Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

  Death singing in his ears, he swung his sword in a wide arc, deflecting the thrust barely in time and trapping Mortimer’s blade under his own. Chest to chest, eye to eye, he looked into Mortimer’s hate-filled gaze.

  He tilted his head back slightly and smiled.

  “Phillip,” he heard Margaret breathe.

  “Damn you, Barnett.” Shoving Phillip back, Mortimer took a hasty step forward, then stopped, his eyes widening.

  Phillip leapt to his feet, hefting the weapon in his hand before closing his fingers tightly around the hilt. Lord, it felt good to hold a sword again! Fragmented memories of fencing with the masters of Europe flashed through his mind. In Spain, they had taught La Verdadera Destreza, The True Art; old-fashioned, perhaps, but useful still. In Italy, they had preached the fundamental principles of the stesso tempo, or “single time”, the parry and the counter attack combined. And in France--ah, France --there he had learned grace and elegance and pure mastery of the blade. The memories were perhaps a bit hazy, but it was small matter. He did not need to rely on memory to defeat Mortimer; he could rely on instinct. The sword felt like an extension of his right arm, as natural as if he had been born thus. Or as if he had been commissioned by the angel Gabriel to mete out punishment to Mortimer.

  Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He felt powerful, when for too long he had been powerless. He felt in control, when for too long he had had no control. Raising the sword high, he laughed, then used the tip to beckon Mortimer forward.

  Mortimer, shaking off his trance, attacked, looking angry as a jackal deprived of its prey. Their blades crossed, the steel scrabbled noisily as his sword slid down the length of Phillip’s blade. Mortimer jumped back, then immediately attacked again, almost breaking through Phillip’s guard. Barely in time, Phillip twisted to one side. They began to circle each other.

  From the corner of his eye, Phillip caught a glimpse of Margaret standing in the shadows. Her hands were clasped together as if in prayer. Praying for him? Or Bernard?

  Mortimer made a jab. Phillip parried, and feinted, drawing Mortimer’s sword to the left, before making a return to the left cheek, over the elbow.

  Mortimer jumped back. Breathing heavily, he pressed his hand against his face. He stared down at the blood on his fingers for a long moment. When he looked up, his eyes were narrowed into vicious slits of hatred. He lunged.

  Phillip ducked and turned. Mortimer’s sword whistled through the empty air.

  “Damn you, Barnett, damn you to hell.” He made another thrust at Phillip.

  “I prefer to save that particular fate for you, Mortimer.” Phillip countered, nicking him on the shoulder. “Your grandfather awaits you, I’m sure.”

  “My grandfather?” Mortimer wiped the sweat from his eyes, his hand shaking almost imperceptibly.

  “The first earl. The one who perjured himself to convict an innocent man.” Phillip’s sword teased Mortimer’s.

  “Phillip Eglinton, you mean? He got what he deserved. A Mortimer will always avenge any insult to his name and family.”

  “Then you will understand my desire to avenge Phillip since I am...related to him.”

  “You are related to Phillip?” Mortimer retreated a few steps, surprise flickering in his eyes, before he grinned evilly. “No wonder then, that I’ve always hated you. It’s in my blood. And how appropriate that I should be the one to dispatch you. ‘Thee and thine will diminish and die.’”

  Phillip lowered his sword, his gaze never leaving Mortimer’s hate-contorted features. “What do you know of that curse?”

  “Everything,” Mortimer gloated. “Grandfather told me how he paid the Gypsy to curse Phillip and his descendants and how he contrived to get Phillip hanged. How we laughed over the court’s gullibility! Imagine believing a ghost would appear to name its killer!” Mortimer laughed loudly, but his humor did not erase his expression of cruelty and vindictiveness. “I suppose Letty told you the tale. You should have learned from it--my family is always very thorough in dealing with our enemies.” He lunged forward suddenly, nicking Phillip in the shoulder.

  Phillip parried too late. The cut was small, barely a pinprick, but to Phillip, the sudden pain was as intense as a fatal wound. For a moment, all sensation concentrated into that one small area. It felt as though his entire arm had been ripped open. As shock raced through him and black spots danced before his eyes, he hazily realized that the long years of sensory deprivation must have made him extremely sensitive to pain.

  Cold blackness swept over him, bringing with it memories--memories of the long months of incarceration, of standing before the court listening to its verdict, of the ride in the cart to where the rope swayed slightly in the breeze. Memories of the waiting, fear eating at his gut like vitriol.

  Cold sweat poured down his face. The tip of his sword wavered. Through a blackish haze he saw Mortimer advancing. He tried to lift his blade, but his muscles seemed unresponsive. The haze thickened and darkened, sucking at him. Despair overwhelmed him. He had fought for so long, but he couldn’t fight any longer. In another second it would be over. He had failed.

  Suddenly, his sword snapped up, as if pulled by a string. Phillip stared at it in astonishment, the haze fading slightly. Without volition, his arms and legs began to move, blocking thrusts, retreating from Mortimer’s attack. The motions felt awkward, sluggish. For an instant, he had the confused thought that the puppet had taken over the puppeteer.

  “Phillip!”

  The blackness receded. Margaret’s white face swam into view.

  Margaret. Strength and hope flowed back into him, dispelling the last vestiges of the frightening haze, the pain in his shoulder receding to a dull ache. That other consciousness faded, the awkwardness of his limbs disappeared. Phillip looked again at Mortimer’s twisted features, and a fathomless rage filled him.

  Dear God, how he hated this knave! He had spent over seventy-eight years of nothingness because of the spite and evil of a man like the one who now stood before him. At last, at long last, he had his chance for revenge.

  “The world will be a better place once the stench of the Mortimers is gone from it.” No longer playing, Phillip attacked, his movements precise and lethal as his body automatically performed the movements learned long ago. Circle of quarte...circle of tierce...

  Now Mortimer was on the defensive, unable to do anything but parry thrust after thrust. Twice the counter of octave...twice the counter of octave and quarte...

  Blood dripped down Mortimer’s cheek while more blood stained his shirt at the shoulder where Phillip’s sword had pierced. His breathing was labored. Bring the buckle of the left foot to the right heel...retire to the left foot...

  Sweat gleaming on his brow, Mortimer made one more desperate lunge. The sound of ringing steel reverberated as Phillip struck a blow against the other man’s blade, causing it to fly out of his foe’s hand and fall to the ground with a soft thud. Let your sword slide along your left thigh and come upon guard...throw your foil up and catch it under the guard and bring the buckle of the left foot to the right heel...

  Looking dazed, Mortimer stared at the fallen blade.

  Phillip, the blood pounding in his veins, put the point of his sword to Mortimer’s throat. He inhaled deeply. He had won. He only needed to apply the slightest pressure to cut the jugular and destroy his enemy. Sweat dripped down his brow, he could feel mud encrusting various parts of his body, his muscles were beginning to ache, and scrapes and bruises were announcing their presence, but the taste of victory was sweet in his mouth.

  Preparing to drive the point of his sword home, Phillip unconsciously sought out Margaret, wanting to see her admiration, approval, awe.

  Her face was filled with horror.

  *****

  In the half-light, he did not look like Bernard. Margaret knew it was Bernard’s body standing before her--but somehow it was hard to remember. By some trick of the light, he looked like Phillip. Or perhaps it was his expression--Bernard’s eye
s had never held the light of bloodlust.

  His eyebrows drew together, his jaw clenched. Silently, she willed him not to kill.

  “Don’t kill me,” Mortimer gasped. His throat moved convulsively under the sharp steel.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” The ruthless timber of Phillip’s voice sent a shiver down Margaret’s spine. “Your family has been a blight to England for centuries.”

  “I’ll do anything. I’ll leave England. Go abroad. Never come back.” Mortimer’s breath came in quick choppy bursts.

  “So you can prey upon other innocent people?”

  “No, no. I swear I will never pick up a deck of cards again.”

  Phillip appeared to consider it for a moment. Even in the moonlight, Margaret could see the ugly gray hue of Mortimer’s skin. The defeated man no longer looked evil or spiteful. He looked afraid. Surely Phillip would not kill him.

  “How will you pay for your passage? You are penniless, as I recall.”

  “I...I...”

  “Phillip, don’t kill him.” Margaret moved out of the shadows.

  He raised a brow at her, the picture of cool control--except for the wildness in his eyes.

  “How would we ever explain a dead body? Bernard would probably get arrested.” Margaret forced her voice to sound calm and reasonable.

  Phillip laughed harshly. “How sensible you are, my sweet. But we can’t simply let him go his merry way to practice his evil on others.”

  Mortimer watched them with an expression of slowly-dawning terror. “I don’t understand. Why does she call you--?”

  Phillip stared appraisingly at him. “Haven’t you guessed, Mortimer? Can’t you guess who I am and why killing you would give me the utmost pleasure?”

  Mortimer’s face grew paler. “I don’t believe it. You’re lying.”

  Phillip laughed and flexed his sword. “Don’t you remember me from your nightmares? I certainly remember you. You thought I was dead, but surely you know the Eglintons always have the last laugh.” And he started to chuckle, a low mocking sound that chilled Margaret’s very blood.

  It must have had the same effect on Mortimer, because terror carved deep lines into his face.

  Phillip stopped laughing abruptly. “You’re free to go, you scum, but remember this: If you ever so much as pick up a deck of cards, I will haunt your dreams, not just once a year, but every night for the rest of your miserable life. You will not be able to sleep, my laughter will keep you awake. You will slowly go insane. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, yes. I swear I’ll never cheat anyone.”

  “Good. Then there’s only one more thing I want you to do.” Phillip lowered his voice and whispered something Margaret couldn’t hear.

  Mortimer nodded. “Anything, anything.”

  “Remember, if you do not do exactly as I say, I will haunt you. Now go!”

  Mortimer slithered away through the trees. When he was gone, Phillip turned towards Margaret.

  Her heart almost stopped at the cold anger in his gaze.

  “What was that all about?” he asked almost casually as he picked up his coat. He thrust his arms into it and draped the cravat around his neck.

  “What?” she half whispered.

  “That nauseating display of mercy.”

  Margaret stiffened. “There was nothing nauseating about it. Perhaps in the eighteenth century it was acceptable to go around killing people, but in the nineteenth, we are much more civilized.”

  “Like Mortimer?” he sneered.

  “No, like Bernard,” she retorted.

  “Bernard!” Phillip practically spat the name. “Oh yes, he’s civilized. So civilized he nearly got himself killed.”

  His sarcasm made her angry. “Very well,” she snapped. “I thank you for saving Bernard.” Turning on her heel, she stalked away.

  She was half way back to the house before he recovered his wits enough to follow.

  “Where the hell are you going?” he snarled as he caught up to her.

  Margaret didn’t reply. She was shaking inside, the stress of the duel causing a roiling in her stomach. She kept walking until she reached the house. Inside, moonlight streamed through the windows and lit up the hall. She headed for the stairs.

  He was right behind her. “Is this a game Margaret? If so, I do not find it amusing.”

  Her hand on the balustrade, Margaret paused. “No game,” she said finally, her voice shaking.

  “Then what? What’s the matter with you?”

  “With me? What’s the matter with you? You’re behaving like a blood-crazed animal. You act angry because I deprived you of the pleasure of killing Mortimer.”

  “Forgive me if reality makes you nauseous. Wake up, Margaret. You got what you wanted. Your precious Bernard is safe.”

  “Barely. You certainly waited long enough before stepping in. I thought he would be killed.”

  “Ah, I see. You were worried about poor old Bernard.”

  “Of course I was, you buffoon!”

  “You shouldn’t have been. I waited until it was necessary for me to step in so that the risk of draining myself completely was small. It seemed reasonable to expect that Bernard would at least wear Mortimer out a bit. I suppose I should have guessed I would have to do the whole job myself,” he finished sardonically.

  Margaret ignored his sarcasm. “You should indeed. What if you had miscalculated? Bernard was almost skewered.” She turned to go up the stairs.

  Phillip put out the sword, blocking her way. “Would you have cared?”

  Margaret drew back. She stared into his dark eyes. “Certainly I would have cared. What sort of a question is that? I am going to marry him.”

  “Ah yes. How could I have forgotten?” Casually he leaned forward, sliding the sword past her as his arms came around to rest on the bannister, trapping her. “But do you love him?”

  Margaret shrank bank against the balustrade. She did not like the intense darkness of Phillip’s face, the barely-leashed emotion in his eyes. She managed to whisper, “Yes, of course I do.”

  With sudden violence, he threw the sword away. It crashed against the wall then dropped to the floor, clattering against the flagstones. His hands seized her shoulders. “Don’t lie to me, Margaret.”

  “I’m not! I do love him. I love him with all my h--“

  His mouth stopped the rest of her words. His arms slid around her and held her tightly. Margaret struggled against him, hating him, hating herself.

  She managed to pull her mouth away. “Stop that, this instant Phillip.”

  His lips travelled down her neck, causing the most delicious shivers to run down her spine; a glow ignited in the pit of her stomach and raced up to her breasts. His seeking mouth encountered the cloth of her dress and moved lower; her breasts swelled. He kissed the curves through the rough wool, and moved lower still to where her nipples had grown hard and aching. He bit them gently, causing her to cry out.

  With her last ounce of willpower, Margaret tore herself away. She had to get away from him before she did something she would regret. Something that would change the whole course of her life. Bunching her skirt in her hands, her breath rasping in her throat, she ran up the stairs. They seemed endless, and somehow she could not catch her breath. Was he following? She could not hear him. She must hurry. But surely he would have caught her if he was pursuing her. Her steps slowed. Her legs felt leaden. She was barely half-way up the stairs. Something was compelling to look around. Chest heaving, she paused and turned.

  He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face in the shadow. He was very still. When he spoke, his voice sounded distant, strange.

  “Why do you run away, Margaret?”

  Her heart began to pound with heavy painful beats. “I...this is wrong....”

  “Is it wrong for a man to make love to the woman he loves?”

  Margaret’s breath caught on a sob. “No! Don’t say that!”

  “Why, Margaret? It’s true. And you love me.”
>
  “No!”

  “Yes! Don’t deny it. Don’t Margaret.” She was not quite sure how it happened, but suddenly he was next to her, his hand tracing her cheek, his mouth dropping light kisses on her face. “Margaret, you love me. Say it. Say you love me. You know it’s true.” Over and over he repeated the words, mesmerizing her, sapping her will away.

  When his mouth closed once more on hers, everything whirled and nothing mattered anymore except him.

  He must have felt her surrender, for with a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh, he lifted her in his arms and started up the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Laying her gently on the bed, he lit a single candle, then shrugged off his coat. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled off his boots, slipped off her shoes, and tugged at her mittens. He lifted her hands, pressing a kiss into the palm of each one, before laying down beside her. His mouth covered hers, hot, seeking.

  Margaret closed her eyes, inhaling the smell of sweet, rich tobacco. Sighing, her lips parted slightly. Immediately his tongue was in her mouth. Shocked, her eyes snapped open. He raised himself slightly, his face dark and serious. Then it grew all blurry and his lips were against her ear, tracing the curves, and his warm breath tickled as he whispered to her.

  “Margaret, please open your mouth. Don’t be frightened. I won’t hurt you. Please....”

  Tender, persuasive, his voice lulled her fears. His mouth pressed gently until her lips parted on a helpless sigh and his tongue slipped inside. It stroked her mouth in a strange rhythm, unfamiliar, and yet...her body seemed to recognize it and respond. Timidly, her tongue reached for his.

  He groaned. With a single swift movement, he rolled off the bed, carrying her with him.

  She stood before him, swaying a little, her body on fire, her thoughts confused. His hands were slightly unsteady as he put them on her shoulders and twirled her around, so that her back was to him. Then his hands were at her dress, undoing the long line of buttons. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck and hear the muttered curse as his fingers fumbled. When he was a quarter of the way through, his patience ran out, and he pulled the gown off her shoulders, and halfway down her arms, effectively trapping them against her sides. She had not put her corset on, and his hands came around and reached inside her chemise. He covered her breasts with his hands and she heard him sigh deeply as he pulled her back against him.