook
water droplets from her hair as she settled the cloak around her shoulders. A
flash of desire whipped through Griffin, and he wished he were the course
fabric nestled against those firm, round breasts.

“I suppose
if ’tis necessary.” She gave him another of her bright-eyed looks. “I’ve heard
you can rub chicken fat and garlic upon yourself to keep them at bay.”

Griffin
laughed. “I couldn’t seem to resist the opportunity to have a bit of fun at the
expense of our superstitious friend.”

He watched
her face in the warm lamplight inside the carriage. She was comely, but there
was a glow about her unlike any woman he’d ever met before, as if she held a
candle within her that illuminated the darkest corners of the night.

“You don’t believe
in witchcraft, do you?” She asked.

Griffin
turned his head to gaze out the window. It was shrouded with dark leather
curtains to keep the wind and rain howling through the night securely contained
outside. He gave a deep sigh before turning back to her.

“I’ve seen
all the horrible and ugly things men can do to each other. I doubt demons could
entice us to do worse than that which we choose to do of our own will.”