“What is this volume about, Antoinette?” Mark asked quietly.
Antoinette lifted her gaze from the pages and met his across the table. He looked serious, but not alarmed, merely curious. Yet she had never shared the book with anyone before, had only ever shown it to Cassie, and her stomach lurched with anxiety.
“It is about many things,” she answered. “My mother was a great woman, a powerful woman. She knew many things, things ordinary people cannot conceive of, and she learned them from this book. She could heal people, could see beyond this world to others we know nothing of.”
“Witchcraft?” he whispered.
“No!” Antoinette cried, recoiling from the word. “My mother was not a witch. She was a devout Christian; she brought me up in the church to be one as well. These were just—gifts she had, abilities that not every person possesses. She said they were gifts from God, given to her so she might help His people on earth. And that is what she did. She healed people; she never harmed anyone!”
Antoinette could feel a frenzy rising up in her as she defended her mother, tried to explain her powers. It was always thus when she spoke of or remembered Marie-Claire Duvall. But now it was more vital than ever that she should make Mark understand. It was the only way she could help him. Help them.
He reached over and caught her hand in both of his, cradling it against the warmth of his skin. She calmed at his touch, and felt her breath slow in her lungs.
“I see,” he said. “Your mother was a—a priestess of sorts.”
“A Yaumumi priestess,” Antoinette explained. “It is an ancient tradition, from Africa. But so many of my family's truths have been lost in the evils they suffered. My mother tried to erase all that.”
“And she cured people of their illnesses?”
“Yes. Of both the body and the heart, the spirit.”
Mark nodded slowly. “I met women of that sort when I was in the West Indies. What they could achieve was remarkable.”
Perhaps he did understand, then, at least a little. And soon he would see more. Antoinette stepped around the table to stand before him, framing his face in her long fingers. She traced the pattern of his scars gently with her thumb, feeling the silky tightness of the damaged skin. He flinched, but did not pull away. Antoinette caught and held his stare with her own, not letting him go. She felt a strength, a power growing in the center of her being. She could do this. She must do this. The future of the man she loved depended on it.
It would be a future away from her, back with his family, his old world. But she had to do this. She had to try to set him free.
“I do not have the powers of my mother,” she said. “I am weak compared to her. But she can help us now, if you will let her.”
Mark stared up at her, and covered her hands with his, clutching at her tightly. “What do you mean?”
“Do you trust me, Mark?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he answered, not even hesitating for a heartbeat.
“Then all will be well.” Antoinette was far from believing that herself. For, truly, how could all be well if she had found true love only to cast it from her? But she did love Mark—she saw that so clearly now, as she looked down upon him in the firelight. He was brave and caring. He deserved better than this solitary life he had been living, a life whose pain and loneliness Antoinette understood all too well.
She had to try to set him free.
She stepped back away from him. He reached out for her, trying to catch her back. “Antoinette...”
“No,” she said. “Trust me. It is Christmas. The most magical time of year.”
She quickly gathered candles from the cupboard, red, pink, white. She arrayed them around the book and lit them. Then she gathered herbs—cinnamon, clove, dried lilac, and sprinkled them along with salt between the candles, whispering all the while, calling on her mother for help. Mark watched her, a small frown tight on his brow, but he said nothing and never moved.
Finally, all was in readiness. Antoinette released her hair from its pins, letting the thick, dark mass of it float about her shoulders. She lifted her hands above the book and closed her eyes, keeping the image of Mark in her mind. The familiar tingling sensation grew, spreading from her toes to her fingertips. Her thoughts turned misty, and she held her hands toward Mark, palms upward.
“Be renewed from this day,” she chanted. “All pain, all fear, all loneliness washed away. Carry my love to where he’ll be best, let his heart be open and free. Cleanse and consecrate our hearts, and lead us forward from the pain into the light.”
A brilliant warmth such as Antoinette had never known suffused her, shooting energy and joy and even pain from her heart until she cried out with the force of it. A bright golden light flooded her mind—and then it was gone. The burst of magic ebbed away from her, and her legs were as weak as a new kitten’s. She felt herself falling, yet before she could collapse to the floor she felt powerful arms catch her, lifting her and holding het close, safe.
Mark had rescued her, just as he had on the night they met. He held her safe in his warm strength.
Antoinette’s head sank against his chest. She was so very weak she could not even hold it up. She felt his lips press to her temple, her cheek, her mouth. And there, as his kiss met hers, she tasted the salty wetness of tears.
She opened her eyes to see that he was indeed crying, silent, crystal tears that fell onto her own cheeks in a sort of baptism of released pain and new freedom.
“No, no,” she murmured. Her own voice seemed to echo from a very long way away. Exhaustion flowed through her veins like a heavy syrup, and she gave in to it, allowing the darkness of healing sleep to overcome her, right there in Mark’s arms.
Chapter Nine
Mark sat by the window in Antoinette’s cottage, watching the sun come up on a new day—Christmas Day. He had seen many a dawn, over the waves of the sea, over rooftops of London and cliffs of Cornwall. Yet never had he seen a dawn so exquisitely lovely. Pink and orange and soft lavender swirled in the morning sky, pierced by arrow-pricks of purest gold light, like a halo crowning the heavens.
As exquisite as the sunrise was, though, it could in no way compare to the lady he held cradled in his arms.
Antoinette slept, her head resting on his shoulder, her breath soft against his throat where he had loosened his neckcloth. Her beautiful silk gown was rumpled now, covered by the paisley shawl Mark had drawn warmly around her. Her hair fell in a loose, wild cascade over his arm. Earlier, at the assembly, she was the perfect lady, fashionable, poised, elegant; now she seemed the wild island girl she was born.
And Mark loved both aspects of her. He loved her, Antoinette, in a way he had long surrendered hope for. As he sat there in her house, the scent of her jasmine perfume all around him, he felt more at peace than he ever had. Even before the fateful battle that ended his life as he knew it, he had always been seeking, striving, moving. Never still, not even for an instant. His heart could never be serene, never trust that things were right just as they were.
Now he knew that all was right. A quiet contentment settled over his mind, his very soul. The pain of the past was gone. It was behind him, and there was only the future to be faced, full of—of whatever he wanted it to be! And what he wanted, now and always, was Antoinette. By his side, for the rest of his days.
He didn't know if this new peace was due to the spell she performed. But he did know that when he saw her face as she chanted those words, so intent, so focused, he realized he loved her truly. And she had feelings for him too. Feelings of love? He was not certain. It had been many years since he had even thought about romance; his facilities in that direction were rather rusty.
He had to sharpen them now, though. He had to persuade Antoinette to marry him and go with him to face his family again. It would not be easy. She was as settled in her solitary ways as he had been for so many years. It would be frightening for her to go to London with him and meet his grand family, though they would surely acce
pt her as his wife. But she had to do it. She must!
For he could never do it without her.
Antoinette stirred, in his arms, her eyes blinking open as the morning sun washed over her. Her hands drew the shawl closer about her shoulders, and she gave him a small smile. “Good morning,” she murmured.
“Merry Christmas,” he answered. “My love.”
His love? Had Antoinette heard him right, or was she still dreaming?
She sat up straight, pushing slightly away from his warmth so she could study him closer. He seemed—different this morning. Younger, somehow. More open. His silvery eyes were clear as he looked back at her, his smile wide and brighter than the morning sunshine.
Had her spell worked, then? Was he free? Were they both free?
It was what she had wanted, more than anything. But now that he was free of the past, would he fly away from her?
She reached out to touch his face, her fingers light against his scars. He did not flinch or draw away, ducking into the shadows as she had often seen him do. He turned his head to kiss her fingertips, raising his own hand to hold her there.
“Merry Christmas,” she whispered, echoing his own words. My love.
“I vow it must be the finest Christmas ever,” he answered. “With sunlight, and the sea, and the most beautiful lady by my side.”
Antoinette’s head spun, making her giddy. This change, this new brightness, was all too much for so very early in the morning. “I fear I have no roast goose, no plum pudding, and no gifts. It is a very shabby Christmas indeed.”
“You have the most valuable gift of all, right here.” He cradled her hand in his, her palm up.
“What do you mean?”
He bent his head to plant a kiss right there, in the center of her palm. It lingered, warm in the cool morning air. “Antoinette Duvall, will you do me the great honor of giving me your hand in marriage?”
Marriage! Antoinette pulled away from him, startled-no, shocked. She jumped to her feet, holding the shawl protectively around herself.
She was not sure what she had been expecting or hoping for. But this was beyond anything she might have dreamed! To be Mark’s wife...
For one moment, she let herself believe that it could be, that they could love each other, make a home together, a family, just as she had dreamed.
But then reality came in, like the cold waves of the English sea. He might be a recluse like her, but he came from a titled family, a family who would welcome him back into their fold. She was a nobody, an “island witch.” It would be selfish of her to grab at her own happiness at the expense of his.
“Mark, I...” she began.
But he sensed her wavering, and jumped up to catch her in his arms before she could go on. “No! No, Antoinette, I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you refuse me.”
“I can do nothing else,” she said, feeling her own heart wavering. It felt so good to be in his arms, so safe. So right. “Your brother is an earl. Your family would never want to see you wed someone like me.”
“My family would want to see me wed any woman who makes me whole again—as you do.” He drew her even closer, his hands buried in the mass of her hair, cradling her against him. “Even if they do not, I am my own man; I have been making my own way in the world since I was fifteen. My choice of wife is my own. Please, Antoinette. I was in darkness before you. You are my light. Do not take that away from me. Say you will be my wife, that you will never leave me.”
Antoinette shook her head, confused. How could she ever think straight, with his arms around her and his words pouring over her like gold from heaven? She felt tears spilling down her cheeks onto the loosened folds of his neckcloth, and she could not stop them. “I only want your happiness,” she choked out.
“You are my happiness!” He framed her face in his hands, forcing her to look up at him. “And if you marry me, I will spend the rest of my days making you happy too. We don't have to stay here in Cornwall, or even in London. We can go back to Jamaica together, anything you want.”
Antoinette’s heart surrendered then, completely. Yes, there would be hardships in their future, obstacles aplenty. But she knew now that she—they—could face anything at each other’s side. They would not be alone anymore, not ever again. Whether here, or on a beach in Jamaica or a town house in London, it did not matter. Only their love mattered. Now and forever after.
The magic had worked. She felt its sparkle in her own heart, and she knew it would never fade away.
“I don't care where we make our home,” she told him, “as long as we are together. Yes, I will marry you, Mark. I love you, with all my heart.”
Mark gave a loud, whooping laugh of joy, and swept her up into his arms, swinging her about. “As I love you! I told you this was the finest Christmas ever, Antoinette.”
Antoinette laughed too, her soul overflowing with exultation. “And so it is! The finest, most magical Christmas ever.”
And, as they kissed beneath the swags of holly and red ribbon, the pages of her mother’s book flickered gently and closed with a soft, satisfied sigh.
About Amanda McCabe
Award-winning author Amanda McCabe (who also writes Elizabethan mysteries as Amanda Carmack) lives in Santa Fe with a lovely husband, a bossy poodle, and a lazy cat. When not writing, or reading about history, she loves HGTV, cross-stitch, and yoga. Visit her at AmmandaMcCabe.com for all the latest releases, or AmandaCarmack.com
Other Books by Amanda McCabe
The Muses of Mayfair
To Catch a Rogue
To Deceive a Duke
To Kiss a Count
The Regency Rebels
Scandal in Venice
The Spanish Bride
Lady Rogue
The Star of India
The Bancrofts of Barton Park
The Runaway Countess
Running From Scandal
Running Into Temptation (novella)
Lessons in Temptation
A Loving Spirit
Lady in Disguise
Lady Midnight
A Tangled Web
The Elizabethan Mysteries, writing as Amanda Carmack
Murder at Hatfield House
Murder at Westminster Abbey
Murder in the Queen's Garden
Murder at Whitehall
cover
THE CHRISTMAS KNOT
A Slightly Gothic Regency Mystery Romance Novella
By
BARBARA MONAJEM
Copyright
The Christmas Knot Copyright © 2015 by Barbara Monajem
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
Wanted: respectable, fearless widow to serve as governess to two children in remote Lancashire location. Spartan conditions, haunted house, fair pay. Inquire at the Duck’s Head, Rawden.
As the stagecoach neared Rawden, Edwina White withdrew the advertisement from the agony column of The Times and perused it again. Not that she needed to—she already knew it by heart.
In her mind, she put check marks against the requirements, as she’d done many times before.
Widow—yes.
Fearless―no, not precisely. Desperate was a better word for it, but desperation breeds courage, so…yes.
Respectable—almost. She’d behaved badly once, but that was nearly twelve years ago. Since then, she’d been married and widowed in the most tedious, ordinary fashion, and besides that, no one knew about her one idiotic peccadillo.
Children—of course; she was a governess. Spartan conditions―she’d been brought up in the north, so in a way this was like coming home. As for haunted houses, that was sheer nonsense. Her greatest fear was that the advertisement might be a jest.
Well, if all she encountered at the Duck’s Head was mockery, she could hire herself out to serve ale and tup the customers. Since all she had left in her reticule was a ha’penny, she wouldn’t have much choice.
The coach lumbered into the yard of the Duck’s Head. Her he
art beating rather more quickly than she liked, Edwina tried to smooth her wayward hair. At the last stop, she had tied it back as tidily and severely as possible, but already a number of wisps had escaped her bonnet and refused to stay confined. Hopefully, in spite of having gone several days without bathing, she didn’t smell as unpleasant as some of the other passengers.
The guard opened the door and let down the steps, and she eased her way into the chill December wind. Shivering in her pelisse, she took stock of her surroundings while waiting for the guard to unload her valise. Late afternoon sun struggled through gathering clouds to light the village. Apart from the Duck’s Head, nothing but a church and a string of cottages lined the sides of the road. The ancient church was of Saxon vintage, the vicarage behind it little more than a cottage itself. The Duck’s Head was a ramshackle Tudor building with age-blackened beams. All about Edwina rolled wintry-grey fields, but for a hill which loomed to the north. A bleak stone manor house lay tucked against the hill, one wall in ruins, judging by the pile of rubble and the jagged remains of the wall. There was no respectable house in sight of the sort that might need a governess. Her heart sank into her boots.
She dragged it back up, snatched the valise that held her worldly goods, and strode toward the inn door. How mortifying to have not even a penny for the guard! She held her head high and marched into the taproom.
All heads turned: a few tables with men nursing their ale, others playing draughts, and the tapster wiping tankards. The landlord, a tall fellow with a beard and a belly, lounged against the banister of a narrow staircase, chewing a straw.
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