Under Your Spell Read online

  “You…” he began, then paused, took a moment, began again. “I would ask a favor.”

  “What?” She didn’t try to hide her surprise. There would be no point. Reeves never asked favors.

  “I want you to try again to find Elizabeth.”

  She cringed. The name scorched her. “I can’t. I—”

  “Lady Redcomb wishes to take over the project.”

  His voice was level, his body still, but there was something in the way he said the words. Something odd. Ella closed her mouth. Watched him. “And?”

  He fisted one hand, then let it relax, still watching her. “She doesn’t have your abilities,” he said.

  She drew a deep breath, steadied herself. “Flattery, Jasper?”

  “Truth.” He said the single word with such unbiased certainty that she paused.

  He pressed on. “I took the information you had gleaned to my superiors.”

  She nodded. It was little enough. An old man. A hovel. The smell of earth and stale water. It could be anywhere on the isle. Or off, come to that. But she didn’t think so. Though she didn’t know why.

  “They are looking into recent deaths of young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-nine in an effort to find the culprit.”

  “And?”

  “There are too many. They’ll find nothing in time. Shaleena is right. The girl will—”

  “Don’t!” Visions of Sarah flashed through her mind. Dead eyes, lax hands, hopelessness. “Can’t you see I’m tired of your manipulations? Weary of your—”

  “Maddy could die.”

  “What?” she rasped.

  He drew a breath, remained silent for a heartbeat. “Lady Redcomb,” he corrected. “She isn’t strong enough for this task.”

  “Shaleena is the one who—”

  “Shaleena believes the girl’s cause is lost.”

  Anger flared up like fireworks. “And beneath her?”

  He didn’t answer. “Lady Redcomb wishes to go to the mother. To link with her.”

  She felt herself pale. Connecting with the child’s personal items had been difficult enough, but then Ella had felt only a portion of the girl’s fear, the girl’s pain. Linking in person with the mother…The agony would be unbearable and possibly eternal.

  “I refused to let her go,” Reeves said. “But she’s been strange lately. Belligerent. I—”

  “Very well,” she said, and closed her eyes for an instant.

  He remained silent, speechless. Perhaps for the first time in the entirety of their relationship. “You’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want a full coven?” he asked.

  “No.” She steeled herself. “I too want an audience with her mother.”

  Quiet shuffled in. “I know you’re strong, Josette,” he said. “But I can’t allow—”

  “The child will die,” she said. “As will the mother.”

  “The mother’s in no danger despite the earl’s—” He stopped himself.

  “The earl’s what?” she asked.

  “The mother is safe,” he said.

  And she almost smiled. “Sometimes you are a tremendous fool, Reeves.”

  He scowled the slightest degree.

  “She’s not eating,” Ella said. “Nor will she.”

  “You know that?”

  No. Yes. Maybe. “Not today. Not ever.”

  For a moment she almost thought she heard him curse. It would be yet another first. “You cannot tell her you’re a witch,” he said, and she laughed, despite herself, despite the frustration and the dread and the aching terror.

  “Do you think I’ve learned nothing from my marriage, Reeves?”

  He watched her in silence, then: “When do you wish an audience with Elizabeth’s mother?”

  She tugged her mind from thoughts of Drake. It shouldn’t have been so difficult. “I already agreed to do it,” she said. “There is no reason to continue not to use her name.”

  “When?” he asked.

  Pain flashed through her mind. Worry. She glanced toward the weakling flame that flickered above the candle. It was little larger than a pea. “First light,” she said. “As soon as I’ve rested. Who is she?”

  “I cannot tell you that.”

  She lifted her chin, managed a smile. “Do you want her to die?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Mary Pendell.”

  It took her a moment to place the woman’s common name, but when she did, she caught her breath. “Elizabeth is the earl’s daughter.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “The Earl of Moore? Your superior?”

  “What would make you think so?”

  She would have laughed had things not seemed so dire. “I’m a witch, Reeves. Not an imbecile,” she said.

  For a moment she almost thought he smiled.

  “Wait here,” she said, and entering the house, climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The potion she’d made was in a bottle on her mantel. In a moment she was back outside.

  “Give this to Madeline,” she said finally, and handed it to Reeves.

  He took it without a word, scowling a little as he closed his fingers around the fine cut glass and nodding.

  She turned away, but his words stopped her.

  “Be careful,” he said.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Of what?”

  “I’m not certain. Things are not exactly what they seem. The earl is…” His scowl deepened. “Don’t trust anyone.”

  “Have I ever?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you’ve changed,” he said, and she knew he was referring to Drake, to her dreamy expressions, to her ridiculous happiness. “Be careful,” he said, and disappeared into the night.

  Chapter 19

  Reeves was wrong, Ella told herself. Drake was only a man. A man who happened to find her irresistible, who could not bear to think of her with another, who wanted her for himself.

  But maybe the same could have been said of Grey. There was no reason to believe he hadn’t cared for Sarah. Hadn’t been enamored with her even. But he had also taken her away, altered her somehow, or so she guessed. He had made her think of nothing but him. Isolated her. Women’s strength came through interaction, through sharing, through numbers. Perhaps some men instinctively knew that.

  Ella paced the length of her bedchamber. It seemed small suddenly. Tight. Airless.

  She wished she had never left the garden. Had stayed in Drake’s arms forever. In his thoughts. In ecstasy where—

  What was wrong with her? She paced again. This wasn’t like her. She knew better. Far better, than to allow herself to be captivated by any man. A man who would pretend to care. Would use her. Take what was hers. Lock her away where there was no air. No freedom. Where men probed at her mind and…

  But Drake would never do that. He had felt the sting of betrayal himself when his father had sent him to sea. He had endured intolerable pain, and it had made him stronger, kinder. She felt it in him. She couldn’t be wrong.

  Her skin tingled where he’d last touched her. Her ears burned where he had whispered heated words. He thought her beautiful. She stepped in front of her mirror. Her image stared back. Tall. Pale. Plain.

  So what did he see in her? And why? How had he known she was a woman when they’d met on Gallows Road? What had he been doing there? And what of the night at the theater? After she had taken the girl’s handkerchief she had been all but paralyzed by the harsh strike of the unwanted visions. Most men would have been frightened or at least shocked by her behavior. But not Drake. He had acted almost as if she were normal. As if he expected her to act in just such a manner. Why?

  Did he know she was a witch? Her heart clenched up tight. Had he known all along?

  Her image stared back, plain and unexciting.

  But perhaps he simply saw her differently. There was no reason to believe there was anything sinister involved. He would have no way of knowing she was anything other than what she seemed. He
r paranoia was all foolishness. Foolishness fostered by Jasper Reeves, who wanted nothing more than to convince her to return to the coven. Hadn’t he repeatedly proven that he would do everything possible to protect the program?

  Drake was just what he seemed. Nothing more. Nothing less. A beautiful man, wounded in battle. Not just his body, but his mind, his heart, his poet’s soul.

  But in that second she remembered a fragment of a conversation she’d shared with Sarah. He’s so kind, so lovely, and when he touches me, my very being sings for the joy of living.

  She too had been inspired to sing. And she was not the singing sort. Not since La Hopital at any rate. Not since they had stolen her soul. Her hope. Her unborn child.

  Worry gnawed at her, but she slipped out of her gown and into her night rail, then crawled into bed, refusing to think. Cecelia had changed the bed linens. They smelled of the posies she’d wrapped in a scrap of fabric and left on the pillow. Ella drank in the scent, exhaled carefully, shut off her shrieking mind, and refused to dream.

  “No!” Ella screamed. It was dark. Too close. No air. No room. She was going to die. Alone.

  “My lady! My lady.”

  She awoke with a start, heart pounding, lungs gasping for breath. She was in her own room, in her own house. All was well. All was…But then the images stormed in.

  “Cecelia.” She grasped the old woman’s voluminous gown in clawed fingers. The other’s eyes looked round and white with terror. “Have Winslow saddle Silk.”

  “Now, my lady?”

  A haunted, tearstained face stared up at her. “Immediately,” she ordered.

  “Very well.” The old lady nodded uncertainly, as one does to the frightened and insane. “I shall tell him you’ll be needing an escort to—”

  “No!” she insisted. “No escort.” She was already on her feet, flinging her night rail aside, forgetting modesty.

  “But a lady of quality—”

  “Doesn’t live here,” Ella said, and dragged her gown over bare skin. “Go now,” she ordered, and Cecelia rushed from the room.

  Ella was astride within minutes, racing down the darkened streets. Dawn was yet hours away. The night was black, the air still. Mist swirled in, hiding all, but she dared not slow down.

  The Earl of Moore’s London estate was a sprawling manse of stone and mortar. The driveway was cobbled. Silk’s shod hooves beat a staccato tattoo against the stones. Sparks scattered as she skidded to a halt. A dog barked, but Ella didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. Dropping the mare’s reins, she raced up the walkway and tore open the heavy timber door.

  A servant in a billowing nightshirt stepped into the hall ahead of her. Candlelight wobbled across his terror-pale face. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “Where is your lady?”

  “Leave here.”

  Ella realized suddenly that he held a poker in his left hand. He hoisted it in a brave show of intent, but his arm shook.

  “Where is Lady Moore?” she asked again.

  “I shall call the watch if you don’t leave this house at—” he began, but she was already yelling.

  “Mary!”

  “Madame—”

  “Lady Moore!” Ella screamed again, but in that moment a woman lurched into the room.

  “Have you found her?” Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes dark, haunted, well beyond any emotion but dread. “Do you know where she is?”

  “Lady Moore.”

  “Is she dead?” Her voice was no more than a rough whisper, her skin pale as ashes around her burning eyes.

  “I’ve come to help,” Ella said, “but you must calm yourself.”

  The noblewoman stood, feet bare, legs braced as if for a blow. “Is my baby dead?”

  “No.” The word came unbidden. “No. Not yet.”

  “Not yet.” She tried to stumble forward, to grasp Ella’s hand, but her knees buckled, spilling her to the floor. Her braid, long and dark and frayed, toppled over her bony shoulder. “Not yet. Not yet.” She was chanting, rocking.

  “My lady.” Ella hurried forward, knelt beside her, took her hand, but all she could feel was the terror, the emptiness, the hopeless despair. “We might yet save her, but I need your help.”

  “Help.” She was still swaying, like a wounded animal, like a mourning mother. “Help.”

  Reaching out, Ella grasped her chin and drew the other’s head up so that their gazes met. “Cease,” she demanded.

  The swaying stopped. Her mouth dropped open a fraction of an inch.

  “Where is she?” Ella asked.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “You think I know?” Her eyes were streaked with red, dry of tears. The swaying began anew.

  “She said, ‘They will find me.’”

  Lady Moore had gone perfectly still.

  “She said you would find her,” Ella repeated.

  “Who said?” she rasped.

  “Think,” Ella ordered. “Who would wish her harm? Who would wish to—”

  “What the devil goes on here?” demanded a gruff voice.

  Ella didn’t glance up, but remained as she was, focused, concentrating every fiber on the moment at hand. “I can find her,” Ella said. “I can find your Lizzy. But time is short.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” asked the earl from behind.

  “I want to help,” Ella said, and squeezed the woman’s hand, trying to mesh their minds, to reach out. “I can help. But you have to help me. A man has your daughter. He’s old, bent, angry. You know him.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Who is he?” Ella asked, opening her mind, her soul.

  The other’s lips moved. Ella leaned in, breath held, reaching for the images, the feelings, the signs. A face nearly appeared; weathered skin, gray hair.

  “Brooks!” raged the earl. “For God’s sake, get this woman out of here!”

  Ella closed her eyes. Saw a hooked nose, a—

  But suddenly hands grabbed her shoulders, pulled her away. The forming image twisted wildly.

  “Wait. Wait!” she ordered, but she was yanked free of the mother’s hands and spun about.

  And there he stood. The man in the image. The man with the graying hair, the angry eyes, the hooked nose.

  Ella froze. “What have you done?” she gritted.

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?” demanded Moore. “Robby, fetch the constable. Brooks, take her away.”

  From the darkness of Ella’s mind a little girl sobbed, but the sound was quiet, her strength almost gone. “Where did you put her?” Ella whispered.

  The earl stared, fear and rage and horror all congealing on his craggy face.

  His wife shot her gaze from one to the other and scrambled raggedly to her feet. “What’s happening?” she demanded. “Edgar, what—”

  “He took her,” Ella said. “Put her in a hole. Is—” But the image in her mind shifted suddenly, changed, sharpened.

  She stumbled back, weakened.

  “What are you talking about?” screamed the lady, and grabbed Ella’s hand. “What do you know?”

  Brooks was trying to drag her away, but the mother held her with ferocious strength, her fingers sharp as claws against her wrist. “What has he done?”

  Ella shook her head. “Not him. Not…” The images came again, spurred by the mother’s hands on her arms. “Same face.” She jerked her gaze to the father’s. “But…different. Older. Wounded.” The sensations trammeled her. She put her hand to her head. “Don’t hurt me,” she whispered. “Why would you hurt me, Bicky?”

  Lady Moore stumbled back as if struck. “Bixby,” she whispered.

  “What are you saying?” demanded her husband, but his voice had gone hollow.

  “His brother.” Lady Moore swayed. “Lord Bixby.”

  Ella jerked at the name. Jerked with pain, with knowledge. “Where is he?”

  “This is madness,” insisted the earl. “Mary, return to your bed. You’re in no condition
to—”

  “Henry died,” Ella intoned. Her voice was not her own. Neither was the knowledge of the boy’s death.

  “Because of Edgar,” hissed his wife, but her gaze never left Ella’s. “Because of my husband.”

  “I didn’t start the war. It wasn’t my fault,” protested the earl. But they barely heard him.

  “Find her,” whispered the lady.

  “Have you any idea what this will do to my reputation, Mary?” rumbled the earl. “To your reputation?”

  “Where is he?” Ella asked.

  “His estate is—”

  “No! No. A hovel. A…” Ella searched for the images. “A scarred table. A—”

  “The old stable,” rasped the mother. “Behind Riverbend. It’s falling down. Crumbling. We…” Her nails cut into Ella’s skin. “Is she there? Is she—”

  “A well.” Ella could see crumbling stones erupting from an unkempt lawn. Could feel the damp cold. “Is there an old well?”

  “Good God,” said the husband, and striding up, tore Ella away. The pieced images shattered.

  The earl’s fingers were hard about Ella’s arm, but she straightened, herself once again. “Leave me be,” she said, “or as God is my witness, you will die where you stand.”

  The man’s eyes widened, he too straightened, their gazes met, and then he dropped his hands.

  She held his gaze with her own, hard and un-giving. “Does your brother’s estate have an old well?”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “Yes it does!” insisted his wife. “Behind the house. Near the river.”

  “Mary…” warned the earl, but Ella snapped her gaze to the girl’s mother. Hope had sprung like lightning into her tortured eyes.

  “What road?” Ella asked.

  “Asp. The white house by the river.”

  Ella turned toward the earl. “Contact Jasper Reeves. Tell him where I’ve gone.”

  “I know no Jasper—”

  “Get him,” she ordered, “Or spend the rest of your life enduring your wife’s hatred, and your own consuming guilt.”

  Chapter 20

  The road sped beneath Silk’s galloping hooves. Houses trailed past like fleeing ghosts. A white manse loomed in the darkness. Ella reined Silk onto the lane and galloped up the incline, over the lawn, past the house.