by Ava Stone
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 struck 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?”
Alastair spent a rather restless night tossing and turning in his large four-poster bed in Marisdùn Castle. He’d started to doze off somewhere around midnight, only to be interrupted by a loud thumping on the walls. Or something of that nature. He would have to remind his friends that some people preferred to sleep the night away, rather than drink it away. Furthermore, he couldn’t figure out the strange drafts that kept wafting over him. They’d send chills skittering over his skin, so he’d pull the counterpane up, only to turn hot a moment later and throw it off again. It was a deuced frustrating night.
But he did have one thing to look forward to the next day: his tour of Ravenglass. Every time he thought of his interactions with Miss Alcott the day before, he couldn’t help but chuckle. She was so perfectly innocent and naïve. Here he’d thought the debutantes of London were green! Those cunning little vixens and their pestering mamas could only be considered worldly next to Miss Alcott. He never thought he’d be so taken with someone so very unworldly, but he found her rather refreshing.
When dawn finally started to break on the horizon, Alastair decided he ought to give up on sleep. There was no sense torturing himself, waiting for something that would probably never find him. An early morning ride would be the perfect way to start his day, anyway.
Within a half hour, he was in the stable, whispering sweet nothings into Jupiter’s twitching ears.
“Good morning, you handsome devil,” he said, stroking the beast’s shiny red coat with a firm hand. “How about some exercise?”
The horse whinnied his approval, bringing a smile to Alastair’s lips. He loved this bloody animal far more than a man should. But ever since the day he’d acquired him from Newmarket, he’d felt like family. The only family Alastair had had in a very long time.
They didn’t go far—after all, Alastair didn’t want to spoil himself for his tour with Miss Alcott, not to mention it was bloody cold this morning—but he did make his way around the castle grounds. They were vast and quite lovely. A touch of frost sparkled on the pale green grass. The trees, in their varying shades of red and orange, cast ever-moving shadows as the sun made its ascent into the sky. In his half hour ride, he didn’t see a single other soul, unless one counted a maid in a blue dress wandering the gardens. She must have been on an errand for Cook, but she didn’t seem to pay Alastair any mind.
Breakfast had been laid out by the time he got back, so he ate quickly in solitude before removing to his chambers for a bath. He didn’t want to meet Miss Alcott smelling of horse. Although, she didn’t seem to care much about appearances. She’d come to Marisdùn in complete shambles, after all.
At eleven o’clock, Alastair bounded down the stairs toward the front door, only to nearly collide with Braden.
“Going somewhere?” he asked his friend as he accepted his hat and cane from Bendle.
“Into town,” Braden replied.
“Care to walk together?”
Braden gestured toward the door. “After you.”
Alastair walked beside his friend in companionable silence. They’d been friends a long time now, he and Braden. The marquess was an upstanding man—a good and loyal friend, which was more than he could say for the man’s younger brother. Not that Quent wasn’t a loyal friend, but one would be mistaken to describe him as good.
“Why are you headed into town?” Braden asked Wolverly as the two of them strolled from Marisdùn to the main road.
“Just something to do, I suppose,” the viscount returned enigmatically. If Braden was the suspicious sort, he’d think his friend was up to something.
“Sleep well?” he asked, conversationally.
Wolf chuckled. “Better than Garrick. He says he heard children running up and down the corridor all night.”
“Children?” The foolish tale the maid told about the seven children and their nurse who all died from the plague popped to Braden’s mind, but he quickly pushed the nonsense away. “The three of them were so foxed last night, who knows what sort of ridiculousness they imagined?”
Wolf frowned a bit and cast Braden a sidelong glance. “That foxed, were they?”
“Mmm.” Braden nodded. “Had a rather unpleasant meeting with the local magistrate this morning.” Though meeting the man’s sister had certainly been the bright spot of his day. “They challenged some fisherman to walk on his hands or something like that and the fellow broke his nose, apparently.”
A laugh escaped his friend. “Thorn can walk on his hands, you know?”
“Not until last night.”
“That why you’re headed into town? To clean up whatever mess the
y made?” Wolf asked. “I would have thought you’d have your head in your uncle’s ledgers for at least a sennight.”
Braden would have thought the same thing, normally. “Gave my word to the magistrate that we’d all be on our best behavior while in Ravenglass, and Quent seems bound and determined to make a liar out of me.”
At that Wolf laughed again. “I do envy you that.”
Braden looked at the viscount as though he’d lost his mind. “Envy what exactly?”
Wolf shrugged. “The bond you have with Quent. You’re as different as night and day, but the two of you do have that brotherly bond that I imagine is quite comforting at times.”
“You mean the times I’m unconscious?”
His friend agreed with a nod. “And other times too, I’m sure.”
There were many other times, honestly. Braden and Quent were close in age, though not in personality. But together they’d survived their own mother’s passing and then their father’s. They loved and doted on their sisters and both enjoyed carriage racing beyond almost anything else. But Wolf was an only child, orphaned at a young age, and nearly raised himself. Braden supposed that could be a lonely existence at times. When it was most important, Quent would always be there for Braden, and Braden would always be there for Quent, even if his brother did enjoy tormenting him until that time.
Silence fell between them. Braden was probably thinking of all the times he’d relied on his brother, and counting his blessings for his siblings, as trying as they might be sometimes. One couldn’t help but count their blessings when they discovered Alastair’s sad tale of being orphaned by the age of eleven.
He took a deep breath, willing the vice grip around his heart to let go, to leave him be. It had been years—nearly fifteen, to be exact—so why was the pain so fresh? Why did the memories linger so vividly in his mind and his heart? He’d hardly known his mother, though vague memories of her tucking him into bed and kissing his forehead made him ache for the little boy that lost his mother too soon. And then receiving the news of his father while at Eton…
“Thank you, Daphne. I’ll tell Lila you asked after her.”
The young woman’s voice drew him quickly from his morbid thoughts as he made his way toward Miss Alcott’s door across from the Pennington Arms. Braden stayed in step with him. Why the devil was he heading toward Miss Alcott’s? Did it have something to do with the golden-haired chit that was just leaving?
But before he could think more than that, the door beneath the doctor’s name opened. “Thank you, Daphne. I’ll tell Lila you asked after her,” Miss Eilbeck said as she stepped out onto High Street. Damn it all. The girl was just as lovely now as she had been in the garden that morning, the way the sun caught the golden strands of her hair, the cheerful twinkle in her pretty green eyes.
What wonderful luck to see her again. And without her oafish brother or his foolish one anywhere in the vicinity.
She must have felt his eyes on her because she met his gaze and cast him the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen.
“You know that girl?” Wolf asked under his breath.
“Not nearly as well as I’m going to,” Braden replied, unable to pull his eyes from the captivating Callie Eilbeck.
“You know that girl?” he asked his friend.
“Not nearly as well as I’m going to,” Braden replied, and then without so much as a by your leave, he started after her.
Not that Alastair cared. All that existed in the world right now was the beautiful woman standing under the little sign that read “Alcott.” He’d known she was a beauty—her face had given her away—but he hadn’t been expecting this. She wore a gown of blue and white stripes that seemed to make her eyes even bluer than they’d been yesterday. A panel of lace hugged her breasts and pushed them up just enough to drive a man insane, but not enough to be vulgar. And her hair…
“Good God,” he whispered, as he stood still as a statue, staring at her.
“My lord?” she said, waking him from his trance.
Damn. Had he said that out loud?
Getting his wits about him, he removed his hat and bowed to Miss Alcott, offering his most dashing smile when he came up again. “Miss Alcott.”
She smoothed her hands down her dress and drew her bottom lip between her teeth. How darling she was when she was nervous.
“I’m ready for my tour,” he said.
“Oh, yes, of course!” It was as if she’d forgotten all about their purpose today. “I’ve prepared a picnic for us, and I need my shawl.”
“I shall wait here for you then.”
She gave a little nod, and then scurried inside, thank God. Alastair needed a moment to collect himself. If she was going to continue to be so very delightful, it was going to be a rather trying day.
Daphne had known he was coming—she’d been expecting him—yet she couldn’t seem to get a hold of her faculties. Goodness, he unraveled her, in the most wonderful and horrifying ways.
She shut the door behind her, leaving his lordship just outside, and then leaned her back against it. Deep breath in, deep breath out. There. That was better. Now to retrieve her shawl and the picnic basket. And when she opened the door again, she’d be calm, collected. The kind of girl a sophisticated man such as Lord Wolverly would take an interest in, beyond just seeing her as a tour guide to help him pass the time in the backwaters of Cumberland.
Basket and shawl in hand, she flung open the door. Only he wasn’t there. Her heart stopped, and an unexpected sadness washed over her. Had he changed his mind? Had he taken one look at her and bolted in the opposite direction?
She closed the door behind her and stepped into the road.
“Will you allow me to carry your basket, Miss Alcott?”
Daphne gasped and whirled around to find the viscount leaning casually against the wall, just a few paces from her door. How had she missed him?
“Did you think I had run off?” he asked with a bit of a chuckle.
Heavens, was he a mind reader? “No, of course not,” she lied with a laugh in return. “And yes, you may carry the basket, if you don’t mind.”
He pushed off the wall and strode toward her, arm outstretched to take the basket. Then he offered his other arm to her. She stared at it for but a moment, her imagination running away with itself. What must his arm look like beneath that coat? She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. It was firm, and his muscles flexed the moment she touched him.
She glanced up and gave him a half smile.
“Where to first?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, as they started off down High Street. “I thought we might picnic near the ruins.”
“Ruins?”
Daphne nodded, excited to share a bit of her home with Lord Wolverly. She took great pride in Ravenglass, and it wasn’t that she meant to impress the viscount—he was used to all the culture and excitement London had to offer, after all—merely that she hoped he might take an interest in its history too.
That seemed exceedingly silly. She hardly knew him, and he was only a visitor, passing through. After he went back to London, she’d probably never set eyes on him again.
What a sad thought. Brief as their acquaintance was, she rather liked setting her eyes upon him.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “The Romans settled here seventeen hundred years ago. Their buildings are obviously crumbling to the ground, but the grounds are lovely, and perfect for a picnic.”
“Well, then I shall be delighted to go there.”
They walked on, and Daphne continued to point out places of interest as they went. At least, she thought they were of interest. He probably found all of this dreadfully boring compared to London.
“Miss Alcott, do you know everyone in this town?” he asked as the main street’s buildings gave way to forest.
Daphne pulled her shawl more tightly around her. The trees formed a canopy above them, and without the sun there was quite a chill. Part of her longed to know the warmth o
f Lord Wolverly’s arms—what it would be like to have them wrapped about her, guarding her against the chill.
“Miss Alcott?”
Oh, blast. She’d forgotten he’d asked her a question. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He gave a low, grumbling laugh. “I thought I’d lost you to the trees.”
No, something far more interesting than trees. “Of course not,” she replied. “I was just…thinking of where we needed to turn next.”
“Ah, don’t let me distract you then.”
“No, no, it’s fine now.”
“Good. I was simply noting that you seem to be quite popular around here.”
Daphne shrugged. “I was born here, my father was the doctor, my brother is the doctor, and everyone seems to love my rum butter. There is otherwise nothing very special about me.”
“I would beg to differ.”
His low, gentle tone set Daphne’s heart to hammering. But of course she laughed. She wasn’t quite certain what else to do in the face of flattery. No one had ever given her a second glance, let alone attempted to flirt with her.
“Will you tell me about yourself, Lord Wolverly?” she finally asked, wishing to shift the focus off of her. “I fear you know far more about me than I do about you.”
“Yes, well, I rather like it that way.”
“Are you always so stubborn?”
He smiled down at her. “Even more so.”
“Well, you’re saved for now,” she said as they approached the ancient landmarks. “Welcome to the Roman bathhouse.” She gestured to the crumbling buildings sitting in the meadow just off the path.
“Magnificent,” Lord Wolverly whispered, and Daphne’s heart swelled just a tinge that he saw the same beauty in them that she did.
“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand with a newfound boldness. “I’ll show you the rest.”
Callie wasn’t certain she’d ever smiled so widely in her entire life, but seeing Lord Bradenham in the middle of High Street, staring at her…Well, smiling might be all she was capable of doing. Thank heavens he wasn’t closer as she might not have been able to form a coherent sentence or find her voice for that matter.
