Beyond the Dark

by Angela Knight

He swept everything off the round game table and set Grandmother’s best silver punch bowl on it. (Emma gawked at its presence but said nothing, realizing that her best sterling silver was as dedicated to the King’s service in this as anything else.) He filled it with colored sand and wrote a brief message on a small strip of parchment, which he rolled into a tight twist.

  “Ready?”

  She nodded, shaken by how much this man who looked like a warrior was so completely in command of such fine magickal details.

  “Stand by the table—here—and try to relax. You’d better call me Owen, too, to promote an atmosphere of intimacy.”

  She stared at him over her shoulder. “Owen?” Her voice was a strangled squeak.

  “Do you object?” He frowned.

  Far too little. She shook her head hastily and reminded herself she was a widow of five years standing, far too sensible to be thrown into a tizzy by one very handsome man. “You may call me Emma, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you, Emma.” His breath caressed her neck, and she shivered.

  “You’re very welcome—Owen.”

  His arms came around her, one arm wrapping her waist, and his other hand stretching over the table.

  “Put both hands on my sleeve and lean back.”

  She obeyed and closed her eyes. But that was far too dangerous to her pulses, since it increased the heat sweeping through her skin and her veins. She cracked one eye open.

  He swirled his hand over the bowl, chanting something. The sand dissolved into a fine golden mist, simmering at the base of the punch bowl. The tiny scroll rose and pointed northeast, toward London.

  Owen tightened behind her, his breathing deepening. Emma moved closer to him, rubbing his hands and trying to lend him her strength.

  The mist abruptly whipped upward. The scroll spun crazily in place like a top, losing all track of direction.

  Another mist exploded into position and solidified into a shell surrounding the first.

  The scroll reversed direction and spun to a stop. It sank to the base of the bowl, pointing directly at Owen.

  The colored mist swirled briefly and steadied into a clear gold, immovable against the wall.

  Owen snarled.

  Emma turned around in his arms and grabbed his shoulders.

  “What is it? What does it mean?”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and tried to smile.

  “We did better than I’ve been able to do on my own, but not well enough. The enemy is out there, and he’s placed guards on every road, both magickal and nonmagickal. Any message I try to send will simply bounce back to me.”

  “What about the gold mist and the wall?” She leaned up against him, trying to see his expression better.

  “My wards, combined with this house’s natural shields, are strong enough to keep out the enemy’s attacks. But I’m not strong enough to escape!”

  Her heart ached for him. On impulse she reached up to kiss him on his cheek, but his head turned, and their mouths met. Their lips brushed, lingered, and clung. She sighed and pressed closer, their breaths meeting.

  It was sweeter than sweet and over far too soon.

  TREVELYAN glared at his favorite scrying bowl. It had taken him less than an hour to learn the damned King’s Mage was hidden behind wards of unprecedented power, far too strong to simply show where he was to Trevelyan’s spells.

  Instead, he’d been forced to quarter the county for hours, looking for the bastard. If the scrying spell showed the usual small amounts of magick, all well and good. But if it mirrored his probe, he knew the British mage’s wards were blocking his spell.

  There was only one answer for where he was hiding: Trethledan House, with Emma Sinclair. Only with the aid of her astonishing depth as a chalice could that blasted mage have healed fast enough to power those wards.

  He’d have to go in after them both, dammit, and trap her first, since he couldn’t take her by force without destroying her.

  Once the chalice was gone, the weakened King’s Mage should be easy prey.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Owen waved off Willis and took up the morning coat for himself. The old general’s equally ancient valet stepped back, but stayed within arms’ reach of Owen, his expression impassive. He and Emma had borne the brunt of nursing Owen these past four days, with Willis providing discreet and skillful care for Owen’s more private needs.

  Yesterday Owen had managed to sit up and walk around the bedroom. Today he was determined to go farther.

  He shrugged into the blue morning coat and flexed his shoulders slightly, testing its fit. Behind him, Willis gave every twitch of fabric an expert’s hawkeyed stare.

  It needed to be loose enough not to pinch his bandages or to hinder his movement, should he need to fight. But it was four days after the storm, his wounds were almost completely healed, and the first time he’d dared to try becoming fully dressed. Or had been away from Emma Sinclair for longer than ten minutes. Not, of course, that he was listening to the clock toll the minutes.

  Now a stranger studied him from the mirror, clad in fashionable broadcloth and breeches, with a striped waistcoat and a blindingly white neckcloth. Its crisp starch stroked his throat, a subtle reminder of the casual acceptance of money and power behind it. Given the high value placed on a crisp, vividly white neckcloth, dandies only wore one once, since laundering it was very expensive. They signaled money as certainly as a snugly fitting coat, given that only aristocrats and rich men could pay a servant every time they needed to dress.

  He turned, surveying himself from all possible angles.

  These clothes were not the hallmark of the tradesman he’d pretended to be for so long, or of a King’s Messenger. The only items that a King’s Messenger might have used were the brightly polished boots.

  In all honesty, this ensemble was far too stylish for a mage school, where student apparel echoed the wardrobe of Cromwell’s time. It also bore no semblance to his old dark blue dragoon’s uniform with the scarlet facings and white lace or the scarlet and gold brilliance of the King’s Mages’ uniforms. It was closer to that of a mage or a councilor’s brat, not that he’d ever be one to flaunt such ancestry, especially after a lifetime spent avoiding any mention of it.

  Still, there was something to be said for looking smartly turned out. At least the clothes were loose enough that he could don them alone, even if doing so stamped him as not being an aristocrat.

  Faded blue eyes swept over him, missing nothing.

  “Very good, sir,” Willis murmured, echoing his own thoughts. “I have always said elegance is the true hallmark of a gentleman. Your neckcloth’s simplicity, combined with using your signet as your sole jewelry, betokens a most superior style, which your inferiors would do well to copy.” He coughed slightly. “If I may?”

  “Oh yes, of course.” Owen managed not to blink. He’d tied the blasted strip of starched muslin in the only knot he knew.

  Willis circled him, his wrinkled hands expertly twitching folds into order and flicking off lint before he stood back, beaming. “Sir Henry’s clothes fit you very well, very well indeed with Mr. Fitzwilliam’s boots as the finishing touch. I shall be happy to inform the General that his instructions were carried out so successfully.”

  “My thanks to the General for the loan of his grandsons’ clothing.” Owen inclined his head slightly and turned toward the door.

  Willis bowed, offering a heavy, gold-headed cane.

  Owen shrugged it off, his mouth tightening. Dammit, he didn’t need to use an old man’s crutch, despite a bit of lightheadedness. Give him a bit of ale and some cheese, and he’d be right as rain.

  He stepped out into the hallway, still grumbling silently, and stopped cold. Emma Sinclair was standing by a window a few feet away, talking to her old nurse. She wore a simple white dress resembling a Roman goddess’s tunic, tied with ribbons under her beautiful breasts. Sunlight poured over her, silhouetting her slender figure through the few layers of delicate cl
oth.

  His mouth dried. Heat danced through his bones and into his veins, yet he couldn’t catch his breath. Without a second thought, he flicked his fingers and corrected his clothes’ fit into a fashionable snugness, using power he’d meant to save for a signaling attempt.

  EMMA glanced sideways at Owen Bentham. Lord, he looked handsome! His coat’s color was delightful, a perfect match for his vivid blue eyes, which were the same color as the summer sea. His hair had been cut into a fashionable style, the thick locks shorn so closely yet still seeming desperate to curl. She wouldn’t have thought Henry’s clothing would fit him so well. But it lovingly clung to his body as if it had been made for him, emphasizing the depth of his chest and the strength of his legs.

  Despite those temptations, her glance kept returning to what she’d studied since she’d pulled him from the sea.

  He should be painted by a great master in a single spectacular moment of passion. That strong neck arched back, muscles and tendons taut. His mouth stretched to kiss and kiss again, lips curled over white teeth. His blue eyes heavy-lidded with desire…

  Her pulse leaped at the image, and she totally lost track of Nurse’s discourse on early spring cleaning, while Owen prowled down the corridor toward her.

  Mages were rare and valuable, especially to the Crown. They were also more powerful than ordinary mortals, so it was difficult to punish them by typical rules and regulations. Accordingly, mages lived under their own code of laws, most of which ordinary mortals didn’t know about. Brehon Law was the ancient code which governed their interaction with others, and it was strictly enforced by both mages and the Crown.

  Since magickal ability was inherited, one of Brehon Law’s greatest priorities was to protect mages’ children. Thus, if a mortal woman had a child by a mage out of wedlock, the union was treated similarly to a Scottish handfasting. This made the child entirely legitimate, giving it full protection under mortal law. The father had whatever role he chose in rearing the child—usually none, since mages were not inclined to spend long periods of time with mortals. More importantly, polite society now treated the child’s mother as a widow and accepted the child.

  Equally, if a mortal man sired a child on a female mage, the mortal man could be the one to rear the child, usually because the mage was disinclined to be saddled with a child for decades to come. It was an extraordinarily rare occurrence, since female mages loathed their inability to work magick during pregnancy, and all mages controlled their own fertility.

  Did she want to have an affaire with Owen? But he was the first man she’d considered doing more than kissing in the last five years. And his face and form were so very tempting. He had such big, strong hands with calloused fingers. Would he take his lover firmly or stroke her slowly, teasing her with the contrast between his blunt fingertips and her smooth skin?

  Emma quivered, frissons rippling down her spine.

  Nurse coughed significantly and not at all softly.

  Emma blinked down at her, composing herself with an effort.

  “Very well then, Mrs. Sinclair,” Nurse announced, fixing her with a gimlet stare. “I’ll tell them to do it just the way we discussed.”

  Emma flushed. Owen was waiting patiently only a few feet away. “Thank you, Nurse,” she managed to utter. “I’m sure you’ll know exactly how to explain everything.”

  Nurse’s mouth twitched briefly before she dropped a curtsy. She curtsied again to Owen, who nodded very politely, and she was gone, disappearing within seconds through a doorway concealed in the paneling.

  He watched her go, his eyebrows flying up. “Do you have many such hidden doorways?”

  Emma shrugged, more flustered than she should be by a man’s arrival. She might be only twenty-four, but she truly did know how to handle herself, as befitted a naval captain’s daughter. At least she’d always thought she did. “My grandfather enjoyed hiding the servants’ passages when he rebuilt Trethledan House. But the older portion does have a few true secrets, such as a priest’s hole. Would you like to see?”

  “Certainly.” He offered her his arm, and she accepted it gratefully, twining her hand around his forearm until she was leaning against him. His woolen coat rubbed her skin, while his breath caressed her hair.

  They walked the hallway together, step for step as they had on the beach. Yet this time, he was so very much alive. His warmth stole through her, easing her worries about his health—and teasing her with reminders of pleasures last enjoyed years ago. Their destination came all too soon, when they reached the end of the hall and stepped over the threshold into another room.

  “The Long Gallery,” she announced, watching his face for reactions to her favorite room. It came by its name honestly, as any builder would affirm. Bronze and porcelain statues and vases the size of grown men stood next to surprisingly comfortable sofas, while carved tables offered beauty and efficiency. Oriental carpets swirled across the floor like flower beds. Banks of windows in the walls and ceilings flooded the room with light, even on cloudy days.

  The walls were lined with paintings and other works of art collected by her family over the centuries, centered on her grandfather and grandmother’s portraits. Her grandfather looked extremely martial in his magnificent scarlet regimentals, his sword at his side and hordes of vanquished adversaries in the background. But the true key to his attention seemed to be his beautiful wife, Emma’s near-double, and their hands reached for each other across their portraits’ frames. Below the carved and gilded wood hung the superb saber Clive of India had given Emma’s grandfather in gratitude for saving his life, its golden hilt and jewels blazing as if eager to go to war.

  Her wedding portrait hung here as well, both she and dearest Edward shining with joy.

  “Your grandparents?” Owen paused before it.

  “Yes. There’s a similar one of my grandmother which he keeps in his bedroom.”

  “You must be very proud of him. He’s still famous in the Army for his consideration of the common soldiers.” An oddly approving note lurked in Owen’s voice before he moved on. “The walls record a great many happy marriages, including yours. My condolences on your loss.”

  Somehow she could not let him linger under a misapprehension.

  “I married Edward Sinclair when I was seventeen. Some thought I was too young to marry a naval lieutenant, but I was determined to snatch every day we could.” It was a simple tale, one she’d spoken before without hesitation. “We were married for two years, most of which he spent serving with Nelson. He was killed at the Battle of the Nile, five years ago.”

  “Dearest Emma, I’m so very sorry.”

  “My only regret is that we spent so little time together.” She patted his hand. “What of your family?”

  There was an awkward silence. She’d started to smooth it over by offering a different conversational gambit, when he spoke.

  “My father was a magistrate in Leicestershire, famous throughout the Midlands for his horse breeding farm. While selling one of his horses in another county, he spent the night with a lady not his wife and promptly forgot her.”

  Emma couldn’t imagine what to say.

  “The lady arrived on his doorstep nine months later and shoved a squalling brat into his arms—myself—demanding that he raise it. She was a member of the magnum conciliorum, the mages’ high council, and refused to be burdened with a child. His wife promptly had hysterics, but he fulfilled his obligations under Brehon Law, as befitted a magistrate.” Owen’s voice was completely emotionless, as if looking through a spyglass at someone else’s life.

  “How?” Emma’s voice could scarcely be heard, even by herself.

  “Brehon Law does not specify how much must be provided to the child. I was raised in the stables, and my wet nurse was a scullery maid of poor reputation. I was taught my letters, as the son of a learned man—”

  “And as required by Brehon Law,” Emma muttered. “They should have been shot!”

  “You come from a very c
ongenial family, my dear. I stayed there until I was twelve, when I enlisted in the cavalry.”

  “I’ll wager you were welcome there, since you knew horses so well.”

  His expression softened for the first time.

  “Yes, oh yes, it was the first time I’d found a home. Until Villers-en-Cauchies, that is.”

  “The great victory?” She blinked at him.

  “Powered by my magick, ripped out of me by someone I’d trusted.” His eyes looked into the distance at a past which made her shudder, before they returned to her. “I’ve never linked to anyone since then. Instead, I’ve built up very strong walls against it.”

  Dratted, greedy fools for having used him like a plow horse. She said nothing, afraid her voice would break.

  He surveyed the room, deliberately considering the arched beams and heavy paneling, the architectural elements which spoke of times gone by.

  “Do any strong spells survive here from the old days? Or are they charms, just little bits of magick or old folks’ stories to make life easier?” He was extremely intent, far too much so for such a casual tone of voice.

  But she could give him an immediate answer to this. “Oh, it’s certainly common for folks hereabouts to work small magicks. But that’s true for much of Cornwall and the West Country.”

  “How many spells and charms do you know?”

  “Everything that Nurse does. She made certain I knew all the ones used on this land, even those that don’t work for her.” Emma arched an eyebrow at him. “Is it too soon to ask about your abilities?”

  His fists opened and shut. “They’re back but not at full strength.”

  “Can we seek aid from whatever built the house’s shields?” she asked. He looked willing to flay someone alive.

  “Perhaps, but it would be difficult and time-consuming,” he all but growled. “Strong natural confluences always have their own protections, mainly because it’s arduous for anyone not attuned to them to tap into their magickal powers. Trethledan House is built on such a confluence.”