Michael nodded once. “I believe you, Mercy.”
“Then ye’ll be goin’, yer grace?” She couldn’t have looked more hopeful.
He nodded again and rose to his feet. “I believe I shall, yes. And thank you, Mercy.”
She seemed to sag with relief. “Yer welcome, yer grace, though I doubt ye’ll be thankin’ me if the curse is as wicked as her grace claims. Ye will be careful, won’t ye?” This last was tinged with a note of anxiety.
Michael smiled faintly and nodded again, then strolled to the door. He waited until he stood on the threshold before saying, “About the rooms, Mercy?”
“Yer grace?” she tensely responded, clearly expecting more criticism.
“Now that I really look at them, it seems that I was wrong in my initial evaluation. They appear in excellent order. That being the case, you have my permission to take the rest of the morning off.” With that, he was on his way to the stables.
Or so he thought. He had hastened downstairs and had just paused before the front door to button his woolen greatcoat, which he’d had the presence of mind to have a footman fetch for him, when Grimshaw came rushing into the entry hall in a visibly flustered state. When the majordomo saw him standing there, a look of profound relief swept across his face. “Your grace, thank goodness,” he exclaimed urgently. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”
Michael shot him an irritated look, certain that he was about to be detained. “What is it, Grimshaw?” he inquired, not even bothering to try to mask his impatience.
The majordomo bowed. “A visitor, your grace.”
“A what?” He more roared than uttered the words in his surprise.
“A visitor,” Grimshaw repeated with a faint smile. “Coming up the drive as we speak, I might add.”
Michael’s brows drew together in displeasure at the news. “Who the hell would be visiting me, especially at this ungodly hour? Everyone knows that I do not receive visitors.”
“Be that as it may, your grace, I believe that this is one visitor you will wish to welcome,” the servant cryptically replied.
“I doubt it,” he muttered beneath his breath. Repenting his irascibility in the next instant, he heaved a long-suffering sigh and added, “Well, out with it then, Grimshaw. Who is it?”
“A surprise, your grace.”
A surprise? Oh, bloody hell! He was close, so very, very close to finally catching Emily, and now this.
Though he was sorely tempted to escape through the kitchen door, to avoid being further delayed in his quest, his lifelong commitment to courtesy arrested him from doing so. Seeing no choice but to play the gracious host, Michael nodded and said in a resigned voice, “Fine. I shall go outside now and greet my surprise mystery guest.”
“Very good, your grace,” Grimshaw intoned, advancing forward to open the door.
As the majordomo did his duty, Michael finished buttoning his coat and drew on his gloves. Pasting a stiff smile on his lips, he stepped outside. The sight of his visitor froze him in his tracks.
There on the drive at the foot of the front steps was the magnificent chestnut Akhal Teke stallion he had purchased from a Russian duke four years earlier … Shurik, his favorite horse … the one he had been too pained to look at in the aftermath of his illness, realizing that he would most probably never be able to ride it again … the very animal he’d banished to his breeding stable at his estate in Shropshire, a vast, luxurious building set far enough from the main house that it would be impossible for him to accidentally see the beast and suffer the anguish the mere sight of it caused him.
It was the exact same anguish he suffered now as he stood staring at the steed with bittersweet longing, yearning to feel its power beneath him, his soul crying out for the exhilarating thrill of freedom he’d never failed to experience as he’d raced about the English countryside on its mighty back.
Hating the sensation and infuriated that he should be forced to feel it, Michael gritted his teeth, glaring first at Howard, his master of the horse at Shropshire, who had clearly brought the animal to Dartmoor and now held its bridle, then at Eadon, who stood beside him with his hands behind his back, grinning like a lunatic. Wishing that he could thrash them both within an inch of their lives for being party to such a cruel joke, he marched down the stairs, growling, “What the hell is that animal doing here? I gave no orders for it to be brought here.”
Howard, a short, husky man whose sun-seamed face made him appear much older than his forty years, sketched a brief bow and courteously replied, “Your wife requested it brought, your grace.”
“My … wife?” Michael repeated in astonishment, wondering what could have possessed Emily to do such a thing.
As if reading his mind, Eadon chimed in, “I believe she is under the impression that you wish to ride it again, your grace.”
“Rubbish!” He more snorted than uttered the word in his incredulity. “Her grace is perfectly aware of the fact that I am no longer able to ride, as are you, Eadon.” He paused to shoot the man a resentful look. “She must have sent for the beast with some other purpose in mind.”
“No, I can assure you that she had it brought for you,” Eadon countered with a nod. “Of course, sending for the horse is only half of her surprise. This is the other half.” He brought his hand from behind his back with a flourish, brandishing what appeared to be one of the old parade helmets from the armory, which had been stripped of its decoration and painted black.
Michael stared first at Eadon, then at the helmet, not quite certain what to make of either. Finally he shook his head. “I do not understand any of this.”
“If you will look closely at the helmet, you will see that it is padded inside,” Eadon replied, handing him the article in question for his inspection. “Her grace did the work herself. As you can see, she did a splendid job of it.”
Michael took the helmet, turning it over to examine its lining. It was made of supple black leather, beneath which was sewn some sort of thick padding. Looking up again, this time with a frown, he quizzed, “So?”
“So, it will protect your head should you take a spill from your horse,” Eadon replied, resuming his earlier grin. “It was her grace’s idea, and a very fine one indeed. I wonder that we didn’t think of it ourselves.”
For several moments Michael simply gaped at the other man, certain that he’d misread the meaning of his words. Almost afraid to ask, unwilling to crush the hope bubbling in his chest, he finally forced himself to utter, “Are you saying that it is safe for me to ride if I wear this?” He indicated the helmet.
Eadon nodded. “Provided that you do so at a sedate pace and refrain from jumping fences, yes.”
Again Michael was reduced to staring, unable to respond for the fierceness of his joy. After a beat or two, during which his lips slowly split into an ecstatic grin, he threw back his head and shouted his happiness. He could—and he would!—ride again. Emily had made it possible. His darling, wonderful Emily. In her love for him she had found a way to give him the bit of heaven on earth she’d promised him. More anxious than ever to find her, wanting to sweep her into his arms and hold her tight as he fervently thanked her for her miraculous gift and declared his love, he urgently inquired, “Where is my wife now?”
Eadon, who shared Michael’s opinion of the curse, promptly replied, “Her grace and Isaac set out on the moor a short while ago. She mentioned something about someone named Rebecca and an appointment to collect nettle.”
“Did she indeed?” Michael murmured, trying on his gift. It was a bit heavy, but not uncomfortably so.
“Yes, your grace. Should you, by chance, wish to follow her, I believe that Bennie, the coachman’s son, has accompanied her and Isaac to this Rebecca person’s cottage on several occasions. No doubt he shall be able to guide you.”
“In that instance, please ask Bennie to saddle his pony. My firs
t ride shall be to Rebecca’s cottage. It is high time I made the woman’s acquaintance.”
Chapter 16
Bliss, it was pure bliss to ride again. For what had to be the ten-thousandth time in the past half-hour, Michael grinned his pleasure. Indeed, he’d smiled so much that the muscles in his cheeks had begun to ache from overuse … not that that was going to stop him from continuing to smile. It was a good sort of ache, as was the one in his thighs and backside, the flesh of which had become tender after his lengthy absence from the saddle.
Not caring that his hindquarters would most probably hurt like the devil come evening, Michael glanced about him with a profound sense of contentment, euphorically drinking in the splendid sights and fresh, earthy smells of Dartmoor in autumn. He hadn’t ventured this far out here since he was a boy, and he had forgotten how glorious the moors were at this time of year.
Like all of England in October, the moors were marked by the advancing age of the year. Its herbage and turf, so verdant during their infancy in the spring, were now streaked with hoary fingers of amber and bronze, touched here and there with a stubbornly youthful splash of bright pink campion, purple woundwort, white shepherd’s purse, and the inevitable swirls of yellow gorse. Even the moss clinging to the ancient stones had begun to mature with the season, fading from a soft, downy green to a velvety, muted gray. In the distance, bleeding through the haze of the lingering morning mist, were the blurry outlines of several copses of trees, their autumn-dyed hues appearing washed together behind the swirling vapors, like a watercolor landscape left out in the rain.
The grandeur of the sight filled Michael with the intoxicating thrill of simply being alive, spawning a sense of well-being that he hadn’t experienced in a very long while. He was happy, genuinely happy. And why shouldn’t he be? Not only was his body sounder than it had been in over two years, his spirits were soaring and his life now had meaning. Best of all, he was in love with Emily.
As always happened of late when he thought of his beautiful wife, Michael was consumed by a fierce, almost desperate urge to take her in his arms and tell her how much he adored her. Plagued by the impulse now, he looked over to Bennie, who rode beside him on a sturdy black Dartmoor pony, and asked, “How much further to the cottage?”
“Just o’er that knoll, yer grace.” The boy pointed a finger encased in a red knitted mitten at the tawny hill in the near distance. “The cottage is in the dale below it.”
Eadon, who rode on Michael’s other side, having insisted on coming along to make certain that his patient didn’t overexert himself, anxiously inquired for the tenth time since they had begun their pilgrimage, “Are you feeling quite all right, your grace?”
“Never better. I am just eager to see my wife,” he replied, feeling an uncharacteristic surge of fondness for the man. In all fairness, the fellow really was rather agreeable when he wasn’t inflicting his nasty treatments on him.
“I like her grace,” Bennie shyly volunteered, the wind-whipped ruddiness of his round cheeks darkening a shade as he uttered the words. Up until now the boy had spoken only when spoken to, clearly awed at being in the company of the powerful duke of Sherrington. Now gazing at Michael with serious blue eyes, he added, “She’s pretty and she knows how to do just ’bout everything. I’m glad ye married her, yer grace. Everyone at Windgate is.”
“Not nearly as glad as I am, Bennie,” Michael returned with a chuckle. “And I must admit that I rather like her too.”
“As do I,” Eadon surprised him by contributing. “Her grace is exactly what you have needed all along. Indeed, you are doing so splendidly under her care that I shan’t be at all surprised if you cease to require my services someday soon.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be looking for a new position quite yet if I were you,” Michael cautioned him grimly. “Unless we can settle this blasted curse nonsense once and for all, I shan’t be the recipient of any more of her coddling. But then, I need not tell you that.” He shook his head with an exasperated sigh. “You know how she’s been behaving these past two weeks.”
Eadon nodded. “I do, and I must say that I am surprised. Her grace has always struck me as a woman of rare good sense. Who would have guessed that she is inclined toward superstition?”
“You do not know the half of it,” Michael muttered, sighing again.
“Well, I believe in the curse. If her grace says there’s a curse, then there must be a curse,” Bennie piped in, loyally defending his adored mistress. “A fine lady like her grace wouldn’t make up something like that. Everyone at the abbey says so.”
Michael was perfectly aware of the boy’s views, having wasted close to a half-hour unsuccessfully trying to coax him into guiding him to the cottage. It was only after Eadon had used the boy’s own faith in Rebecca Dare’s magical powers to convince him that the woman would keep Michael safe while in her presence that Bennie had finally relented. Reminded now of the boy’s belief in mumbo-jumbo and deciding it high time that someone talked some sense into him, Michael opened his mouth to gently argue against the probability of the curse being real. Before he could utter the words, however, Bennie pointed again and exclaimed, “There ’tis, Miss Dare’s cottage.”
One glance down in the valley below them and Michael forgot all about his lecture. The cottage was enchanting, exactly as Emily had described it. Indeed, so fanciful did it appear with its fairy story facade and unseasonably bright garden, that he was almost inclined to believe that the place was truly magic. Why, just look at the way—
Neigh! Whinny! Michael’s horse abruptly reared, almost unseating its rider, shying as a plump brown hare streaked by.
“Careful there, your grace,” Eadon shouted, struggling to subdue his own startled mount.
With a mastery born from years of experience, Michael deftly calmed his agitated steed, alternately speaking to it and making soothing noises as he firmly but gently manipulated the reins. When the beast stood perfectly subdued, he took one more lingering look at the breathtaking panorama below, then nodded to Bennie to lead the way down the steep incline into the valley. As he skillfully guided his horse, keeping a sharp eye out for the hare, which had dashed in this direction, he couldn’t help noticing that, like Rebecca’s garden, the showy display of flora vegetating the slope, too, seemed curiously out of season.
Why, if he wasn’t mistaken that was a clump of Lent lilies, or daffodils, as some called them, which everyone knew bloomed in March or April. And weren’t those primroses, those pink flowers with five dainty petals? They were. Michael frowned his consternation. How very queer. He couldn’t recall ever seeing primroses past May and most certainly not on the moors. And then there were those flowers over there … good heavens! Were those bluebells? In late October?
Michael’s mind was furiously trying to rationalize what he was seeing and he had just decided that the fantastical plant phenomenon was most probably due to the positioning of the hills and the protection they afforded the valley, when he reached the brook that wound lazily past the front of the cottage. Bennie, whose surefooted native pony had practically flown down the hill, had already dismounted and now stood beside the animal, which placidly grazed on a tall patch of grass.
Smiling in a way that revealed the nubbin of a newly forming front tooth, Bennie informed him, “Ye’ll need to leave yer horse here, yer grace. Magellan doesn’t like horses.”
“Magellan, the goat?” Michael quizzed, swinging from his saddle.
“Oh, he only looks like a goat. He’s really a Spanish prince.”
Michael shot the boy a sharp glance. “A what?” he ejected. Surely Bennie hadn’t really said that the goat was a prince?
“A Spanish prince,” the boy confirmed, solemnly nodding his flaxen head. “Everyone knows ’tis so, just as they know that fairies dona like it when mortal men trifle with their maidens. Too bad Prince Magellan didn’t know it before he seduced six o’ their pri
ncesses.”
Michael drew back slightly, frowning his incredulity. “Six fairy princesses, you say?” The goat had quite a reputation, it seemed … one that grew more ludicrous with every passing day.
“That’s right. Six.” Bennie shrugged, clearly unperturbed by Michael’s skeptical tone. “Guess he had a way with the ladies.”
So innocent and filled with the simple but precious logic of youth was the response, that Michael bit back his cynical retort, suddenly loath to shatter the boy’s blissful belief in enchantment. As Emily had said, childhood was a wonderful, magical time to be cherished by child and adult alike. Remembering the fire in her eyes and the way her silken cheeks had flamed in her indignation as she’d uttered the words, he smiled gently and agreed, “Quite a way, it would seem.”
“Your grace! Is something amiss?” called Eadon, who had descended the hill at a more cautious pace than his companions.
Michael glanced up as the man reined his gelding to a stop next to Bennie’s pony, his face marked by worry. “No, no, Eadon. Everything is fine. I stopped because Bennie has informed me that we must leave our mounts here. It seems that Miss Dare’s—er—goat”—he shot a droll look at Bennie, who giggled—“takes exception to horses.”
Always the model of propriety, Eadon accepted the queer decree without question. “Very good, your grace. In that instance, Bennie and I shall tend to the animals while you speak with your lady.”
Nodding his thanks, Michael resumed his trek to the cottage. When he hesitated on the bank of the placid brook, eyeing the slippery-looking moss-slimed stepping stones with misgiving, Bennie came to his side, saying, “We all hop across on the stones, even Magellan. It’s easier ’n it looks.”
“Magellan?” Eadon inquired politely as he joined them.
Michael and Bennie exchanged a mischievous glance, then grinned at him in unison. “I believe that Bennie is better equipped to explain about Magellan,” Michael replied, winking at the boy. With that, he gritted his teeth and leapt to the first stone. If the goat could cross without incident, by St. George, so could he. And he did. It took him only a moment to cross the stream and make his way up to the flower-framed stoop of the cottage. He had just raised his hand to knock on the bright red door when—
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