Adam heard Damien’s sharp intake of breath. Miranda shivered and he moved closer, trying to warm her body with his own. Nonetheless, she seemed to be growing colder. As they walked, he used his free arm to rub her hand, reaching up to the chill expanse of her bare arms beneath his jacket. “She’s freezing, Wodesby,” he said. “Do something, man.”
“We are doing all we can. She was better than halfway to oblivion,” Damien said, shaking his head in disbelief. “How close were you to the Light, Miranda?” he asked
“Close enough to see myself p . . . plainly, to know that the ghost spoke truth. There was n . . n . . . not even a spark of magic within me. I am a cripple, Damien and I n . . .n . . . never will be otherwise. I wanted to s . . . s. . . stay there.” She did not mention what else had been revealed within the shadows cast by the Light. That would remain her own secret source of torment.
“Merlin’s Beard,” Damien whispered.
“But you came back,” Adam said, coaxing her to continue speaking.
“Yes,” she said, the single syllable torn from her as she regarded him with anguished eyes.
“What power was it, Miranda, that tempted you to return from the verge of oblivion?” Damien asked, watching her expression carefully.
“I heard my name,” she said softly, “a voice calling me back from the brink. It was like a thread, leading me back through the dark abyss and I returned, even though I did not want to.”
“Mama?” Damien questioned hopefully.
Miranda shook her head. “No, she could never have called through the Void, not weak as she is.”
“Then who?” Damien asked. “That is powerful magic, sister mine.”
“I know.” Miranda closed her eyes against a sudden rush of tears, breathed in Adam’s scent and savored the warmth of his touch. Never before had she realized the full extent of her emptiness. She had thought that she could live satisfied with the crumbs of contentment, fabricating an illusion of fulfillment in her hopes of a home and children, the importance of her work with the archives.
But now, now she knew that her visions of the future were no more than delusions, shattered by the sound of her own name. In the glow of the Light, her heart had been plainly revealed. Nothing less than the force of love could have pulled her back to herself. But while love tied Miranda inexorably to Lord Brand, Adam seemed entirely free of anything more than the most casual of feelings toward her. Dimly, in the distance she saw the glory of the Light, beckoning to a place where there was no pain.
“Open your eyes, Miranda,” Adam demanded. “You must stay awake.”
“Why?” she asked, trying to focus as she looked up at him.
Adam could barely contain his anger. What had they done to her, these Wodesbys, with their strange pretensions? How could it be that she felt that she had nothing to live for? “What of the man you profess to care for?” he asked, gently putting a hand to her cheek. “Would you abandon him so easily?”
Miranda was confused for a moment, wondering who he could mean other than himself. Martin, she reminded herself painfully. He was telling her to live for the sake of Martin Allworth. “The m . . . man of my d. . . dreams,” she whispered softly, closing her eyes with a breathy sigh.
Angel howled.
“‘Randa!” Damien took her by her shoulders and shook her.
Tante Reina hurried to the library window and pulled the draperies wide. “Is well, Lord Damien!” she called, pointing toward the sky. The first rose tinged traces of dawn were creeping over the treetops. “Let her sleep, milords. Rest now will not harm her.”
“But will it mend her?” Adam asked, regarding Lord Wodesby with smoldering rage. With a glare of defiance, he lifted Miranda into his arms, letting her settle against his chest with a soft, incoherent murmur. “That makes twice tonight, she has put herself in danger for the sake of that arcane Wodesby heritage. Her quick wit saved my life, sir, though she could well have lost her own in the process. Now show me where to put her and then show me the door.”
She moved, her hair brushing against his chin and he looked down at her, saw the traces of tears on her cheeks. Adam’s throat tightened angrily as he met Lord Wodesby’s enigmatic gaze. Silently, Miranda’s brother led Adam up the stairs to her chamber, the dog and cat padding behind them. With the utmost care, Adam laid her upon the pillows, smoothing back the hair from her face as he slid his other hand from beneath her. The rays of the rising sun touched her, emphasizing the pallor of her cheeks, the dark shadows beneath her eyes. She moaned softly as his hand withdrew.
Adam could remain silent no longer. “Your sister is a rare woman, Sir. Miranda has a beauty that goes far beyond her face and form, a compassionate heart, a gentle grace, intelligence. She is everything that is desirable. Yet, she regards herself as a cripple, Wodesby! A cripple, because of this strange legacy that you claim.”
“You go too far, Lord Brand,” Damien said, his countenance closed. “You speak of matters that are none of your concern.”
“I may not understand the whys and wherefores, milord, but I do believe that your sister damned near died tonight,” he said, watching as she curled up like a child, clasping her knees with one hand, the other limp upon the pillow. “And if she feels that she is less than whole, you Wodesbys are to blame for it. Why, a woman of her quality would have long been married, with a tribe of children at her skirts, were it not for this ridiculous myth that swirls around you. By the time the sun sets tonight, the entire ton will have heard of the events at Lady Pelton’s table. If they did not brand Miranda as a witch before, they will certainly do so now.”
For a fleeting moment, Adam saw past her brother’s guarded expression to the wellsprings of sorrow in those green eyes.
“Poor ‘Randa,” Damien said, going to the bedside to stare down at his sister. “All of the burden and none of the joy.”
“Damn you, Wodesby,” Adam said. “Do you or your mother have any inkling of what she has already endured and will suffer yet, once the rumors fly?”
“The stares? The behind-handed whispers? The fear, or the false friendship that is offered for the sake of the power inherent in your name? The soldiers who cross themselves hastily, when they believe I cannot see?” Damien asked coldly. “You cannot damn a Wodesby, Brand; for ‘tis a known fact that we are accursed from the womb. I assure you that my mother and I both are well aware of the lack of understanding that is engendered by the patrimony of our name. But at least we have the compensation of our Gifts. Miranda, unfortunately, lacks—"
“Nothing!” Adam roared. “Your sister has gifts that you do not recognize as such, but I will not hear her called a ‘cripple’ again, sir, not even by her brother.”
Damien smiled wearily and for the first time, Adam could see a resemblance to his fair-haired sibling. “You did not let me finish, Brand. What I meant to say is she lacks confidence in herself and perhaps, I am partly to blame for that, as for so much else. When our father died, I ...”
Wodesby shook his head and once again, those green eyes were transformed into a barely contained reservoir of anguish.
“But that is a very long story, too long after so lengthy a night. Go home, Brand and sleep, for you could, no doubt, use it. I thank you, on behalf of my sister and indeed, all of us. You have the gratitude of the Wodesbys.”
“I don’t want your gratitude, Wodesby,” Adam retorted, his anger diminished but not drained. “Any more than I want your Mama’s seal of protection. It is Miranda that concerns me. She deserves far better than she is getting.”
“Yes, she does, and if you would do me the honor of returning, I think that you also are deserving of some explanations,” Damien agreed, his brow rising. Under Wodesby protection? It was increasingly obvious that it would be a long time before there would be a pillow beneath his head. Mama had some explaining to do. “As you can see, I still have bits of Portugal clinging to my boots.”
Adam nodded, taking one last look at Miranda as Tante Reina bustled in. T
he young woman’s hand was hanging off the bed and he lifted it to the pillow. “May your dreams be sweet, Miranda,” he whispered.
Damien watched as the corner of his sister’s mouth curved in a peaceful smile. He had little doubt now just whose voice had summoned her back from the beyond. An Outsider, and to make the tangle more convoluted, an unbeliever. Yet, as the mage searched himself he could see no vision of a resolution to this dilemma in Brand’s future. But then, clarity of thought was an absolute necessity for a Seer and there was too much emotion clouding his mind. Damien stifled a sigh as the two of them left his sister to Tante Reina's ministrations and Thorpe’s watchful eye. “She will be well, Brand,” he said, answering the man’s unspoken question. “What she requires most right now is the same thing that I desperately need: sleep.”
“I would imagine so,” Adam said, noticing Lord Wodesby’s travel-worn appearance for the first time as they walked down the stair. Even the mastiff that padded after them looked as if it had travelled leagues. “You are new come from the Peninsula, milord? I cannot believe that your mother’s message reached you so quickly; she sent for you but a few days ago.”
Once again, Wodesby’s raised brow put Adam in mind of Miranda.
“I see that I have much to explain,” Damien said with a sigh. “My mother called me through the Void, Lord Brand, an undertaking not lightly done, for it requires a tremendous strain upon the Gift. As soon as her mind touched mine, I took my leave of Wellington and came home by the fastest possible route.”
“Broomstick?” Adam could not help the question, his lip quirking.
“That, Lord Brand, is a myth,” Damien said with a semblance of a smile. “And I confess myself somewhat glad that such flights are confined to legend, since I can imagine nothing more uncomfortable than a prolonged flight with nothing but an old besom to buttress my behind. No, I used more conventional modes of travel: a fast horse and a sailing vessel, though I must admit to conjuring a bit of fair wind to speed me. But I forget, you do not believe in such things.”
“Of course not,” Adam replied automatically, but a shred of doubt began to niggle at his brain. How on earth could Lord Wodesby have received his mother’s summons so quickly, unless. . .?
“At your convenience, Lord Brand,” Damien said, opening the door. “I will have Dominick give your man some of Tante Reina’s salve for your wounds. I will not ask how you came by them. I will await the story tomorrow.”
“Or today,” Adam agreed, looking up ruefully at the rising sun, all at once recollecting Lord Ropwell’s promise to call. “Are you familiar, Wodesby, with a man by the name of Ropwell?” he asked.
“I vaguely recall him,” Damien said, his brow furrowing uneasily. “A viscount? Ropwell, there is a bad feel about that name.”
“I would not be surprised if the rumors have reached clear to Portugal,” Adam said in disgust. “Suffice it to say his reputation is less than savory. Unfortunately, his title wholly outweighed his repute in Lady Enderby’s estimation. She informed him that your Mama would be delighted to receive him, although I suspect that his intent is less on wooing your sister than using the power that he believes that she possesses.”
“Thank you for the warning,” Damien said, more certain than before that Lord Brand’s feelings too, were engaged, though he seemed less than fully aware of his attachment. Matters were growing more complex by the moment. What manner of muddle had his mother gotten them into now? “I will deal with Ropwell. Ah, there is Dominick now.”
The Gypsy reined in the Wodesby carriage and brought it to a halt before the front door.
“There is no need for the ride, Sir,” Adam said. “‘Tis but a short distance and I think that the walk might do me good. But I will take the salve. Nasty stuff, as I recall, but I have never seen an ointment that heals wounds more rapidly.”
“As you wish,” Damien said, inclining his head in agreement. “A good walk often leads to the resolution of questions.”
Adam looked at him, startled.
“One need not be a magician, Lord Brand, to recognize confusion on a man’s face,” Damien said, with a parting salute. He turned, but kept the Marquess in the corner of his eye as he took the jar from Dominick and strolled briskly up the street. “Follow him, Angel,” the Mage directed quietly. The mastiff gave a soft whine. “I am fagged myself and you were the one questioning Thorpe’s competence. ‘Fumbling feline,’ was the phrase you used, if I recall. Now off with you, unless of course you truly wish to join me in a tete a tete with Mama.”
Angel loped swiftly out the door.
“Thought not,” said Damien with a rueful look as he swung the door closed and started slowly back up the stair.
“Wodesby? What in the devil took you so long?”
Damien blinked, staring for a moment at the man upon the top landing. Between the dim shadows of morning light and his weariness, he thought that Lord Brand had somehow returned. But as his eyes adjusted, Wodesby realized that the distinguished apparition had hair of silver. “And who in blazes are you, Sir?”
“Lawrence Timmons, at your service,” Lawrence replied with a bow. “Please forgive my abruptness, but I am quite concerned about your mother. She was beginning to worry.”
“Was she?” Damien said, his brows knitting together like thunderclouds. “Well, I confess, sir, that I am beginning to be a trifle concerned myself.”
. . .
Damien stared out the window over the quiet herb garden, identifying the various plants as his mother’s voice washed over him. It had been high tide and storm since he had set foot in the door of her bedchamber, demanding explanations. Thankfully, the waves of her anger were beginning to ebb.
“. . . so do not dare to bark at me, Damien Nostradamus,” Lady Wodesby warned, setting her morning chocolate on the tray with a hazardous clinking of china. “Mage of Albion you might be, but I am still your mother and Mistress of Witches, and you will not forget it again! The false values that young men learn these days,” she muttered. “Treating women like chattel, ordering us about like inferior servants. One would think that they were Bearers of Life, with all their airs. I cannot think where you might have picked up these manners. Certainly, it is not what I have taught you. Muddying my Aubusson rug at the crack of dawn and daring to read me a lecture. And Lawrence! How you embarrassed him!”
“What was I to think, with a man coming down the stairs in the wee hours of the morning?” Damien replied, turning to face her. “And then guarding you from me, like a dragon ‘pon a treasure trove.”
“Dear Lawrie,” his mother said, “could you blame him when you came roaring into my chamber hurling unconscionable accusations? You are quite fearsome, my boy, when you are hot with anger. Once you had calmed down, he did agree to leave. Besides, we did nothing more than talk the night away, like children in the nursery. We are old friends.”
There was a look in her eyes that Damien could not like, a special soft glow that he had not seen since his father’s death. With a twinge of foreboding he realized that there was much more than friendship in his mother’s voice when she spoke of Lord Brand’s uncle. “He has no right to interfere in family business,” Damien said, attempting to change the subject. “But I must say, the man showed great sense. He fully agreed that you ought not to have your cards back until you fully recover.”
“I need them, Damien. You can see for yourself, I am much improved.” She snapped and a burst of flame flared from her fingertips.
“You tire yourself with needless displays, Mama,” he said, stifling a yawn. “When you are well and able enough to divine their location on your own, you may use your cards. Lucky for you that Thorpe and Miranda had the good sense to conceal them, else I doubt that I would be talking to you this side of the Void.”
“Or perhaps I could have mitigated last night’s disaster,” Lady Wodesby said tartly.
“Or perhaps you could have done nothing,” Damien said, reaching to clasp her hand, knowing that her annoyance
stemmed almost entirely from worry. He sat in the chair beside the bed. “Only a fool believes that he can fool with Fate. So, you yourself have told me, time and again.”
“Ah, my son, I must be growing old, indeed, if you are throwing my own advice back in my face,” his mother said, leaning back upon the pillows.
“Old? Never? Did I not know better, I would say that there was a spell of eternal youth upon you, Mama. If you would note which one of us has the hair that is turning to white,” Damien said, tugging significantly at his blanched forelock.
“And you dare to accuse me of taking risks, my boy, when you help Wellington to turn the tides of battles? By the time Napoleon goes down to defeat, I suspect you may be as hoary headed as the first Lord Wodesby,” Lady Wodesby declared with a shake of her head, raising her hand to stave off argument as Damien opened his mouth to speak. “But we can save our usual quarrels for later, Damien. You say that Miranda is in love with him?”
“She was within sight of the Light, Mama,” Damien said. “Even you or I would have had difficulty resisting that lure, unless some very great power pulled us back, the one tie that is stronger than death. Can you think of any other reason for her return to the here and now?”
“She did seem to be growing fond of Lord Brand,” Lady Wodesby said thoughtfully.
“How could you allow it?” Damien asked, rising from the chair. “He is not one of us, of the Covens. You, of all people, should know how important it is—"
“Do not dare to tell me of my obligations to the Blood!” his mother blazed. “I married for the Covens and though I grew to love your father dearly, he was not the man my heart had yearned for, any more than I was his first wish. Yet, we made our alliance and did a good job of it too, I’d say,” she added, her voice gentling at Damien’s shocked expression. “I pray, my son, that you never need to make the choice between love and duty. And since I have discharged mine, I may choose to satisfy myself now.”
The Would-Be Witch Page 18
