Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Barnaby and Sawyer scrambled down to meet them.

  “How are they?” Marcus asked, his eyes fierce with anxiety.

  “In good spirits. That roof’s damned fragile, though.”

  They attached a rope to one end of the ladder and looped it around a stalagmite. “I’ll go through and help them climb,” Barnaby said. “We need a man at the top, to help them, and one about halfway down. Not your biggest men; the ones who can move the most stealthily.”

  Marcus ran his eye over the assembled men, and selected a gardener and one of the grooms. “Noake . . . and Rudkin.” Both men were young and wiry.

  “Everyone else needs to stay well back.”

  Marcus nodded.

  Barnaby turned to Sawyer. “Sawyer, if that roof does come down, get him out of here—even if you have to put him in a headlock to do it—and don’t let him back in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn it, Bee—”

  “Think about Charles.”

  “I am thinking about Charles,” Marcus snarled. “Or it would be me climbing through, not you!”

  Barnaby met his eyes, and nodded. He picked up the rope ladder and turned away. Marcus followed. “For God’s sake, Bee, be careful.”

  “I will.”

  Marcus caught his arm, and said in a whisper, “Tell Charlotte to use her gift if she thinks it will help.”

  “What?”

  “She’ll understand.” Marcus released his arm. “Be careful.”

  * * *

  Barnaby climbed the rockfall for the third time that afternoon, the anchor rope trailing behind him. He stationed the stableman halfway up, and the gardener at the top, then crept through the gap. Nothing had changed on the other side.

  He released the rope ladder. It unrolled with a gritty slithering sound, the bottom two rungs slapping on the ground.

  “Tell them to tie off the rope,” he whispered to the gardener.

  The anchor rope pulled taut.

  Barnaby began his descent. When he reached the third rung, the great slab shifted, settling several inches with a grating noise.

  He froze, clinging to the ladder, his heart beating triple time in his chest.

  The echoes died into silence. Barnaby released his breath in a slow trickle, and descended another rung. The giant’s gravestone dropped two feet with a sudden, jolting jerk. He lost his grip and slid down the slab amid an avalanche of stones, hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, and curled himself in a helpless ball. Stones thudded into him like dozens of bony fists.

  When the clatter of falling rocks had faded, Barnaby uncurled fractionally. God, I hope Noake and Rudkin are all right.

  He rolled over on his back, blinked gritty eyes, and gazed up at the gap. It had shrunk to the size of a rabbit hole.

  “Sir Barnaby!” Someone leaned over him. “Sir Barnaby! Are you all right?”

  Barnaby blinked, and focused on Miss Merryweather’s face. Anxiety shone in her eyes as brightly as tears.

  He reached out to lay his hand on her cheek, remembered himself in time, and changed the movement into a general uncurling of his body. “I’m fine.” He pushed up to sit, and coughed twice. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “But we have a slight problem.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sir Barnaby climbed to his feet with the slow caution of a man who was almost certain he had no broken bones. He was as filthy as a chimney sweep. Relief at seeing him stand made the urge to cry even stronger. Merry blinked back her tears with determination. She was not going to cry.

  “Bee! Barn-a-bee!” a faint, frantic voice called.

  Sir Barnaby turned towards the rockfall. “I’m fine,” he called back, his voice low. “Are Noake and Rudkin all right?”

  “Not hurt.”

  “Thank God,” Sir Barnaby said, and then he pitched his voice to carry: “Sawyer, get his lordship out of there. Now.”

  “I’m trying, sir.”

  “Well, try harder,” Sir Barnaby muttered. He raked a hand through his hair, dislodging dust and grit, and turned to face her and Charlotte. “We’ll get out of here,” he said, with utter confidence. “It’ll just take a little longer, is all. Now, let’s get into that grotto. This cave’s not safe.”

  “Sir Barnaby?” a low voice called. Not Marcus.

  They all turned back to the rockfall. “Yes?”

  “We’re going to clear as much of this rubble as we can and shore the roof with timber. Could take all night.”

  “For heaven’s sake, don’t rush,” Sir Barnaby said. “Take it slowly. Doesn’t matter how long it takes, just as long as no one’s hurt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “God, I hope they’re careful,” he said, under his breath, and then he turned back to her and Charlotte, and smiled cheerfully. “Show me this grotto, ladies.”

  * * *

  Sir Barnaby gave a low whistle. “This looks like something out of a storybook.”

  “Yes,” Merry said, clutching her hands together, and trying to sound calm.

  The grotto was the size of her bedroom in Woodhuish Abbey. Its ceiling was a dozen feet at the highest point, but less than three feet in the lowest corner. In half a dozen places, stalactites and stalagmites had joined to form slender, graceful columns.

  “It makes me think of A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Charlotte said. “I can imagine Titania here.”

  Sir Barnaby crossed to the nearest column and patted it. “This’ll keep the roof up.”

  “Yes,” Merry said again. Don’t panic, don’t panic. But she was aware of the weight of rock and earth above her, crushingly heavy. She forced herself to smile, and peeled her hands apart. “There are three more caves off this one. One has bones in it, and the strangest skull, and teeth like the one Marcus found.”

  Sir Barnaby’s head jerked around. “What?”

  “The bones are as hard as rock,” Charlotte said. “They’re stuck to the floor.”

  “This, I have to see.”

  * * *

  Sir Barnaby was delighted with the bones. “This is incredible! I don’t suppose either of you has a sketch pad?” He crouched and fingered the skull. “My God, what a gift to find something like this!” And then he paused, and frowned, and looked up at Charlotte. “Marcus said . . . Marcus told me to tell you to use your gift, if it would help. He said you’d understand what he meant.”

  Merry understood what it meant, too. She exchanged a glance with Charlotte.

  “There might be a sketch pad in the hamper,” Charlotte said. “I’ll look.”

  Merry gave Sir Barnaby a bright smile, and followed Charlotte. “You should go,” she whispered, once they were back in the grotto.

  “I can’t leave you here!” Charlotte whispered back.

  “Yes, you can. Sir Barnaby’s here. I won’t be alone.”

  Charlotte’s expression was miserable and indecisive.

  “Go, Charlotte. It’s stupid staying, if you can get out. Think about Charles!”

  Charlotte hugged her breasts as if they hurt. “I need to feed him . . .”

  “Then go.” Merry pushed Charlotte towards the little arch-shaped exit. They both peered out at the rockfall. “Can you get through that hole?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, and then: “But Merry, I can’t. I have to keep my magic secret. If it becomes common knowledge . . .” She hugged herself more tightly. “It scares people. Marcus almost shot me, the first time he saw me do it.”

  Merry nibbled on her lip. “Only show yourself to the nursemaid,” she suggested. “And Marcus, of course. Let everyone else think you’re here. Brough’s a sensible woman. She’ll keep your secret. Once the rockfall is cleared, come back and be seen to leave with us.”

  Charlotte looked dubious. “You think it will serve?”

  “Yes,” Merry said firmly. The fewer of us stuck down here, the fewer of us who can die. “Tell Brough the truth: that you have a Faerie godmother. She’s too level-headed to fly into hysterics. An
d she loves Charles. She’ll keep the secret for your sake and his sake.”

  “And Sir Barnaby? He’ll have to know, too.”

  “Sir Barnaby will be fascinated. You’re much more remarkable than an old skeleton.”

  Charlotte huffed a wry laugh. “Thank you. I think.”

  “Lady Cosgrove? Miss Merryweather? Is everything all right?”

  Sir Barnaby stood behind them, his face filthy and alert.

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Sir Barnaby, there’s something I must tell you.”

  * * *

  Sir Barnaby didn’t believe the tale about the Faerie godmother. Merry saw it on his face; beneath the careful politeness was a flicker of alarm. He thinks Charlotte’s gone mad.

  But he did believe when Charlotte removed her shawl and her spectacles, and knelt on the floor and changed into a monkey.

  His mouth gaped open and he stared with such stunned incredulity that Merry almost laughed. He watched, speechless, as the monkey climbed out the neckhole of Charlotte’s gown, changed into a sparrow, and flitted up to perch on Merry’s shoulder. The sparrow gave a chirp—Goodbye? Be careful?—and flew out of the grotto.

  They both hurried to peer into the debris-strewn cave beyond.

  Charlotte was already gone.

  “Good Lord,” Sir Barnaby said in a faint, awed voice, and then he turned to Merry. “What on earth?”

  * * *

  “You have a Faerie godmother, too?” Sir Barnaby said, when she’d finished explaining.

  Merry nodded. “And I’ll receive my gift on my twenty-fifth birthday. The day after tomorrow.”

  “Good Lord,” Sir Barnaby said again. He blinked several times. “Will Charles . . . ?”

  “No. Only the women in our line.”

  His gaze was intent, fascinated. “What will you choose?”

  Merry hugged her knees. “I don’t know. I’ve had years to think about it, and I’m still not sure. Charlotte only found out on her twenty-fifth birthday, and she had minutes to decide, and she made the perfect choice for her. She wanted to earn her living, so she chose metamorphosis and became a man. She was Marcus’s secretary, you know.”

  Sir Barnaby’s dusty eyebrows climbed higher. “His secretary?”

  Merry nodded. “You saw him once. Or rather, her.”

  “I did?”

  “She was with Marcus when he visited you at Mead Hall.”

  Sir Barnaby’s face tightened, as if her words had been a slap. She saw emotions chase themselves across his face—dismay, mortification—before his expression congealed into masklike blankness.

  Idiot. You shouldn’t have told him Charlotte witnessed that meeting.

  “If we’re still here on my birthday, I’ll use my gift to get us out,” Merry said hastily, to distract him. “I can do that, you know: choose a one-off gift, rather than a permanent one. Although most of the one-offs tend to be healing of some kind or other. One of my ancestresses was wall-eyed, and she used her gift to fix that.” She was gabbling, the words spilling over one another. “But I hope we’re out of here before then, because I would like a gift that lasts my life. Although . . . being alive would last my life, I guess.”

  Sir Barnaby gave her a polite, unfelt smile. His attention was directed inwards.

  Merry plowed on. “There are dozens of different gifts, you know. Some of them have warnings, because they can drive you mad, or . . . or make things worse than they already are. Like resurrection. You mustn’t ever resurrect a dead person. Someone tried that, back in the sixteenth century—her husband had died—and his body became alive again, but he was a raving lunatic.”

  Sir Barnaby blinked. She’d caught his attention.

  “I thought I might choose finding things as my gift,” Merry confessed. “So I can find a hoard of treasure, and not need to rely on Charlotte and Marcus’s charity. But it seems very selfish, and I can’t help thinking that I should choose a gift that helps people. Although, if I chose finding things I could find lost children, like Clem and Harry, and that wouldn’t be selfish.” She paused, her eyes on his face. Say something, Sir Barnaby.

  After a few seconds, he did. “Marcus and Charlotte clearly enjoy having you in their household. Your keep would be inconsequential to them.”

  “To them, yes. To me, no.” Merry looked at the hem of her gown and brushed at the dirt there, then looked back at him. “My father did leave me an inheritance, but it’s not enough to last my lifetime, and the only career I’m fitted for is dancing, and I will not be an opera dancer.”

  Sir Barnaby rocked back slightly. “I should hope not.”

  “And I can’t be a dancing master because I’m a female.” Merry sighed. “It would be so much easier if I were a man.”

  Sir Barnaby blinked. The closed-in expression had gone from his face. He looked bemused.

  Successfully distracted. Merry smiled cheerfully at him. “Would you like some food?”

  Sir Barnaby blinked again. “I suppose we had better eat.”

  “There’s water seeping down the wall, just past that skeleton. Enough to dampen a handkerchief with. Charlotte and I used it to wash our faces.”

  “Ah.” Sir Barnaby’s eyes lit up. He climbed to his feet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They ate and drank sparingly from the hamper; Sir Barnaby was of the opinion that it would be morning before sufficient rubble had been cleared and the roof shored up with timber. He quenched all the candles, including the one in Charlotte’s lantern. The only light came from her own lantern—one single, flickering, golden flame. The grotto became dark and shadowy, but instead of being frightening, it was strangely cozy. Her awareness of the weight pressing down on them had faded. What she was mostly aware of, was Sir Barnaby. They sat with their backs to a wall, side by side, wrapped in blankets. Their shoulders touched—the lightest of pressures, barely felt—and yet Merry was vividly conscious of it, vividly conscious of Sir Barnaby’s quiet breathing, of his presence alongside her.

  The disconcerting shyness that had stricken her at the ball returned. She felt self-conscious and bashful and inarticulate.

  Why am I so shy?

  Because she was head over heels in love with Sir Barnaby. Because she desperately wanted him to love her back. Because she didn’t know whether he did.

  He liked her—of that, she was certain—but he didn’t look at her with his heart in his eyes, the way Marcus looked at Charlotte. He was courteous and friendly and cheerful and, most of all, kind. His shoulder was touching hers because he knew she was afraid, because he was letting her know she wasn’t alone, because he was trying to make her feel safe.

  And it was working. She did feel safe. She sat in the almost-dark, with the weight of a hillside resting on top of them, and knew she should be scared, but she wasn’t.

  Because Sir Barnaby was with her.

  * * *

  An hour later, the grotto felt much less cozy. Cold seeped from the rock floor, from the walls. Merry hunched into the blanket and shivered. “Cold?” Sir Barnaby asked.

  “Freezing,” she admitted.

  “Um . . .” Sir Barnaby said. “We’d conserve warmth if we, um . . . Do you mind if we touch?”

  Merry’s awareness of him flared—and with it, the shyness. “No.”

  Sir Barnaby cautiously put an arm around her.

  “That doesn’t help much,” Merry confessed several minutes later, still shivering.

  “No, it doesn’t, does it?” Sir Barnaby hesitated, and then said, “Pretend I’m your father,” and he picked her up, blanket and all, and settled her on his lap as if she were a child, tucking her inside his own blanket, putting his arms around her.

  Merry stiffened—not in offense, but in a surfeit of shyness—and then forced herself to relax. “That’s much better. Thank you.” She rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes. Sir Barnaby smelled strongly of rock dust, and beneath that, of sweat and horse and sandalwood soap.

  She thought of Henry.
Stocky, dark-haired Henry, with his bulldog face and blunt way of speaking. Henry, whom she’d loved. Whom she always would love.

  Henry, dead at sea four years ago.

  Merry inhaled Sir Barnaby’s dust-sweat-horse-soap smell again, drawing it into her lungs, and felt a deep ache of love. Love for Henry. Love for Sir Barnaby.

  On the surface, Sir Barnaby was nothing like Henry, but underneath, he was very similar. He had the same practical nature, the same vigorous, inquiring mind, the same kindness.

  You would have liked Henry, if you had known him, she told Sir Barnaby silently, and she breathed in his scent again, and felt the ache, and the certainty. Certainty to the very marrow of her bones.

  This man.

  * * *

  Merry had no idea how many hours she slept, but when she woke, she was shivering again. The grotto was pitch black; the lantern had gone out—but with Sir Barnaby’s arms around her, she didn’t feel afraid. “Are you awake?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you cold?”

  She felt him shiver. “Yes.”

  “We need to move.” She uncurled stiffly and clambered off his lap. “Where’s that tinderbox?”

  “Here.” Sir Barnaby lit another candle and placed it in the lantern. Light flickered across his weary face. His hair looked like a hayrick.

  “Let’s dance.”

  Astonishment crossed his face. “Here?”

  “Of course, here. There’s room enough, if we’re careful.”

  Sir Barnaby glanced at the highest point of the grotto roof. “I suppose there is.” He climbed to his feet, moving slowly. “Lord, I feel like an old man.”