Under Your Spell Page 2

  “And well you should be, Merry May. There is nothing so disturbing as being charged with a condition obviously present in one’s accuser.”

  May stared at her a second, then smiled hesitantly, eyes still apologetic.

  “Go back to the other lunatics,” Ella said. Her tone was mildly scoffing, lightly teasing. She had been carefully tutored, after all, and knew that a well-phrased lie was not enough. One must match the words to one’s expressions, speech patterns, movements. “Before bedlam breaks out,” she added, and tugging away, made her way through the crowd. Lord Milton tried to catch her attention, but Ella was no longer in the mood, regardless of her careful self-control. Yes, she longed for normal, for peace, for a child, a baby to replace the hope she had lost in La Hopital, the tiny seed that had kept her sane amid insanity for the duration of its short development. Maybe the miscarriage had driven her truly mad, just as Verrill had accused. But whatever the case, she was now ready to repair her life, to make it full, to have someone to nurture and teach and cherish. Perhaps Merry May was right, though. Perhaps Lord Milton wasn’t proper paternal material. Maybe a somewhat more imposing lord would be a better choice. Or maybe she should broaden her search, look outside her social circle. A manservant or merchant or…

  The hostler at the livery stable came abruptly to mind. He had lovely arms. Once upon a time she had seen him roll up his sleeves to brush a gray cob. The morning sun had slanted kindly through the open door to shine with reverent reflection on his flexing biceps. And when he had bent to retrieve a fallen crouper, his breeches had stretched tight across his—

  But none of that mattered, she reminded herself. She simply wanted a child. One to call her own, to give what she had not been given herself.

  Still, the hostler had…

  Oh, what the devil was wrong with her? The hostler was probably all of eighteen. Nearly a baby himself, and even she wasn’t that desperate. Perhaps.

  The air outside felt cool and rejuvenating against her face. A light mist was falling, obscuring the globed lanterns that scattered light across the damp, cobbled walkway, caressing the roses that nodded beside the footpath. Reaching out, she stroked a velvet petal.

  And then she felt it, something out of place. Something dark. Something sinister.

  Evil. As sharp as a needle in her side. And it had taken residence in the garden.

  Chapter 2

  Ella’s breath stopped in her throat. Someone was out there. Someone was in danger.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, ominous warning.

  She took a step toward the garden without volition, without thought, tugged along by sheer instinct. But good sense flooded in, forcing her to a halt. She wasn’t that person anymore. Not the one who interfered in the lives of hapless strangers and ill-fated passersby. Not the one who schemed and trained and labored, only to fail in the end. That was behind her. And she would not invite the pain of that failure again. Not today. Not ever.

  But just then a gasp of pain filtered through the night and shivered against her tingling senses. She tightened her fists, willing herself to turn away, to escape before she was pulled back into the dark maelstrom. But she could not.

  And suddenly she found herself in the middle of the garden, peering through the rising mists. Three shapes were outlined against the pale stone fence. Three shapes, but only two desired to be there.

  It was not difficult to move closer and remain unseen, even though cloaking was not her gift. The fog held a veiling magic of its own, hiding her just as it hid the trio.

  “A tanner? That’s all y’ got on y’?” growled the tallest of the three.

  “I fear I am rather rolled up.” The voice that answered was cultured, educated, and drunk beyond any hope of good sense. “But if you will allow me to return to my—”

  “Shut yer trap,” snarled the second brigand, holding the victim’s arms tight behind his back, “before I tear yer tongue from outta yer ’ead.”

  The young dandy stared in befuddled uncertainty for a moment, then convulsed, bent forward, and heaved forth the contents of his traitorous stomach onto his tormentor’s footwear.

  Cursing soundly, the fellow behind dropped the boy’s arms and jigged back a few steps.

  The hacking stopped gradually. Silence settled in, then: “Y’ just ’urled on me good shoes.”

  “I am terrible sorry.” The gentleman sounded quite sincere, and though he might be drunk out of his mind, he wasn’t so inebriated that he couldn’t recognize the venom in the other’s voice. “I shall buy you—”

  “I’ll kill y’ for that,” snarled the first. His eyes were shadowed beneath his battered hat, but his narrow lips were visible, curled with derision and cruelty as he reached into his coat. But in that instant, the gent seemed to come to his senses with a start. Lurching sideways, he careened down the footpath toward Ella.

  For a drunken fool, he was fair fast and made it all of twenty strides before they caught him, snagging him by his coat and spinning him about.

  He sputtered something, the words inarticulate, but the frantic meaning clear. Mercy. He begged for mercy, but there would be none. Ella felt it in her soul.

  They were close now. So close she could all but feel the blow that crashed into the boy’s belly. Could see his face, pale as snow, with eyes as round as a hunter’s moon.

  And it was the damned eyes that always snared her.

  An image began almost unbidden in her mind. She could feel the power of it rising steadily within her, could feel the force washing over her senses, and when she spoke, the voice was not her own.

  “Who goes there?” she rumbled.

  The nearer thief cursed, but the other only straightened, still holding his prey by his shirtfront as he squinted through the mist at her.

  “’Oo are you?” he demanded.

  “I’m Constable Everett of the watch,” she said. She kept the officer’s image steady in her mind, but dared not venture closer lest her rapidly cobbled illusion faltered. She hadn’t planned for the sop to approach so rapidly, and time was the very essence of magic. Time and concentration, even for the simplest spell. “Release that gentleman.”

  Silence echoed in the garden, then: “We was just ’elpin’ the gent ’ere back to the ’ouse. Seems ’e took a nasty—”

  “Release him, I say,” she demanded, voice ringing in the darkness.

  The scoundrel did as ordered, opening his hand so that the boy dropped to his knees, then fell leisurely to his side, prone and still.

  “Leave now and I shan’t—” she began, but suddenly the villains sprang toward her.

  Fear came with them, bursting in her soul, but magic was the very air she breathed. Reaching into her deepest resources, she snatched out an incantation.

  “Aduro!” she rasped. Fire flared from her fingertips. The closest man’s sleeve burst into flame. He skidded to a halt, squeaked in fear, then dropped to the ground, rolling madly. But the other leaped at her. No time for flames now. He slashed at her, slicing his blade across her sleeve. She trembled in response and felt the constable’s image flicker.

  “’Oo the devil are you?” hissed the villain, but even as he spoke, she whirled and kicked. Her timing was shaky. Nevertheless, her heel struck him in the chest, crashing him backward, where he teetered, breathing hard. “She’s naught but a dollymop, Ned,” he grunted as his friend scrambled to his feet. “Grab ’er and we’ll ’ave us some fun.”

  “No fun here, Ned,” she snarled, not shifting her attention from the taller of the two. “Not unless you enjoy bonfires.”

  Ned remained where he was, but the other attacked again. Fast. So fast. And deadly as a snake. The knife sang toward her. She swept her right arm across his, thrusting the blade aside, then slammed the heel of her other hand into his face. He staggered back, but suddenly Ned was behind her. He grabbed her, squeezing her arms against her sides.

  “She broke m’ nose.” The tall man’s voice was muffled through his fingers. “B
roke me bleedin’ nose,” he moaned, and lowering his hand, stumbled toward her. “Damn you, stupid cow, I’ll make y’ sorry y’ messed with the likes of Leonard Shay.”

  Fear was curling in her gut, freezing her senses. Nevertheless, she spoke, flippant and steady. “Who?”

  He paused, seething. “Shay,” he hissed. “Remember the name ’cuz you’re gonna want to be pleading with me when you die.” He was advancing again, head bent low, eyes shining madly in the darkness.

  Terror bubbled up, but she fought against it, brought forth the training, the endless hours of defense, the innate abilities that had saved her a hundred times. “You don’t want to do this, Leonard,” she crooned. He stopped for a moment, but Ned was behind her, unaffected.

  “What you scared of?” he snarled, and tightened his grip across her breasts. Pain squeezed through her, bending her concentration, and in that moment Shay lurched toward her. She waited as long as she could, praying, biding her time, then yanked her feet from the ground and kicked forward with all her strength. Shay’s cheekbone crunched beneath her heel. He staggered backward and collapsed. Behind her, Ned toppled to the ground, bearing her with him. They landed in a heap. His arms loosened, and in that instant, she rolled to the side and slammed her elbow across his throat. Rattling gasps issued from his gaping mouth.

  Ella sprang to her feet, ready, wary, but there was no more danger. Only Shay staggering upright, hands covering his face. Only Ned still struggling for breath and—

  Dammit! Someone else! Near the gate. Why hadn’t she sensed him earlier?

  “What the hell’s going on?” a voice growled from the mist.

  Ella snapped her gaze to the left.

  Lieutenant Drake! What the devil was he doing there?

  A dozen possible lies flitted through her mind like fireflies. She snatched up the most logical of the swarm and staggered toward him.

  “Sir!” she rasped, blocking his path to the would-be thieves, delaying him as long as possible. With a bit of luck, the hapless villains would gather their floundering wits and escape before they felt a need to share the foolish notion that they’d just been bested by a woman. “Thank God you’ve come.” She caught the front of the gentleman’s cutaway coat, dragging a little as if she might fall.

  Drake grasped her wrists in both hands, supporting her easily as he peered over her shoulder at her attackers. But she didn’t turn. Instead she listened gratefully to the scuttling sound of stumbling feet, the grunts as the two hoisted themselves over the wall and away.

  “What happened?” Drake asked, pulling his gaze from the rapidly retreating forms. His voice was a low, deadly burr, just as she knew it would be. This was not a man to be trifled with. Dammit.

  “I’m…” She wilted a little more, but he did not lift her into his arms as surely any well-versed gentleman should. “I’m not entirely certain.” She made her voice wispy, her hands shaky against his coat. “I came into the garden for a bit of air, never thinking…I mean to say, what is this world coming to? Scoundrels accosting—”

  “You came out alone?”

  “I never dreamed—”

  A moan interrupted her lies.

  “What was that?” snarled Drake. Grasping both her wrists in one hand, he pulled her to the side and stepped out in front, shielding her from the downed gentleman she had very nearly forgotten.

  The rush of fear and excitement was easing away, and she was not quite certain if she should be insulted or flattered by her would-be savior’s high-handed behavior.

  But the moan sounded again, putting a halt to her debate. Drake stepped toward the source, and she trailed along in his wake, keeping her footfalls unsteady.

  “It must be the gentleman who saved me from those horrid thugs,” she said, and grasped the back of Drake’s coat, making sure he could feel the shudder she so artfully performed.

  “Saved you?” he asked, coming to a halt and staring down at her supposed rescuer. The drunken imbecile seemed to be unconscious, the smell of liquor and vomit strong enough to knock them back half a pace.

  She resisted covering her nose with her palm. “Yes. Two men came at me.” She made a fluttery motion with one hand and stepped up beside Drake so that the finer nuances of her performance would not go unappreciated. “I was terrified, scared straight out of my wits, but this gentleman appeared from nowhere and came to my rescue like a hero from days of yore.”

  They shifted their gazes and stared down at the wrinkled heap of humanity in thoughtful unison. Ella managed not to scowl.

  “Are you certain?” Drake asked.

  “Yes, I’m certain,” she said, then softened her tone and tried again. “Of course. Of course I’m certain.” Kneeling beside the downed sot, she closed her eyes against the stench and shook him gently by the arm. “Sir, please, do awaken. Please. I must thank you.”

  He didn’t so much as stir an inebriated finger.

  “The lady said to wake up,” Drake rumbled, and squatting, smacked the fellow’s face with a stinging slap.

  The boy came to with a start. “Fiend seize it! I’ve not seen that bit of muslin before in my life. The side-slip’s not—” He stopped and blinked, seeming to take in his surroundings, head rolling, neck rubbery in his bed of delicate columbine. “Who are you?”

  “What did he say?” Drake asked.

  Drunken colloquial nonsense, Ella thought, and tightening her grip in the gent’s sleeve, launched into her own version of the truth. “You saved me, my lord. Masterfully rescued me from two heathens who attacked me in Merry May’s—”

  “Thunder an’ turf! The blowens! Are they gone?” He sat up abruptly, eyes wide and white-limned in his moon-pale face. Thunder grumbled again, closer at hand.

  “Yes,” she said, peeved by the interruption to her performance. Acting was not necessarily her forte, and when she was doing well she didn’t like to be distracted, but she soldiered on. “You frightened them off with your bravery and your manly strength. How can I ever thank you for coming to my—”

  “Bloody hell!” he rasped, and grabbing her arm in both hands, staggered raggedly to his feet. “I thought the bastards were going to kill me. I was a bit tap-hackled, I don’t mind saying. Not properly shot in the neck by a stretch, but a mite foxed. So I ambled out here for a snatch of air and—”

  “And glad I am you came along when you did, good sir,” Ella interrupted. “For you surely saved my life.”

  “I did?” He turned toward her, staggering unsteadily and seeming to truly notice her for the first time.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Moron. Perhaps she should have let the thieves beat a bit of sense into him after all. “Why yes. Surely you remember. You were quite a dashing figure as you valiantly fought for my honor.” She tried to imbue her tone with breathless admiration, but truth be told, she was a bit miffed by this turn of events. At least at Lavender House she had been able to spill the facts, compare notes with the rest of the coven, and even, if circumstances warranted, boast of her efforts.

  “Oh. Well…” The sot tried to bow, stumbled back a pace, and managed a lopsided grin. “That’ll teach them to mess with their betters, what?

  “Edward Shellum, at your service, my lady. Always…” he began, then rolled his eyes up into his head and flopped back into the columbine, dead to the world.

  Chapter 3

  Sir Drake remained absolutely silent. His parents had named him Thomas Donovan, but years ago on some leaking tub he longed to forget, the crew had compared him rather unfavorably to a scoter, and the epithet had stuck. Which was just as well, for he had little desire to claim kinship with his father. A man so cold he could resist his gentle wife’s impassioned pleas to allow their son to remain with them just a few years longer.

  Drake stood in silence now, staring down at the unconscious Mr. Shellum. The lady beside him did the same. She was tall for a woman. Tall and willowy and as beautiful as a descending angel, fire-bright hair loosed ab
out her narrow shoulders, eyes shining like priceless gems in her moon-shadowed face.

  As for Shellum, it was difficult to discern whether he was tall or willowy or angelic, for he seemed to be snoring, his breath gently rustling the herbage near their feet.

  “Just how did he rescue you exactly?” Drake asked, and turned back toward her, but for a moment the brilliance of her beauty stole his senses. He steadied himself, remembering that he had survived a score of battles. Not well, certainly not bravely, but he had survived, so surely he could face this one slim maid without faltering.

  She didn’t glance up immediately, which was just as well, for her delay afforded him an opportunity to study her unobserved. And he would need all his wits about him, for there was something strange afoot here. Something not quite what it seemed.

  “It was quite astounding really,” she said, but continued to watch the downed fellow as though expecting him to rise like Lazarus at any given moment.

  “Did it have something to do with his breath?” he asked doubtfully.

  She glanced up at him, eyes wide in the darkness, full lips quirked, and for a moment he actually thought she might laugh, but that would hardly be appropriate for a maid who had just endured such a horrid trauma. Then again, there was something about the way she stood, the way she moved that did not seem quite appropriate either. A confident elegance, for lack of a better term.

  “I’m not entirely certain what happened,” she said instead. “I was terribly frightened, you know. What with—”

  “Were you?” he asked.

  Her golden brows dipped a little. “What’s that?”

  “Were you frightened?” he asked, and taking her arm in a careful grasp, led her through the friendly mist to stand beneath a hanging lantern that illuminated a silvery circle. She felt solid and steady beneath his fingertips despite her ethereal grace.

  “Of course,” she said, and lifted one hand to her breast, splaying her fingers helplessly across her bosom. “Of course I was. What woman would not be?”