Prince of Magic

by Anne Stuart

  In the end she didn’t even bother with her slippers. She moved through the house silently, finding her way through the dark, empty halls with such unerring precision that she would have suspected otherworldly help. That is, if she allowed herself to believe in such things.

  She was right, the grass was wet and chilly beneath her feet, and yet she moved forward, closing the terrace door behind her. Heavy clouds scudded across the moon, and she paused, listening. She had no idea why she was here instead of tucked safe in her bed. Indeed, she was doing just what she’d promised never to do again. Perhaps she was dreaming.

  But her feet wouldn’t be cold if it was a dream. She wouldn’t feel the soft, cool breeze against her face. She wouldn’t be wondering what had called her out into the darkness on her first night at Hernewood Manor.

  Her reluctant hosts would be horrified if they discovered demure Miss Penshurst had a habit of going for midnight walks clad only in her night rail. She would likely be back on the next mail coach to Dorset if she were discovered, and her disgrace would be irreparable.

  She didn’t even hesitate. She moved through the trees toward the ruined abbey, ignoring common sense and firm resolutions. She moved through the trees like a ghost.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  The voice came out of the darkness, cool and unwelcoming, and she let out a tiny screech, shocked out of the strange daze that had entrapped her.

  She turned, half expecting a ghostly specter, but the reality was worse. Even in the shadowy moonlight she could see him quite clearly, the glow of his eerie wolf’s eyes as they moved across her body.

  She clutched her shawl closer to her, grateful she’d thought to bring that much covering, and hoped he wouldn’t see her bare feet in the dim light. He looked different in the moonlight than he had earlier that day. He was wearing some kind of dark robe, almost like a monk’s habit, though she suspected the material was far richer, and he stood silhouetted against an arched stone doorway of the ruined abbey, watching her with an expression that was far from welcoming.

  “Miss Penshurst,” he said after a moment, his voice impatient, “I can’t imagine why you’re wandering out here all alone, but I would suggest you get yourself back to the manor before anyone realizes you’re gone. Sir Richard and Lady Elinor won’t take kindly to a houseguest with a propensity for midnight walks.”

  “They don’t take kindly to having me as a houseguest at all,” Elizabeth said with unexpected candor. “I have the feeling I could hardly be less desirable.”

  He blinked, and for some reason the phrase “less desirable” echoed in her head. “Is that what you’re doing?” he asked. “Sleepwalking?”

  “I must be. No sensible woman would be wandering in the woods in . . .” She almost mentioned her night rail, then decided such a comment could be provocative. “. . . in the middle of the night.”

  “You didn’t look as if you were asleep. You looked as if you knew exactly where you were going.”

  “You were watching me?”

  “Since the moment you crept out of the house like a sneak thief.”

  “But why?”

  “I make it my habit to watch over the Durhams,” he said.

  “They’re your family.”

  He didn’t look surprised. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “I know who you are,” she said abruptly, annoyed.

  His faint smile was less than reassuring. “Do you? I wish I could say the same about you.”

  “I’ve already told you, I’m Elizabeth Penshurst, Jane Durham’s second cousin. And yours as well,” she added belatedly.

  “Don’t assume any such thing,” he said softly, looking at her. “Now why would a sensible, well-bred young woman suddenly take to wandering the woods in her nightclothes and bare feet?”

  She immediately bent her knees so that her plain white-cotton gown trailed in the grass, covering the shocking sight of her pale, bare feet. “What makes you think I’m sensible?” she inquired rashly.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Elizabeth Penshurst?”

  “No,” she said firmly, resisting the impulse to look over her shoulder into the darkness.

  “And do you believe in the Old Religion, in magic and mystery and things beyond mortal understanding?” His voice was low, silky, persuasive, and he’d somehow moved closer in the copse of wood.

  “My father is an Anglican rector, sir,” she said stiffly, avoiding the question. “Such blasphemy would horrify him.”

  His smile was wider now; he was genuinely amused by her. “That’s what the Durhams call me, you know, when they can be persuaded to discuss me. Blasphemer, cynic, voluptuary. I am everything they abhor.”

  “You’re their son!” she said, more shocked by this than any of the dramatic epithets.

  “One thing you learn early on, sweet Lizzie, is that things are not always what they seem.”

  No one had ever called her sweet Lizzie before, and she was certain she shouldn›t like it. Especially in his rich, soft voice that carried across the night air and wrapped around her like a shawl of velvet.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she said belatedly.

  “Wise of you to realize that.” He was closer now, so that she could almost see him clearly in the moonlight. “It’s a dangerous place, Miss Penshurst. Ghostly monks wander the ruins. I thought you were one of them, with your ethereal white robes.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she said, not sure of any such thing.

  “They’re harmless. Brother Septimus and Brother Paul have lived here for centuries. I think they’d like you. They’re quite fond of my sister Jane, though she’s totally unable to see them.”

  “And you think I could?”

  He was very close now, and she hadn’t even realized he’d been approaching. “Oh, quite probably. You aren’t the starched, practical creature you pretend to be. Beneath that prim nightgown beats a wild and passionate heart, and gifts even I couldn’t begin to fathom. They frighten you, though. Don’t they?”

  “Very little frightens me,” she said stiffly.

  His elegant mouth curved in a wry smile. “Now that is one of the first things you’ve said that I believe. A fearful soul wouldn’t be wandering the haunted woods of Hernewood Abbey.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “That I take leave to doubt. There’s danger here, and evil. From places you’d least expect, my girl.”

  “Ghosts again?” she scoffed.

  He shook his head. His hair was too long, dark and silken against his face in the moon-shrouded night. “Ghosts are the least of your worries. It’s the living who are evil.”

  There was a note in his rich voice that chilled her, far more effectively than the cool air or the cold wet grass beneath her bare feet. “Are you evil?” she found herself asking.

  There was no humor in his smile. “Not entirely.” His answer failed to reassure her. She turned to go, suddenly uneasy as she should have been from the beginning of this strange encounter, when his rich voice stopped her.

  “What brought you out here tonight?”

  “I dreamt of wolves.”

  “That should have kept you safe in bed.”

  “I saw ghosts.”

  “An even stronger reason to stay put.” He had moved, so close to her now that the hem of his robe brushed against her feet. Warm, soft velvet. “Don’t come out here again,” he said quietly. “Not alone.”

  “You said the ghosts were harmless, and there are no wolves. Who would hurt me?”

  He touched her face, pushing her thick hair back behind her ear, and the feel of his skin against hers was shocking.

  “I would,” he said.

  Chapter Four

  ELIZABETH WAS not in the mood for early rising
the next morning. She heard her bedroom door open, and she bundled deeper into the narrow bed, devoutly hoping whoever it was would go away.

  “I know you’re awake,” Jane said in too cheerful a voice for so early in the morning. “You can’t convince me you’re the sort who spends half the day in bed like the rest of my family.”

  Elizabeth didn’t move. “Go away,” she muttered.

  “It’s a beautiful day, cool and clear. Get up and eat something, and I’ll show you the ruins of the old abbey.”

  Elizabeth sat bolt upright. “No!”

  “You don’t like historical ruins?” Jane said, perching on the end of the bed.

  “Of course I do,” she said, pushing a hand through her tangled hair. “I’m just . . . tired.”

  “Why?” Jane asked. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  Elizabeth hesitated, looking at her. For some reason she trusted Jane, and had done so immediately, but perhaps she ought to use a little discretion. “Do you ever dream, Jane?”

  “Everyone dreams, don’t they? I scarcely remember mine, which is probably just as well.”

  “I dreamt about wolves last night,” Elizabeth said. “I heard them howling, and I saw them out the window, wandering through the woods.”

  “That was probably just the ghosts,” Jane said calmly. “There are no wolves around here.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “I wasn’t joking. The woods are haunted, as almost anyone can tell you. Even Edward and Edwina believe in them, though I don’t think they’ve ever seen them. You’re lucky, you know. Mostly they only show themselves to a special few.”

  “Lucky?” Elizabeth echoed. “I think I could have done without that particular piece of luck.”

  “At least you were wise enough to get back in bed and forget about them,” Jane said. Her eyes narrowed. “Weren’t you?”

  There was a wet leaf on the floor by the bed, telltale proof that Elizabeth hadn’t been nearly so wise. “Not exactly,” she confessed.

  “You didn’t go out last night!” Jane said, clearly shocked at the knowledge that her new cousin had done exactly that.

  “I’m afraid I did. I was curious,” she added, trying to sound practical and failing completely. “You would have done the same.”

  “Certainly not,” Jane said. “I’m afraid of ghosts.”

  “I didn’t know they were ghosts,” Elizabeth said in a pleading voice, trying to sound eminently reasonable and failing. “I thought they were wolves. And I thought you said the ghosts were harmless.”

  “Harmless compared to wolves. You don’t want to be going anywhere near the supernatural—Gabriel could tell you that much.”

  “He did.”

  Jane gasped. “You saw Gabriel? In the middle of the night? Oh, my heavens!” She was clearly shocked. And then, as an afterthought, “You were properly dressed, weren’t you?”

  “I was decently covered,” Elizabeth said, trying not to look guilty.

  “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be quite so trusting.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought I’d need to worry about a cousin,” she said, defensive.

  “He’s not . . .” Jane bit her lip, stopping abruptly.

  “Not what? Not safe? Not my cousin?”

  “With Gabriel, nothing is quite as it seems,” Jane said tersely.

  “I’m finding that true about Hernewood in general,” Lizzie said, drawing her knees up beneath the covers.

  “Believe me, Elizabeth, you’re better off keeping out of the woods altogether. Away from Gabriel and the ghosts and the ancient stories.”

  “I’m trying very hard not to be a fanciful creature,” she said, smoothing down her riotous red hair.

  “I wish you luck,” said Jane. “Hernewood Forest has the power to seduce even the most practical of creatures. I’m wise enough to keep my distance. You should do the same. Come with me for a ride this afternoon, and we’ll shake off the cobwebs, go across the fields and keep far away from the forest, and if you’re extremely lucky, you’ll never run into my brother again during your visit.”

  Elizabeth didn’t let any expression cross her face at that possibility. Doubtless it would be the best for everyone. “He never comes to the house?”

  “Never. He seldom emerges from the forest. He’s a hermit and prefers his life that way. Yon would be wise to keep away from him.”

  “I have no intention of seeking him out,” Elizabeth said. “It was simply an accidental meeting . . .”

  “Gabriel would say there are no such things as accidents, and I tend to believe he’s right. He can be a dangerous man, Elizabeth. Be wary.”

  “He already warned me,” she said, throwing back the covers and scrambling from the bed. The room was chilly, and no maid had been instructed to tend to the fire. She shivered in her loose white nightdress.

  “Be careful, Elizabeth. There are odd things happening in the woods.” Jane rose, shaking her sadly wrinkled skirt. “We’ll go for a ride, and you’ll see that the fields and hills are far more cheerful than the forest.”

  Elizabeth paused in the act of taming her hair. “I like the woods, Jane.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t. You’re supposed to be practical, and the woods are dangerous. You never know what you might find there.”

  “Besides ghosts and the wicked Gabriel, what else would I have to worry about?”

  Jane shook her head. “Just because you don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. They used to practice black magick around here, and Druidry. Earth religions and sacrifice and really quite awful things.”

  For a moment Elizabeth didn’t move, her thick mane of hair twisted in one hand. “Do you think your brother is involved in such things?”

  “He’s known to be an expert on the Druids,” Jane said reluctantly. “People follow him up here from London to seek his wisdom. Wisdom, ha!” she said with sisterly scorn. “I’m a sensible woman, and I know well enough to keep out of the woods. Please, for your sake as well as mine, do the same. There’s nothing but trouble awaiting you there.”

  There was no way Lizzie could ignore Jane’s concern. “I’ve made it my new goal in life to keep away from trouble,” she said calmly, plaiting her hair and pinning it neatly at the back of her neck. “I think a ride would be just the thing.”

  She was rewarded with Jane’s beatific smile.

  It was likely that Jane wouldn’t be smiling later, when she realized that not only was Lizzie one of the world’s worst riders, but she was terrified of horses as well. On the ground she loved and understood them as she did all animals. Mounted on a horse’s broad back, she lost all rapport.

  But she could manage a sedate ride without disgracing herself, couldn’t she? At least it would keep her out of the forests, away from the lure of the woods.

  And the unexpected lure of the Dark Man, who lived within their shadows.

  IT WAS A COOL, crisp day for a ride across the dales, and Elizabeth had managed the first part of their ride with admirable calm. Marigold seemed placid enough to the casual observer, though Lizzie knew otherwise. She was preternaturally wise when it came to animals, could look into their wise, liquid eyes and know just what they were thinking. Unfortunately Marigold was thinking that she didn’t want a stranger up on her back.

  Not that Lizzie was about to explain such a far-fetched notion to her cousin. Jane was a different creature on a horse, graceful, majestic, at one with her animal. Gone was the awkward, overgrown young woman, and in her place was a creature of glowing health and beauty, confidence and strength.

  Unfortunately Elizabeth could count on no such transformation for herself. Even learning to ride well wouldn’t make her hair less red, and nothing short of a miracle could make her majestic. And Jane was in the mood for a ga
llop.

  Elizabeth struggled to keep up with her cousin’s neck-or-nothing pace, clinging nervously to her horse’s reins as they raced across the countryside, and she almost wept with relief when Jane finally seemed to have rid herself of the demons that were riding her and slowed her reckless pace, turning to look back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with a rueful smile. “I was in such a need of a gallop that I forgot you might not be entirely comfortable on a strange horse.”

  Elizabeth resisted the impulse to admit she wasn’t entirely comfortable on any horse. The mare beneath her had slowed to a walk, and Elizabeth’s heart was slowing as well. “She’s a very nice horse,” she said lamely.

  “Marigold? She’s a stodgy old thing but even-tempered. We’ll get you a more challenging mount, and then you won’t have so much trouble keeping up with me.”

  “No!” Elizabeth’s voice came out in a little shriek, and she coughed. “Marigold’s just perfect for me. I really don’t mind if she’s a little slow.”

  “Gabriel says I ride like a man,” Jane said. “Always looking for more speed and power. But there’s nothing more glorious than racing across the dales with the wind in your hair, now is there?”

  Elizabeth’s disreputable hair was bound tightly around her head, and the last thing in the world she needed was to have it flying in the wind, but she managed a wan smile. “Glorious,” she echoed.

  “Now if we could just . . . oh, blast!” A high-perch phaeton had appeared around the corner, traveling at a reckless clip. It was bright yellow and looked as if it belonged in a city like London rather than a country road in Yorkshire. The driver seemed to have no intention of slowing his dangerous pace. Elizabeth tried to sidle her horse out of the way, but Marigold proved suddenly stubborn, despite Elizabeth’s kicks to her broad sides, and a moment later Jane swooped down on the reins and pulled them both to safety on the grassy sward.