by Ava Stone
Blake blinked his eyes open. There was little light coming through the windows and he calculated that it must be early morning. Had he managed to sleep the night through? Usually he slept only a few hours at a time. He would usually wake from chills, fever, to vomit, or his head pounding, too heavy for him to rest. Perhaps there was something in that concoction Brighid had brewed. If he could manage to recover quickly enough, he might just enjoy the masquerade. It also meant that he would be calling upon her when the illness claimed him in the future, and not the blade-wielding Alcott.
He shivered at the close call of having his blood let.
The sound of laughter drifted through the door. Was it later than he suspected? He listened as it grew louder.
Children? Were there children at Marisdùn? None of Braden’s family remained in residence, and they certainly hadn’t brought children with them, so where had they come from? There was a squeal from a little girl and then a door banged along the corridor as the children ran by. Perhaps they belonged to the servants. If so, they needed to be told that there were now residents and guests in the castle and the children should be kept quiet at this time of day. They could play outside or in the nursery, assuming there was one. Given the states in which Thorn and Garrick had been upon their return to the castle last night, they would surely not appreciate being awakened in this manner.
Though it would serve Thorn right if he did wake with a nauseating headache after the way he had flirted with Brighid.
The door slowly opened and he expected to see a child poke his head inside to investigate. Instead, Brighid peeked around the door and looked about the room. A frown appeared on her lips and her brow furrowed. What was she expecting to find?
Her hair was neatly pulled behind her, as it often was, but her skin was pale and dark smudges lingered beneath her eyes. Had she not slept well?
“You’re alone?” she asked as she stepped in the room.
“Yes,” Blake answered slowly. “The children did not come in here.”
She tilted her head as if confused. “Children?”
“Yes, the ones that were just running down the hall and slamming doors. Surely you saw them.”
She stepped further into the room and toward his bed. “There are no children in the castle.”
“Yes, there are. I just heard them.” He had many symptoms from the malaria, but hallucinations had never been one of them.
She placed a tray on the table and began to pour a cup of tea. “You must have heard the Mordue children.”
He pulled himself to a sitting position, his body aching, but not as badly as yesterday, and took the cup. “Mordue children?” he asked before taking a drink.
“Their entire family was taken by the black death.”
Blake sputtered, spitting a bit of tea back into the cup. “More ghosts?”
“Drink,” she insisted. “There were seven in all.”
Blake rolled his eyes and did as she instructed. He would leave Brighid to her beliefs because it did little good to argue with the witch.
She took the cup from him when the tea was gone and placed a hand against his brow. “You are still feverish.”
“I did become cooler last night, after you left.”
A small snort escaped her. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“That was the purpose of the tea, was it not?”
“Yes, though I am surprised you could sleep in such a manner, given how sick you are.”
“Like what?” Had he tossed off his blankets again? All he remembered was being blessedly cool after he drank the tea.
She set the cup none too gently upon the tray. “It is not of my concern, Blake Chetwey, how you conduct yourself.” She strode for the door, her back ram rod straight. “I will check on you later, unless she has decided to care for you now.” Brighid exited the chamber, practically slamming the door behind her.
“She?” What the blazes was she talking about?
Blast that man! Where was his ladylove now? Did she seek her own chamber sometime in the early morning hours, before the servants were up? Brighid had half a mind to find the woman, instruct her on the proper brewing of the tea and leave it to her to nurse Blake back to health.
Brighid had not anticipated how badly it would hurt to see him in bed with another woman. It also surprised her that she would cry her eyes out half of the night, leaving them dry and scratchy this morning.
Why couldn’t he look at her in the same way she looked at him? Why did he only see her as a witch in the woods?
She rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and ran right into the chest of a gentleman striding down the hall and nearly unbalanced the tray. Brighid pulled back and looked up. He must be another one of Bradenham’s guests. He looked down at her, holding one hand over an eye.
“Pardon me, miss.”
His hand fell away, and she immediately noted the slight swelling and redness about his eye. Had he gotten into a fight with someone, or was he one prone to accidents?
“Are you hurt?”
“It is nothing,” he assured her.
“It is not nothing.” She anchored the tray on her left hip and held it securely with her arm before linking her hand at the crook of his elbow. “Come along.”
The man chuckled slightly. “It would be my pleasure.”
She weaved her way through the corridors of the old castle until she came to the kitchens. Entering, she placed the tray on the table and asked Cook to boil some more water before pulling the man into the herbarium. A quick gust of wind struck her and Brighid heard a woman cackle. She glanced back at the servants in the kitchen, but none of them were laughing. A chill ran down her spine but she chose to ignore the oddity. This was Marisdùn and strange things happened all of the time.
Until now she had been able to avoid being in here, as she often tried to do when visiting the castle. She only spent the necessary amount of time to hang the herbs and prepare the leaves and ointments. Nothing had changed in the herbarium since she was a child, when she accompanied her grandmother and mother here, and she suspected it had not changed in the centuries her family had served as healers in the castle.
A scarred wooden table sat in the center of the room with four stools. A large fireplace lined the back wall with a black cauldron waiting for the dried wood to be lit beneath it. From the rafters hung the recently harvested herbs and an ancient leather trunk rested beneath the one small window. Her mother may have opened the trunk, but Brighid never would. She couldn’t bring herself to do so. The family secrets lay within and she wanted nothing to do with them.
He stopped beside the table and looked about while Brighid grabbed a mortar and pestle, along with already dried herbs from the back wall of shelves which were laden with jars of dried leaves, roots, salves, ointments and lotions.
“Please have a seat. . . I’m sorry; I don’t know your name.”
“Quentin Post.”
She stilled. “You are Lord Bradenham’s brother?” If she remembered correctly, the family name was Post, but hoped she was wrong. If he were of a relation to the owner, he should not be in here. Anyone with blood of the castle, which was anyone who was a descendent of Mrs. Routledge, was denied access to this room. Brighid pushed down the panic that threatened to clog her throat. She may have just escorted one in, thus breaking the protection.
She grasped the table, recalling the gust of wind.
No—it was nonsense. She was not like them—her ancestors.
“Yes,” he smiled. “Are you a servant at Marisdùn?”
“No, I am a healer.”
His eyebrows shot up before he winced and relaxed his brow.
“Does your head pain you?” She quickly busied herself with gathering the items to treat his eye. Maybe if she escorted him from the room when she was done the protection would not be broken.
“Yes,” he groaned. “But that was already the case before my brother hit me.”
Goodness. “Your brother st
ruck you? Whatever for?”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Just a disagreement about a girl.”
Of course it was. Wasn’t that what usually caused gentlemen to behave foolishly? Didn’t the others bring mistresses with them as well, or hadn’t they shown the same forethought as Blake?
She ground the herbs with more force than was necessary and stopped before they were too damaged to be of use.
“Do you live at the castle?” Lord Quentin asked.
“No, I live in the woods between here, Tolbright and Torrington Abbey.” She wrapped the herbs in a thin linen cloth, tied it off and dropped them into a cup before pouring the water over to let them steep.
“I assume you know my friend, Chetwey.”
She nodded as she plucked the linen from the water and set it aside to cool for a moment. She needed to get away from the room. She needed to get him out of the herbarium. The castle may be haunted, but this room haunted her in a very different manner, made worse with Lord Quentin’s presence. It was closing in on her and she could barely breathe. She placed the compress on the back of her hand to make sure it wasn’t too hot to place against his face. “Tilt your head back.”
He did as she instructed and she laid it against his eye. “Please hold it in place.”
Lord Quentin winced, but placed his fingers on the compress.
“Now, to see about your headache.”
As she reached for the herbs she turned to study Lord Quentin, dragging her lower lip between her teeth. She could ask him who the woman in Blake’s bed was.
She shook the thought from her mind. It wasn’t her business. And if the woman was Blake’s mistress, Lord Quentin certainly wouldn’t discuss it with her.
She quickly mixed willow bark and honey into the glass of water. “Drink this then lay down with the compress on your eye.” Brushing her hands off, she grasped his arm and pulled him to his feet.
He looked at her rather oddly, but allowed her escort into the kitchen.
“Let it be sealed,” she muttered under her breath after he passed through. Another gust of wind swept through the room but nobody seemed to notice but her.
Heart pounding and stomach swirling, Brighid rushed toward the door leading outside and emerged into the medicinal garden. The sun was bright and her nerves immediately calmed. “I am not like my ancestors. I am not a witch and I have no power.” If she believed it strongly enough, it would be true.
She sank down onto the dark, flat stone in the center of the garden and looked up at the castle, to the window of Blake’s chamber. “Why couldn’t you have gotten ill at Torrington Abbey? Why couldn’t I treat you there? Why did I have to face what I try to ignore? And why did you have to bring a woman with you?”
Brighid glanced around at the plants. Some were in need of harvesting but that would require her to return to the herbarium for her twine and boleen, which she could not yet do. Instead, she bent to weeding so she could to remain outside. She was shaken by the protection around the herbarium being broken. It had been in place for decades and she stupidly escorted one of the blood of the castle over the threshold. Hopefully it was protected again or they could all be in trouble, especially this close to Samhain. Given the rumored portal was directly below the room, she shuddered to think what could happen at midnight.
No, she mustn’t think on it. It was just a legend and for all she knew, a made up tale to keep the owners and their families away from the herbarium. Or, perhaps it was a story invented to scare children so they didn’t stumble into the room and eat something that could harm them.
Just because the castle was haunted, didn’t mean there was an evil that had wanted to see her ancestors destroyed. Years ago, right before Mrs. Routledge disappeared, the woman had banished her family from the castle. They were not allowed to take anything from the herbarium, but Brighid’s great-grandmother had cast a protection spell surrounding the room to keep Mrs. Routledge from destroying or using the magic for herself.
Brighid had scoffed at the idea that any of them ever possessed magic. It was more likely the two women did not like each other and had a falling out.
But how did she explain the gusts of wind?
No, she mustn’t think on it. She pulled harder at the weeds.
A shadow fell over her and Brighid glanced up. Her mood lightened at seeing her dearest friend, Anna Southward. “Here to study the statues again?”
Her friend dropped to the ground beside her. “Forget the statues. Have you noticed the gentlemen who have arrived?” Anna’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “I wouldn’t mind painting or sculpting one of them.”
Brighid couldn’t help but laugh. Anna was always looking for new subjects for her art. There were few to be had in Ravenglass.
“I am sure none of them would mind posing for you.” David Thorn immediately came to mind and even though Brighid did not know him well, she believed he would jump at the chance to remove his clothing and pose if any woman asked. Not that Anna would be so bold. Her uncle, Vicar Southward, would probably have an apoplexy if she did. The poor man had no idea what to do with the unconventional and artistic niece he gained guardianship of six years ago. Anna was now twenty and even bolder than before, just stopping short in her behavior, and art, to keep from ruining herself.
“If only it were possible.” Anna sighed as she stood. “Care to walk into Ravenglass with me?”
Brighid mulled over the idea. It would get her away from the castle. Blake wouldn’t need tea yet, and he certainly didn’t need her. If he did need anything, there was already a woman to see to whatever necessity he might have. Besides, she still hadn’t obtained her rum butter from Daphne. She pushed to her feet. “I would be happy to.”
Anna talked on and on about the gentlemen she had seen about the grounds of Marisdùn, unable to decide which was more handsome, or who had the best bone structure, and if she would be able blend the right paints to match their eye and hair coloring to perfection, though she really wished to sculpt them. Anna was determined to create her own David, having fallen in love with Michelangelo’s statue when she visited Florence before her parents died.
“Will you be going to the masquerade?” Anna asked.
The last thing Brighid wished to do was celebrate Samhain at a castle already full of ghosts. Lord Bradenham and his guests were asking for mischief, whether they realized it or not, and she wanted no part of it. She preferred to remain safe in her cottage with her grandmother. Only the brave—or the very foolish—venture out of doors after sundown on Samhain. “No. Are you?”
Anna grinned. “Of course! Not that my uncle is aware, nor have I received an invitation, but I am not about to let that stop me from enjoying the most exciting thing that will ever happen in Ravenglass.”
Brighid thought to warn her friend, but held her tongue. If she spouted what she knew of and feared on this night, Anna would only laugh at her. Or worse, start calling her a witch like Blake did.
Upon reaching town, the two split up. Anna returned to the vicarage. Brighid walked on to the Alcotts. Once again no one was at home so she slid a note under the door to let Daphne know she was in need of more jars of butter rum. As she turned back toward Marisdùn, the sky began to darken. She quickened her pace to avoid getting caught in the rain.
Blake wished he could sleep but it eluded him. He was feverish, aching, and all around miserable. At least his head wasn’t pounding as fiercely as before, but his stomach still churned. It was damned frustrating to lie in bed with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling or the door, hoping someone would come in and entertain him.
Where were his friends? They had to be about. It was raining outside. Had they forgotten he was here?
He grumbled and pushed back into the pillows. Where was Brighid? A maid had delivered tea earlier. Had she returned to her grandmother’s cottage? What had she meant by she earlier? Certainly she hadn’t meant Miss Alcott. The young woman could only help him as far as giving him Dover’s Powder.
>
He jerked at the knock at his door. “Come,” he grumbled. It was probably another maid with a lukewarm cup of tea. Where the blazes had Brighid gone off too? Didn’t she know he needed her?
The door slowly opened and Brighid poked her head around the door. “Are you alone?”
“Yes.” Blake brightened. She hadn’t abandoned him, but why did she always expect someone to be with him?
She pushed the door further open and entered. In her hand she held a cup and saucer and he assumed it was more of the tea. Much to his disappointment, Dr. Alcott followed her into the room. The man could go hang. He had better not think of trying to bleed him again.
Dr. Alcott paused by the bed, felt Blake’s brow and then pushed against his cheeks with this thumbs again. “It seems Miss Glace was correct.” Dr. Alcott smiled. “Your condition is improving.”
Blake didn’t feel like he had improved that much, but if it kept the doctor from going for a blade, who was he to argue the point?
Brighid hitched a brow as if to say I told you so, and stepped around the doctor.
Blake pulled himself to a seated position and tried not to grimace. It was best not to let on how much pain he was in just in case Dr. Alcott changed his mind. Brighid set the cup on the bedside table before stacking the pillows behind him so that he could relax against them and then handed him the tea. It wasn’t the best brew he had drunk, but it seemed to be doing the trick in getting him through this latest episode.
They left him and walked to the opposite side of the room.
“I really should not dismiss the medicinal powers of your herbs, Miss Glace,” Alcott said with a smile.
Blake narrowed his eyes. Did Brighid just blush? She never blushed, at least not around him.
And why weren’t they standing where he could participate in their conversation. It was rather rude of them.
“You are new to the practice,” Brighid reminded he doctor. ”But I would be happy to share with you any knowledge I possess.”
Blake grunted. He was just as certain Dr. Alcott wished her to share more than what she knew about her bloody plants.
