Enchanted at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 2)

by Christy Carlyle

  A few of them stopped what they were doing as he approached, but it was a man who spoke to him.

  “How can we help you, gadjo?”

  “I was told there was a woman here who could help me.”

  The man gave a little laugh. “Of course you were.” He nodded toward a red vardo not far away. “You will find her there.”

  Ethan thanked the man and walked in the direction of the little wagon the man had indicated. He tied his horse to the post just outside and mounted the two steps to the door.

  “Come in,” came a voice from inside, before he’d even had a chance to knock.

  “Madam Boswell?” he asked, pulling the curtain aside and stepping into the wagon. It smelled of incense and looked just like one would imagine a gypsy vardo to look like – dim, but draped in colorful cloths. The woman had weathered, dark skin and stark white hair. And while her eyes were cloudy with age, she seemed rather keen. He supposed that was why everyone came to her for their fortunes.

  “Indeed,” the woman replied. “And you are?”

  “Ethan Dallimore, Duke of Westbury.”

  “Ah-ha!” She waved him over to the small table where she sat. “I wondered how long it would take for you to come and see me.”

  He took a seat opposite the old woman. “My reputation precedes me, it would seem.”

  “I believe it was your charge who came to visit the other day?”

  He nodded. “It was.”

  “And are you carrying the talisman I gave her?”

  He nodded again. “I am. But that is not why I’m here.”

  “I didn’t think so. You look…pained?”

  It wouldn’t take a terribly keen eye to notice that. “My head.”

  “I’m sorry I cannot help you.”

  Ethan blinked at her, confused. Wasn’t she able to help everyone? “I beg your pardon?”

  “The one who can help you must first realize she can help you.”

  “She?” Angel Quinn.

  “The answer you seek is already within you, but she needs to answer some questions for herself.”

  “Can you tell her that, please, so I may get rid of this blasted headache?”

  The old woman threw her head back and laughed, but Ethan didn’t find the situation terribly funny. “My dear boy,” she said, “everything happens in the time it is supposed to happen.”

  “You sound like a vicar,” Ethan groused, his head aching even more now that he knew he wasn’t going to find relief here in the blasted gypsy camp.

  “I am not unlike a vicar. Of course, a vicar might call me blasphemous for saying so, but we do similar work.”

  “I shall be sure not to mention that to the vicars I meet.”

  Madam Boswell reached for the teapot. “Tea?”

  “Will it help my head?”

  “No, but it could warm you for your journey back to the castle.”

  Ethan shook his head. “Being cold at least provides a bit of relief.” He paused, and then asked, “What should I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “That is to say, you will know what to do when the time is right. It is not right yet.”

  “But how will I know when it is the right time?”

  “You worry too much.”

  “I have three sisters and a charge. I don’t know who I’d be if I didn’t worry.”

  The old gypsy woman gave him a small smile, making her eyes crinkle even more than they already were at the edges. “Your journey has been a difficult one, I know.” She took his hands in hers and leaned forward. “And it is all leading you to your destiny.”

  Chapter 11

  By the time Angel found the little cottage by the sea, she was frozen to the core. Beyond the castle walls, there was no barrier from the wind, and it blew against her, slowing her walk and burning her face. But Sacha had been right. There was no mistaking that this little cottage belonged to her. Most gardens were dead and brown at this time of year, but within the fence, it looked to be the peak of spring. All the plants were lush and flowering, clearly under some kind of spell, and besides that, it boasted the most sinister of species – henbane, deadly nightshade, hollyhock, just to name a few. Not that Angel recognized all of them, but her aunts had taught her the ones to look out for, since she was prone to wandering the forests alone. They’d once known of a girl who had been walking through the wood when she got hungry and sat down to feast on the berries of what she though was a blackberry bush. Turned out to be a deadly nightshade bush instead. The girl was found quite dead some days later.

  Of course, it was only now occurring to her that perhaps her aunts only made up the story to scare her a little bit. Either way, Angel always brought along a little basket of food when she went wandering, so she wouldn’t meet with the same fate as the girl they referred to as “The Nightshaden Maiden.”

  A sudden pressure against her leg drew Angel’s attention away from her thoughts of deadly plants to the black cat nuzzling against her.

  “Well, hello there,” she said, kneeling down to give the feline a welcomed scratch beneath her chin. “Do you live here?”

  As if the cat understood her, it pushed through the garden gate and led the way up the walk to the front door. Just as they approached it, a small, yellow bird fluttered to the ground beside the cat. Angel held her breath, expecting the cat to turn on the bird, but they both only stood there, side-by-side, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Shall I knock?” Angel asked, and then feeling foolish for asking a cat and a bird if she should knock on the door, she lifted her fist.

  Except, the door swung open before she had a chance to actually knock. A beautiful woman with honey-blonde hair and the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen stood before her. She looked from Angel to the cat and bird beside her, then back to Angel.

  “You must be Miss Quinn,” she said, stepping aside, her ocean-blue day dress fluttering in the gust of wind that blew through the door. “Do come in. And both of you, too.”

  The cat and the bird preceded her inside.

  “You know who I am?” Angel asked as the woman closed the door behind her.

  “Of course I do. Sacha told me all about you.”

  All seemed a bit of a stretch, seeing as Sacha barely knew her at all.

  “I’m Gretchen. My sister, Rowena, and I live here with Sacha.”

  “And will Sacha be home soon?”

  The blonde smiled and turned to the cat. “She already is.”

  Before her very eyes, Angel watched the cat contort and twist and squirm until, suddenly, Sacha stood in its place, a human, dressed in a gown every bit as black as the cat had been. It was too much to take in. It couldn’t have been real. It was…

  Her legs gave out from underneath her, but thankfully, her bottom met with a comfortable chair and not the hard wood floor of the cottage. The cottage that she’d not even had a chance to take in. There would be time to admire the furnishings later, but for now—

  “You’re late…by a whole day,” Sacha said, as if something completely impossible hadn’t just happened.

  “I know, I--” She stopped, because she couldn’t possibly go on without addressing the situation. “I’m sorry, did you just…that is, weren’t you…wasn’t there?” Oh, she couldn’t even say it, it sounded so absurd. She’d seen a lot of magic in her life, but nothing like this. Who were these people?

  “You’ve never met a shifter before?” the blonde woman asked, a tinge of shock in her sing-song voice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  There was a whoosh and a whir near the fireplace, and suddenly another woman was in the room with them, having previously been a bird. She was identical to the first blonde woman in every way except the color of her dress. She wore the same color yellow as the bird’s feathers. What was her name? Gretchen had said it when she’d first arrived but she couldn’t for the life of her remember it now. There were other things muddling her brain.r />
  “A shifter,” the bird-woman said, coming to join them in the middle of the room. “Your aunts never taught you about them?”

  “I feel as if I’d remember such a conversation,” Angel said, trying to understand what in King Arthur’s Court was going on here.

  “Oh, dear. We’ve frightened her,” Gretchen said, her lovely brow furrowing with concern.

  But Sacha only shrugged. “It will take a bit of getting used to, but you should know that it’s part of the world you live in – the world you belong to.”

  “Yes, about that…” Angel took a deep breath. “I’m not so certain I truly belong.”

  “Nonsense!” This came from the bird-woman. “You’re a born witch, raised by witches. Why would you think you don’t belong?”

  “Rowena, bring the tea, will you?”

  Rowena! Angel said it over in her head a few times to commit it to memory before she answered the woman’s question. “Because I can’t perform magic,” she admitted.

  There was a collective pause as the three women took in her words, and then an interminable silence as Sacha poured tea for all of them. It wasn’t until they all had cups and saucers in hand that Sacha spoke again.

  “You are a witch, Angel,” Sacha said. “You have magic inside of you – you just have to let it come out.”

  “But I’ve tried!” Angel cried, feeling a bit defensive.

  “And what has happened?”

  “Nothing.” She set her teacup down, feeling a bit deflated. Here she was with women who could change themselves into animals, for goodness sake, and she couldn’t even get the simplest of spells to work properly.

  “Angel, what did you see when you walked up to the cottage this morning?” Rowena asked.

  Odd question, but she answered just the same. “The garden, of course.”

  “And how did it look to you?”

  “Beautiful.” She giggled. “Not like a garden should look in the winter.”

  “There,” Gretchen said. “See? You do have magic in you.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Only those born with magic can see what you saw.” All eyes turned to Sacha. “To any normal passerby, the garden is as dead as anyone else’s in town.”

  Angel gaped at her. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” Rowena answered.

  “Well, perhaps I am a broken witch then, because I seem to be in a bit of a situation.”

  “Situation?” Sacha asked, raising her dark brows with curiosity.

  “A man – a duke, to be truthful – won’t leave me be.”

  Sacha’s jaw twitched, but she otherwise remained still, listening.

  “He has sought me out, and if I’m being honest, he seems like a very kind man. He even saved me from being badly injured last night.”

  “So then what is the problem, my dear?” Gretchen asked, batting long lashes over her pretty azure eyes.

  “Well, you see, I fainted. But I never would have fainted if it weren’t for him.”

  The room was silent for a long moment, and then Rowena said, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain what you mean by that. We might be witches but we aren’t mind readers.”

  “But I can’t explain it,” Angel admitted. “All I know is that whenever I’m in the same room as him, all my energy drains from me, until I am unable to stand up straight or even remain conscious. My maid says I slept the entire day away after the incident, which is why I didn’t come yesterday.”

  “Have you seen him since?” Rowena asked.

  Angel nodded. “Briefly this morning. He wanted to talk to me, but I ran from him, so I could stay conscious.”

  “Perhaps he is a wizard with ill intentions,” Gretchen suggested. Angel had never even considered the possibility. Was her tattoo useless when it came to other magical folk?

  “You must find a way to talk to him,” Sacha said, her brow knitted together in a frown.

  “But I can’t!”

  “You say it only affects you if you are in the same room,” Rowena put in. “What if you stand on opposite sides of a door? You in one room, him in another?”

  Sacha cocked her head sideways. “That just might work.”

  “I can try.”

  Gretchen placed her hand atop Angel’s. “If you don’t, you may never know what this is all about.”

  She was right, of course. Angel had come here, though, hoping Sacha would give her all the answers she needed.

  “Come back this afternoon after you’ve spoken with him.”

  Angel nodded and pushed out of her seat, feeling a bit disappointed in the meeting, and still in a bit of shock that two of the three women here had been animals when she’d first arrived. Why hadn’t her aunts ever alerted her to such people? They’d taught her seemingly everything about their magical world, but now she wondered what else they might be keeping from her.

  Chapter 12

  Ethan wasn’t usually one to go around feeling sorry for himself, but today, he just couldn’t help it. He felt incredibly sorry for himself. The only girl he’d ever truly taken an interest in kept running away from him, Madam Boswell was absolutely no help at all, and this blasted headache was still ruining his ability to enjoy this festive season. Holly certainly wouldn’t have to worry about any women trying to weasel their way into his pockets now – no one dared approach him in the mood he was in. They were likely to get growled at. If he even bothered to leave his room today, that was, but he had no intentions of doing so. Not after his encounter with Miss Quinn this morning. How very humiliating. Women usually flocked to him, welcome or not, and here she was, running away from him as if the hounds of Hell nipped at her heels.

  He poured another tumbler full of brandy – his fourth, or maybe fifth, since the incident in the foyer. He wanted to forget about it all, drown his sorrows, disremember the look of horror on her face. Which was why he’d had Stephen the Footman bring a bottle of brandy to his chambers.

  He tossed back the liquid. There was no burn anymore, only the sweet satisfaction of knowing that with each gulp, he remembered less and less. Or at least cared less and less.

  A quiet knock came at the door. He didn’t move. He didn’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone or—

  “Your Grace?”

  His heart lodged in his throat and he suddenly wished he hadn’t plied himself with brandy all morning. She was here.

  “Miss Quinn?” he called, noticing immediately the slurring that came along with his words. Damn.

  “Don’t open the door!” she cried. “Please. I must talk to you, but without the door between us, I’m afraid I will lose all consciousness.”

  He couldn’t decide if she was talking nonsense or if he was simply too foxed to understand what the bloody hell she was talking about. “I don’t understand,” he admitted, moving closer to the door.

  “No,” she said. “I can’t imagine you would.”

  He leaned against the door. His head still ached like hell, but a small smile came to his lips anyway. She had come to him. However strange her requirements of their meeting, he was happy she came. “Care to explain?”

  “You will think me odd.”

  It probably wouldn’t help his cause to admit he already did think her odd, so instead, he said, “I promise my opinion of you will not change, no matter what you say.”

  “How low is your opinion now, would you say?”

  He laughed at that. “Not low at all.”

  There was a long pause of silence, and then, “You drain me.”

  That was not what he’d expected her to say. Holly, his sisters – they were all a drain on his person, driving him mad, exhausting him. But he’d never thought he could have such an effect on anyone else. “If I am such a burden,” he said, a bit of an edge to his tone, “why have you sought me out?”

  “You don’t understand,” she replied, her voice low and soothing. “I don’t want you to be. That is, you are not draining me in the figurative sense of the w
ord, but rather…the literal, physical sense. And I pray it is not on purpose.”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand at all.” And he was certain it was her and not the brandy this time.

  “Whenever we’re in the same room, I grow weak. Oh…” There was a thud against the door. “It sounds so ridiculous when I say it out loud! But it’s true. The reason I collapsed the other night was you.”

  Ladies often pretended to swoon in his presence, but this was the first time a woman had actually lost consciousness because of him. He couldn’t stop the small smile that came to his lips.

  “I’m only a man, Miss Quinn,” he murmured. “But I am flattered.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, if there wasn’t a door between us, I’d slap the liquor right out of you!”

  Ethan stared at the door, confused. “But I thought--”

  “Your Grace, please,” she pleaded. “I need you to think. Does anything happen to you when I’m about? Do you feel differently at all?”

  “Actually,” he began, “that is part of the reason I’ve been eager to find you…to be near you.”

  “Why?” Her voice was faint, almost a whisper.

  “My head, it aches horribly, and has done for two days now. I can barely think, let alone socialize or join in the festivities. I’m quite miserable, unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless you’re in the room.”

  “What happens when I’m in the room?”

  “It all goes away. The debilitating pain vanishes, as if it had never been there in the first place.”

  “And how do you feel now?”

  “Like my head is about to roll right off my shoulders.”

  “Is that why you’ve been drinking?”

  “How do you know I’ve been drinking? You can’t even see me.”

  “No, but I can hear you, and I’ve been around enough drunken men to recognize one when I hear one.”