“A-a-a!” There was a belligerent-sounding bleat from behind him. Certain that he was about to make the acquaintance of the infamous Magellan, Michael slowly turned. It was indeed a goat, an enormous gray one, and it was currently positioned directly at his back, eyeing him with evil intent.
“Magellan?” he ventured, narrowing his eyes in a rush of wariness.
“A-a-a-a! A-a-a!” the animal responded, lowering its curly-horned head in a way that could only bode ill.
From behind him Michael heard the door open. In the next instant an exquisitely modulated female voice scolded, “Really, Magellan! Wherever are your manners? That is hardly an appropriate way to greet a guest.”
Unwilling to turn his back on the goat, who in his opinion was either demented or possessed by a diabolical being, Michael glanced over his shoulder to put a face with the voice.
The face he saw perfectly matched the voice. The woman was beautiful—not as lovely as Emily, of course, since even the angels in heaven would suffer in comparison to Emily in his eyes—still, this young woman would most certainly cause a stir were she to make an appearance in the ton. “Ethereal” was the word that sprang to mind as he looked at her, the ideal inhabitant for this fairy story cottage that sat in this seemingly enchanted valley.
Darting his gaze back to the goat, who had again bleated and now seemed poised to butt him, he murmured, “Miss Dare, I presume?”
“Indeed I am, your grace. Welcome to Greenwicket cottage.”
He glanced back at her in time to see her drop into a regal court curtsy. That action, paired with her refined looks and decidedly cultured voice, made him wonder at her origins. So much so, that had he dared to move, he would have bowed in response to her stately curtsy, sensing that it would be fitting to do so. Since, however, he feared that any action would further provoke the goat, he simply nodded and replied, “At your service, madam.”
Smiling in a way that left little doubt as to his being truly welcome, she stepped aside and motioned for him to enter the cottage. “Please do come in, your grace. No doubt you are weary from your journey and could use some refreshment.”
The goat let out a loud snort at her invitation, again commanding Michael’s notice. At his glance the beast jerked its head, as if threatening to jab him in the backside with its wicked-looking horns. Certain that the vile creature would make good on its threat if he so much as twitched in the woman’s direction, he remarked, “Er—I do not think that Magellan approves of me.”
“Bah! Ignore him. He’s just jealous,” Rebecca scoffed, shooting the goat a pointed look of disapproval. “He likes being the only man about the place and feels threatened by your presence.” Addressing the goat now, she added, “As for you, Magellan, you can stay outside and contemplate the wickedness of your ways.”
“A-a-a! A-a!”
She frowned and shook her head. “Oh, no. We shall have none of that. Now off with you. I noticed some dandelions growing in with my orpine. Please do tend to the matter.” As the goat trotted off, seemingly to do her bidding, making noises that sounded suspiciously like muttering as it went, Rebecca shifted her attention back to Michael. “Now please, do come in, your grace. It is hardly proper for a man of your stature to remain on the stoop.”
Though Michael was sorely tempted to quiz her about the goat, confounded by the pair’s queer interaction, he resisted doing so, embarrassed by his own absurd inclination to believe that the woman and the beast actually understood each other. Forcing himself to act casual, as if witnessing such oddness were an everyday event, Michael removed his helmet, which he still wore, and stepped over the threshold.
Like Rebecca herself, the interior of the cottage showed unmistakable evidence of gentility. Though the hallway into which he stepped was simple enough with its plain whitewashed walls and smooth stone-flagged floor, the richly carved settle that sat against the wall to his right was grand enough to grace a castle, as was the Oriental rug beneath his feet. And then there was the stunning ebony and brass—or was that gold leaf?—long-case clock regally positioned at the far end of the hall. It was the sort of luxury one usually saw only in the homes of the very wealthy.
After relieving him of his coat and the helmet, his hostess led the way down the hallway, from which he glimpsed a well-appointed parlor through an open doorway. Tossing him an apologetic look as she passed it, she said, “I do hope that you shan’t be offended if I ask you to sit in the kitchen. I have bread in the oven which I do not wish to burn. With your permission, I will serve you refreshment in there.”
“The kitchen is fine, though you needn’t trouble yourself with refreshment,” he replied. “I came only to speak with my wife. She is here, I was told?”
“She was here,” Rebecca corrected. When he opened his mouth to ask where she had gone, she quickly interjected, “But she will return shortly. She and Isaac are out gathering nettle for the amulet she wishes to make. The magical properties of nettle are most potent when it is still sprinkled with the morning dew.”
Magical nettle? Amulet? It was all Michael could do to curb his impulse to groan aloud at the mention of yet more superstitious twaddle. Fighting hard to keep his exasperation from both his face and his voice, and reminding himself that the more he knew about Emily and her beliefs, the better prepared he would be to reason with her, he forced himself to ask, “What sort of an amulet?”
“One to protect you from the curse, of course.” She stepped through the doorway to her right, leading him into a sunny, spacious kitchen that smelled delightfully of baking bread.
While Rebecca continued on across the room, Michael stopped before the kitchen dresser, curiously examining the wealth displayed upon its shelves. There were several exquisitely wrought silver goblets and platters, all stamped in gold with a family crest he vaguely recalled seeing before; a pair of heavy silver candlesticks; a gilt salt cellar adorned with what looked to be real rubies; and a tea service that was delicately painted with scenes of the Orient and had clearly been imported from China. Struck anew by the casual display of prosperity in the humble dwelling, he glanced up and resumed their conversation where it had left off. “Then Emily told you about the curse?”
Rebecca, who stood peering into the brick bake oven that was built into the wall beside the fireplace, nodded. “Oh, yes. We have discussed it at length on numerous occasions. I am surprised that she hasn’t told you.”
“You must understand, Miss Dare—”
“Rebecca, please,” she quickly interjected, turning from the oven with a smile.
Dare, of course, he thought, his memory jolted at having again uttered the name. He glanced back at the silver plates. Now he remembered where he had seen that crest. It was emblazoned on the side of Wreford’s elegant town coach … old Laurence Dare, the duke of Wreford. Turning from the dresser, he archly inquired, “I believe that I would not be amiss in addressing you as Lady Rebecca?” He indicated the plates.
She looked momentarily nonplussed, then laughed, a light, silvery sound, and moved to the fireplace, which was charmingly tiled with blue and white Delftware. Checking the contents of the kettle hanging over the low fire, she replied, “Only if we were in a ballroom, your grace. Here, I am just Rebecca. As you can see, I enjoy rusticating, and I find my title rather too grand for the simplicity of the life I have chosen to live.”
Michael smiled. “I, too, prefer the country these days, which makes us kindred spirits, so please call me Michael.” He could see why Emily was so fond of the woman. She was utterly without artifice, which made her quite comfortable to be around.
“Michael it is, then,” she agreed, smiling back. “Now please do sit at the table and rest a bit, while I brew us a pot of tea. Emily will never forgive me if I do not take proper care of you in her absence. She loves you very much, you know.”
“Yes, I do know,” he acknowledged, sitting in one of the four Windsor chai
rs at the round oak table. “And I love her, too … more than anything on this earth, which is why I asked if she had confided her concerns about the curse to you. Not that I, personally, believe in curses, mind you,” he felt obligated to toss in. “However, since my wife does believe in them and is highly distressed over what she imagines to be her cursed state, I must naturally do everything in my power to ease her anxiety. You said something about a protective amulet?”
Rebecca, who had retrieved the Oriental teapot from the dresser and had carried it over to the massive corner cupboard near the door, nodded. “There is an amulet that can protect you from the curse, yes. Unfortunately, the protection is short-lived, usually no longer than a week. In this instance it will only last for five days, until midnight on Samhaine, or All Hallows’ Eve, as many prefer to call it. At that time the curse must either be broken or you must part company forever.”
Michael watched as Rebecca opened the cupboard and retrieved an elegant mahogany tea chest, his eyes narrowing as he digested the tidbit of information. “Then the curse can be lifted?”
“I believe so.”
“And Emily is aware of the fact?”
“Of course.” Tea chest and pot now in hand, she moved to a small worktable that stood near the fireplace. Setting her burden upon it, she added, “We have discussed the counterspell in great detail. She knows what must be done and—”
“Oh, Michael? No!” interjected Emily’s wail from behind him. “What are you doing here?”
Michael jumped up at the sound of her voice, hungry for the sight of her. The vision he beheld left him breathless. She looked beautiful, so very beautiful standing in the doorway in her favorite crimson cloak. Her hair, which was loose, as he preferred it, cascaded from beneath her ruffled hood, tumbling over one shoulder in a riotous, windblown tangle of gypsy wild curls. The autumn chill had kissed her cheeks, flushing them a rich, silken scarlet; her dark eyes glowed with life and vigor, like black diamonds warmed by candlelight.
Willing himself to breathe in his stunned admiration, he huskily replied, “I came to see you, my love. I have missed you terribly.”
She shrank back a fraction, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t have come. I needn’t tell you why.”
“The curse?” He shrugged. “Even if it is real, which I sincerely doubt, it hardly seems worth worrying about, what with the counterspell and all.”
“You know about the counterspell?” she gasped, visibly dismayed by the news.
His eyes narrowed at her response. “Well, yes. Rebecca was just telling me about it. She said—”
“Oh, Rebecca! How could you!” she cried, eyeing her friend with wounded reproach. “You know that I have absolutely no intention of trying to lift the curse.”
It was Michael’s turn to be dismayed. “What?”
She glanced back at him, shaking her head. “No, Michael. I shan’t be attempting the counterspell. After thoroughly considering the matter, I have decided that it will be best for us both if I simply return to America.” Looking away again, as if she could no longer bear the sight of him, she added in a tight voice, “If you must know, I came here today to have Rebecca help me make an amulet to protect you so that I could bid you a proper farewell.”
Michael gaped at her, too devastated by her announcement to do more. She was leaving him. And not because of the curse. By her own admission, it could be lifted. She was leaving because she had finally come to her senses and had decided that she did not wish to spend her life tied to an invalid husband. What other explanation could there be?
None, he admitted to himself, afraid to breathe for fear that the sob he felt rising from his chest would escape. And while he was being so brutally honest with himself, he must also concede that he didn’t blame her a whit for feeling as she did. How could he? She was so beautiful and vital. She deserved a husband who could love her the way she should be loved—one who could show her the raptures of the marriage bed and give her the children she so desperately desired.
Bitter that he could never be such a husband and hating the unknown man who would someday enjoy the pleasures he was unable to take, Michael suddenly wondered if it was his confession about his inability to make love, rather than his invalid state, that had prompted her decision to leave him.
The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Though Emily had sounded genuine enough when she’d declared her love for him, he now suspected that the words had been false, that she had uttered them in order to use the curse as an excuse to escape him … a theory that made perfect sense when one considered that her declaration had come on the heels of his damning confession. The notion that she, the woman who meant the world to him, had most probably never loved him was nothing short of devastating.
Wanting to scream his pain at her betrayal of his heart, to somehow hurt her as badly as she had just hurt him, yet suddenly too drained to do either, Michael wearily replied, “I see. You do not love me.” The words came out in a harsh whisper, breaking in the rawness of his grief.
“No! Oh no, Michael. How ever can you think such a thing?” she exclaimed, her voice rising with each impassioned word. “Of course I love you. I never realized that it was possible to love a man as much as I love you.”
“Then why? If you truly love me, why do you not wish to break the curse?” he hoarsely demanded, taking a step toward her.
She put out her hand, as if to halt his advance, shaking her head over and over again. “I do wish to break it … oh, Michael, my dearest love! I wish to break it more than anything in the world. And I would most certainly try to do so if it weren’t so very dangerous. But if we were to attempt the counterspell and it failed—you—I—” She broke off with another series of head shakes, her eyes growing bright with unshed tears.
“What, Emily? What would happen if it failed that would be so dreadful?” he softly grilled.
“Y-you would be struck down, maybe even killed.” There went her head again, frantically shaking. “Oh, Michael. I cannot—I will not!—risk you being harmed. I love you too much to imperil you in such a manner.”
“And I love you enough to chance anything, even death, which is why I say damn the consequences,” he retorted, his heartache easing at her declaration. What a fool he was! How could he have ever doubted her love? He should have guessed that she only sought to protect him.
“But—”
“No, Emily,” he interjected firmly. “Since I am the one at risk, the decision is mine to make. And I say that we will try the counterspell.”
“B-but you do not understand.” She shook her head several more times, her anguished gaze meeting his, desperately imploring.
He returned her gaze for a moment, then relented with a heavy sigh. How could he deny her anything when she looked at him with those bewitching brown eyes? “All right, then. Explain to me what I do not understand.”
Emily continued to stare at him mutely for several more beats, now and again shaking her head, then she glanced over at Rebecca, clearly seeking her help. “Perhaps Rebecca should explain matters. She is far more knowledgeable about these things than I.”
“Fine. Just as long as someone tells me what is going on,” he retorted, nodding to Rebecca, who now stood before the oven, removing two golden brown loaves of bread with a wide, shovellike baker’s peel.
“I shall be glad to explain as best I can,” Rebecca replied, carefully transferring the bread to the worktable to cool. After pausing to rehang the wooden peel on its hook next to the oven, she added, “Since the explanation is bound to be a lengthy one, what with the questions I suspect you will wish to ask, I suggest that we sit and have a cup of tea. I set a pot of my special blend to steep during your exchange. It should be about ready to serve.” Without awaiting their response, she carried the Oriental teapot to the round table, followed by three of the matching cups and saucers.
When she h
ad added the finishing touches to her tea service—silver spoons, crisp linen napkins, a plate of walnut cake, the requisite sugar bowl, and a pitcher of fresh milk—Michael, always the gentleman, moved from where he stood in silent communication with Emily, to seat her. That done, he pulled out the chair beside her, glancing expectantly at Emily, who still hovered uncertainly in the doorway.
When she hesitated in joining them, Rebecca said, “This valley is enchanted, remember? It will protect your husband from the curse while he is here. So please, do sit, dear.”
To Michael’s relief, Emily accepted her friend’s word without question and did as requested, pausing only to hang her cloak on a hook near the door. With the women now properly settled, he claimed the chair to Emily’s left, moving it near enough to hers to loop a possessive arm around her shoulders. Smiling in a way that he hoped would coax her to smile back, he gazed tenderly into his wife’s troubled face, murmuring, “If you please, Rebecca?”
“As you wish,” Rebecca returned, her words accompanied by the homely clatter of china and the faint splash of pouring tea. “I shall preface my explanation by saying that the spell itself is simple, though it does require some rather extensive preparation.” There was a soft scrape of porcelain against wood as she set the pot down, then, “Would you care for milk or sugar in your tea, Michael?”
“Neither, thank you. Just tell me what needs to be done,” he responded, his gaze never wavering from Emily’s face. Though he had managed to make her smile, albeit faintly, her eyes remained shadowed by worry.
“As I said before, the spell must be worked on Samhaine night. So you must travel to Merrivale on Samhaine, to the circle of nine standing stones in the shape of giant maidens,” Rebecca replied, her words underlined by the soft clank of silver against china as she stirred something into her own tea. “Within the circle lies a kistvaen upon which is inscribed mystical markings. You must use that as your altar. You will need—”
Bewitched Page 29
