Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  Merry released Barnaby’s wrist and gazed down at him. The shape of his face was wrong—that dreadful lump on his forehead, the lopsided jaw. His eyelids were purple and swollen. It was as if a monster’s face had been grafted to Barnaby’s skull, all distorted features and discolored skin.

  “He’ll be fine,” she told Marcus, with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I’ll heal him, just as soon as Baletongue comes.”

  Marcus didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t alter. He knew as well as she did that they were running out of time.

  * * *

  Dawn came, and Woodhuish Abbey woke around her—Merry heard the creak of footsteps, the murmur of distant voices. She stayed in her bedchamber; Baletongue would only come if she was alone.

  A housemaid brought her a breakfast she couldn’t eat, and an hour later removed it.

  Merry sat at her little escritoire, the list of Faerie gifts spread out before her, and waited. And waited. The clock hands inched around the enamel dial, and the sense of time running out became stronger and stronger until she could barely breathe.

  Another hour crept past. Merry read the list for the thousandth time. After Finding People and/or Objects, but before Invisibility and Levitation, were several different types of healing. Healing fevers. Healing illnesses of the mind. Healing physical traumata. Note that a healer gives of her own strength with each healing, someone had written in crabbed, old-fashioned writing. Only women in the most robust of health should consider requesting these gifts.

  A shiver ran up the back of Merry’s neck. She jerked her head around and half-rose from the chair. “Hello?”

  Her room was utterly empty, utterly silent—and yet a prickling sensation crept from the base of Merry’s spine all the way to her scalp. She knew what it meant: Baletongue was here. Her gaze jumped to the clock. Ten o’clock. “Hello?” she said more urgently. “Show yourself.”

  A patch of air in the corner of the chamber shimmered like a heat haze—and between one blink of Merry’s eyes and the next, a woman came into being.

  She looked as if she had stepped from an Elizabethan painting: the blood-red velvet gown, the lace ruff, the dark hair elaborately dressed with pearls.

  Merry stared. Baletongue was inhumanly beautiful, her features cold and chiseled and perfect. But most inhuman of all were her eyes. They had no white sclera, no colored iris. They were purely black.

  Merry discovered that her heart was beating fast and high at the base of her throat.

  “Anne Ignatia Merryweather?”

  Merry swallowed. “Yes. Good morning.” Her voice came out higher than normal.

  Baletongue didn’t return the greeting. She stared at Merry scornfully, and there was such malice in those black eyes that Merry’s urgent words dried on her tongue. She understood her mother’s warning. Treat her with utmost caution. She delights in doing harm.

  Merry swallowed again, and found her voice. “I would like to choose a healing gift. I understand that I may choose a single act of healing, performed by you, or I can choose to become a healer myself and heal numerous people.”

  Baletongue stared coldly at her.

  The safest choice would be to request that Baletongue heal Barnaby. There could be no doubt then that he would survive. But what about the groom, Rudkin, with his right shin smashed to smithereens?

  “Can you please explain this particular gift to me?” Merry picked up the list and found the item she wanted. “Healing physical traumata.”

  Baletongue stared at her without replying.

  Merry’s temper sparked. “If I choose this gift, exactly what traumata may I heal?” she demanded. “Injuries to bones, as well as injuries to the flesh?”

  “Correct.” Baletongue’s tone was dismissive, disdainful.

  “And how do I do it? How does one heal?”

  “When you lay your hands on the patient, you will understand what needs doing. As to whether you can do it or not . . .” Baletongue’s upper lip curled contemptuously. “That depends on your strength and your willpower.”

  “There’s a man, three rooms from here.” Merry gripped the list tightly. “His skull is broken. And his jaw. If I choose this gift, will I be able to save his life?”

  Baletongue’s gaze shifted fractionally. She was silent for a long moment, and then she blinked, and her pale lips curved upwards. “It’s more than just his skull and jaw.”

  “Can I save his life with this gift?” Merry cried urgently.

  Baletongue’s lips twitched in amusement. “You’d have to hurry.”

  “I take the gift. Now.”

  Baletongue smiled, showing foxlike white teeth. “Done.” A snap of her fingers, a heat shimmer in the air, and she was gone.

  Merry dropped the list and ran, wrenching open her door, spilling out into the corridor. Now the seconds were dashing past too fast. Hurry. Hurry!

  She jerked open the door to Barnaby’s room so hard it slammed against the wall.

  Marcus recoiled out of his chair. “Jesus—” And then he took in her expression. “She came?”

  “She came.”

  Merry hurried to the bed and placed her hands on Barnaby’s head. His hair was stiff with dust and blood.

  For a moment, nothing happened . . . and then awareness flowed through her hands. She had no word for it—intuition, knowledge, insight—but whatever it was, it told her exactly what Barnaby’s injuries were. Baletongue had been correct; it was more than just his skull and jaw.

  “His neck’s broken, too.”

  “His neck?” Marcus said, aghast. “Christ, Merry!”

  “I can fix it,” Merry said. Strength and willpower, Baletongue had said. And she had both of those.

  She hastily dragged Marcus’s chair closer to the bed and sat. “Keep everyone out, except you and Charlotte.”

  “The doctor—”

  “Especially the doctor.” Merry took Barnaby’s limp right hand in both of hers.

  “He’s here now,” Marcus said. “He’s talking of amputating Rudkin’s leg.”

  “Amputating?” Her head jerked around.

  “He says it’s too badly broken to heal.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t let him!”

  The tension in Marcus’s face eased fractionally. “I won’t.”

  Merry turned back to Barnaby and bent her attention fiercely to him. She didn’t notice Marcus leave the room and quietly close the door.

  * * *

  Baletongue had said that she would know what to do, and she did. It was simply a matter of requiring certain actions to occur—bones mended, torn muscles repaired, accumulated fluid redirected. Requiring the action caused it to happen.

  Merry worked methodically. Her gift told her which were the most urgent actions, and she attended to them first. But there were dozens of urgent actions. And scores of less urgent actions. And each action took effort and focus and time. Edges of bones didn’t instantly bond, nor did swelling subside and severed nerves knit together; it was a slow, creeping process, and she had to concentrate hard while it happened, had to will it to happen, or it didn’t.

  She was vaguely aware of Charlotte and Marcus slipping in and out of the bedchamber. Refreshments were placed within reach, teapots refilled, the fire banked.

  The healing went on—and on—and on. Bones and blood vessels. Muscles and nerves. Repair after repair after repair, until at last her magic told her there was nothing more to be done. Merry released Barnaby’s hand and sat back in the chair, feeling stiff, tired, hungry, and a little light-headed.

  “How’s it going?” a quiet voice asked.

  Merry jumped slightly. She hadn’t realized Charlotte was in the room. “He’s healed. But his body needs rest. It’ll be hours before he wakes.” She yawned.

  Charlotte poured her a cup of tea and held it out. “Hungry?”

  “Starving.” Merry looked at the clock, and blinked. Had she been sitting here for eight hours?

  Charlotte picked up a tray that wa
s sitting on the hearth, and placed it on the table beside Merry. There was a little silver soup tureen, and a covered plate. The smell of roasted meat made Merry’s mouth water. She lifted the gleaming tureen lid. “How’s Rudkin?”

  “In considerable pain.”

  Merry met her eyes. “Bad?”

  Charlotte grimaced. “We’re keeping him sedated with laudanum. When he’s awake, he cries.”

  Merry lost her appetite. She replaced the lid. “I’ll see him now.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Hunger woke her at two in the morning, despite the huge supper she’d eaten. Fortunately, Charlotte had left a bowl of fruit and a dish of shelled nuts on the bedside table.

  Merry ate a pear, two handfuls of nuts, and a bunch of grapes, snuggled drowsily beneath the covers again—and thought of Barnaby. Had he yet woken?

  Her weariness vanished. Anxiety took its place.

  Merry flung back the covers, took up her chamberstick, hurried from her room and down the dark corridor.

  Sir Barnaby’s door opened on silent hinges. His bedchamber was dark. Marcus was no longer on vigil.

  Merry trod softly across to the big four-posted bed.

  Candlelight showed her Barnaby asleep, curled up on his side, his face utterly relaxed. A tray sat on his bedside table. She saw a bunch of grapes like the one she’d just eaten, a jug of lemonade, and a plate bearing two of Guillaume’s incomparable pastries. From the appearance of the plate, at least three more pastries had once sat on it.

  Her anxious tension eased. Barnaby must have woken. Woken, and eaten, and convinced Marcus that he was well enough to be left alone.

  Merry tiptoed closer and gazed down at him.

  Not only woken and eaten, but bathed and shaved, too. His red-brown hair was no longer filthy, the whiskers were gone from his skin, and he wore a clean nightshirt.

  She lightly touched his brow, trying to sense his wellness.

  Barnaby’s eyes opened. He blinked drowsily. “Merry?”

  Merry curled her hand into her chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

  Sir Barnaby pushed up on one elbow and rubbed his face.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Fine.” He sat fully upright and rubbed his face again, rubbed his hair. “How are you?”

  “Me? I’m perfectly well.”

  Barnaby fixed her with a frowning stare. “Marcus says my neck was broken. And my head.”

  Merry nodded.

  “He says you saved my life.”

  Merry nodded again.

  “Thank you.” Barnaby gave her a faint, lopsided smile, and held out his hand.

  Merry took it.

  Barnaby’s fingers gripped hers tightly. “Thank you,” he said, a second time.

  Merry stared into his hazel eyes, and felt emotion clench in her chest. I love this man.

  Barnaby’s stomach gave a small growl. “Sorry,” he said, ruefully. “I’m hungry.”

  * * *

  Barnaby ate the bunch of grapes and one of Guillaume’s pastries. He offered her the second pastry. Merry shook her head. Barnaby ate that pastry, too, and drank some lemonade. He offered her the glass. Merry sipped, sitting cross-legged beside him on the bed. The lemonade was tart and refreshing, and the taste reminded her of the grotto, reminded her of darkness and shyness and kissing Barnaby.

  She wasn’t shy with him now. She felt comfortable and at ease and happy. Profoundly happy.

  Barnaby drank the last of the lemonade, put the glass on the side table, and sighed, a contented sound. His hazel eyes were heavy-lidded.

  “Go to sleep,” Merry told him.

  “Soon.” He put an arm around her shoulders, drew her close, and kissed her lightly.

  Merry leaned into the kiss. Barnaby tasted of lemonade and chocolate.

  They kissed once, sleepily, and a second time, less sleepily, and a third time, not sleepily at all. Barnaby drew back and looked at her. “Merry?”

  Merry read the question on his face, and nodded.

  “Are you certain?”

  She nodded again.

  Barnaby released her, and climbed out of bed, and locked the door. Then he came back and stood looking down at her. “This time we do it properly.”

  * * *

  Properly meant being naked. And it meant Barnaby kissing her from head to toe—quite literally. He kissed her jaw, her throat, kissed his way down one arm to her fingertips, and back up the other one. Then he turned his attention to her breasts. Long, exquisite minutes passed. He kissed lower—and lower—and then Merry lost the ability to think for a while. Pleasure built inside her until it overflowed. When coherent thought returned, Barnaby was kissing her ankle.

  He came slowly back up her body—his mouth on her inner thigh, her midriff, the hollow of her collarbone—and found her lips again. Merry clutched him close and returned his kiss greedily. And then she got the chance to explore him, to trace the outline of muscle and bone in his shoulders, to test the warm pliancy of his skin with her tongue, with her teeth, to discover that he groaned when she tweaked his nipples, that he trembled when she ran her fingertips over his abdomen. She felt no shyness, just curiosity and wonder and joy. I love this man.

  When she reached his groin, she halted, disconcerted by how different he was from her, uncertain how to proceed. She glanced at his face. “What’s it called?”

  “I call it my cock.”

  “May I touch it?”

  “Do you want to?”

  Now, the shyness came. Merry felt herself blush. She bit her lip, and nodded.

  Barnaby sat up. He took her hand in his, and held her palm to his cock, wrapping her fingers around that strong, sturdy shaft.

  His cock was hot. Burningly hot. It seemed to throb with urgency in her hand.

  Merry’s heart kicked in her chest, and began beating faster. She found herself growing short of breath. She glanced at Barnaby’s face again—and her gaze was caught. His eyes, those hazel eyes, were somehow as hot and urgent as his cock nestled in her palm.

  Her lungs forgot how to breathe. Her heart forgot how to beat.

  They stared at each other while time slowed and seemed almost to stop—and then Merry tore her gaze from Barnaby’s hot eyes, and looked down at her hand gripping him and saw a bead of moisture ease its way onto the plump, rosy crown of his cock.

  “Enough,” Barnaby said, his voice slightly hoarse, and he removed her hand.

  “But I’m only halfway down you.”

  “You can do the other half when we’re married.” Barnaby gathered her in his arms and rolled so that she lay beneath him.

  Merry stopped protesting. Her entire body seemed to jolt with pleasure, with craving. This was what she wanted: This.

  Barnaby settled himself between her legs. “Tell me if it hurts.”

  But it didn’t hurt, didn’t hurt at all, and it was a thousand times more marvelous than it had been in the grotto, because this time there were no clothes between them, and she wasn’t afraid the ceiling was going to fall on their heads.

  Sex was like dancing, Merry decided. Dancing to music that they heard in their blood, their bodies moving together in a rhythm that was primitive and powerful, the tempo rising, rising.

  When the tempo reached allegretto, Merry stopped thinking about dancing. Her focus narrowed to sensation—the exhilarating friction of Barnaby’s skin against hers, the physical heat building between them, the sound of panted breaths, the rapid thud of her heartbeat, the glorious flex of muscle each time she arched up to him.

  And then the pleasure came again, waves of pleasure that crashed through her like waves crashing against the great cliffs of Woodhuish, and she cried out, and Barnaby cried out, too, and the waves tossed her high for a long, glorious moment, and then the waves slowly faded to ripples, and Merry was able to think again.

  Sex was much better than dancing.

  Barnaby gathered her in his arms and rolled so that sh
e lay on him. He drew the rumpled bedclothes up, tucking them warmly around them both, and held her close. His cock still nestled inside her.

  Merry rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart beating, more relaxed than she’d ever been in her life. Happier than she’d ever been in her life.

  This man.

  Barnaby’s hand stroked down her back to her waist, and up again. “You fit very nicely here.”

  “Yes.”

  She thought of Henry—dead at twenty-six—and of her mother and father, dead, too—and felt the familiar grief, the familiar aching loss—and then she thought of Barnaby, who was alive, and whose heart beat slowly and steadily beneath her ear, and whose hand idly stroked her back—and relief welled inside her so strongly that tears came to her eyes. Barnaby hadn’t died. Barnaby was alive.

  While she was thinking of Barnaby, she drifted to sleep, pillowed on his chest. His voice drew her back to wakefulness. “Merry? Merry, love?” He gently shook her shoulder.

  Merry rubbed her face, and reluctantly climbed off him. Barnaby looked as drowsy as she felt. He stifled a yawn, and groped on the floor for her nightgown.

  Merry drew it over her head. The touch of cool linen on her skin made her shiver. She wanted nothing more than to stay in the warm, cozy nest of Barnaby’s bed and fall asleep with him.

  Barnaby swallowed another yawn, fumbled into his nightshirt, and picked up the chamberstick. The candle was half burned down.

  He crossed to the door and unlocked it.

  Merry reluctantly followed.

  Barnaby bent to kiss her. “G’night.”

  Merry gazed up at him, at the tousled red-brown hair, the sleepy eyes, the bare throat above the open collar of his nightshirt. Her heart clenched in her chest. I love you. “Good night.” She put her arms around him for a moment, and let his warmth sink into her body, let his scent fill her lungs. Barnaby. Who was alive. And then she took the chamberstick, tiptoed back down the dark corridor, crawled into her own bed, and slept for twelve straight hours.