to--”
The cat stood from its crouch and laid its ears back, baring its fangs and taking a step toward the end of the hay bale. With a shriek, Sybilla lifted her skirts and followed Alphie.
When Wendi turned to look for the hired man, she saw him disappearing out the rear barn door. She looked back at the cat, and it sat down, giving her a placid gaze before bending its head to bathe itself with a pink tongue. Wendi started to shake her head, but the cat froze, then leapt up once more and arched its back. A second later, it raced toward the rear of the barn, the rest of the pack appearing from their hiding places and following.
Wendi felt the changed atmosphere at once. The hair on the back of her neck lifted in a scattering of pebbled goosebumps, and the cascade of chills spread over her shoulders, down her arms and across her stomach. Even her legs chilled, and she frantically searched the dim recesses of the barn to find the cause.
Something was there. Someone. But no one responded to her mental attempts at contact.
“Mother?” she whispered at last. She thought she heard a sigh--felt a faint caress on her cheek--but as suddenly as the chill had descended, it left. Had she been a plain mortal rather than a witch, she would have passed off the experience as her imagination.
But she was a witch. She knew beyond doubt someone had made brief contact with her, and the cats had verified it. Animals were as in tune with the other world as witches. She would have to provide a more welcoming atmosphere for the entity before she could sustain the contact.
But how on earth could she do that? During the day, the hired hands were probably in and out of the barn with frequency, caring for the horses and equipment. A plantation the size of Belle Chene would also have dozens of field workers besides the stable hands, as well as their families. The would live near the barn on plantation grounds, close enough to investigate any unusual sounds or disturbance in the night. Nick would never grant her permission to perform a ceremony where his workers might discover them, even if he did allow her to stay past the time it took him to order the carriage prepared to deliver her and her aunt back to New Orleans.
Whatever or whoever had tried to contact her was completely gone now. The peaceful, serene atmosphere in the barn had returned. Except for one thing. She smelled jasmine, her mother’s favorite scent. Hers, too, but she hadn’t taken time that morning to use the bottle of perfume on her own dresser.
“Mother,” she whispered again.
The scent faded, replaced by the odors of horse and harness. Still she smiled. Somehow, some way, she’d perform the ceremony before Nick banished her from Belle Chene. The next magical holiday was White Lotus Day, with the following three days the celebration of Lemuria. One of those nights, she needed to try to contact her mother.
* * * *
Miz Thibedeau had settled Wendi and Sybilla in two of the second floor bedrooms, the ones farthest down the hall from the master suite. When Wendi asked where Nick was staying, Miz Thibedeau told her he’d ordered them to clean the garconniere for him. A separate, semi-round building used as the more private bachelor quarters for the plantation’s sons after they entered their teens, the garconniere set off from the main manor house.
Wendi could see the small, two-story structure from her bedroom window. Lucian came out the door as she watched, carrying a pail of water, which he tossed into the grass by the doorway. Crossing to a nearby cistern, he attached the pail to a rope and lowered it for a refill. He must have been pressed into service to prepare the rooms for the guests, but she wondered why he wasn’t with his mother.
Turning away from the window, Wendi was once again struck by the shabby elegance of her room. At least four inches on the bottom of the curtains on the windows dragged the floor, an earlier-times indication of wealth of the owners, evidencing the prosperous owner’s disregard for the cost of the expensive material. The bureau and dresser were cherrywood, as were the corner posts, headboard and footboard of the bed. A cherrywood armoire stood in the corner, and when she’d checked, she found her meager wardrobe already hung inside.
She could barely recall the room she’d lived in the first four years of her life, but this one vaguely reminded her of it. A carpet that had once been plush but was now threadbare in places covered most of the floor. The room had been cleaned sometime recently, as she could smell lemon and beeswax, intermingled with the mustiness fast receding with the windows open.
She needed to make the room her own, if she were to stay here for a while--
The knock on the door came a brief instant before the door opened, and Wendi turned, expecting Sybilla to enter. Nick stood there instead, and her temper flared.
“Most people have manners enough to wait until they are invited past a closed door before barging in.”
“My overseer said you and your aunt were out in the barn.” His lips were in a flat line, his words coming through gritted teeth. “I thought I told you to wait until I could go out there with you.”
“Excuse me, but I recall you offering to go with me, not ordering me not to go alone. Your negative vibrations would only make it harder to see if there was anyone still lingering there anyway.”
“I am the owner of Belle Chene. You’ll do as I say, or
else--”
“Or else what?” she prodded when he fell silent. “Or else you’ll pack us up and send us back to New Orleans? Why do I have the feeling that you want us here? That you’re interested in what we can find out?”
When he didn’t respond, she continued, “Have you been out to the barn, where your uncle supposedly fell to his death?”
“Supposedly? What the hell do you mean by that?”
“I’d prefer you go out there and look and make your own determination.” Wendi turned away and tugged on the chain around her neck, pulling out a small key from her bodice and unhooking it. She headed for the armoire.
“I need to make this room my own--give it a welcoming atmosphere, if I’m going to stay here. If I’m not, you need to tell me now.”
She took her portmanteau from the armoire and drew out the smaller satchel inside, sticking the key in the lock to open it. Nick stood unmoving in the doorway. She quirked a questioning eyebrow at him, and when he remained silent, she shrugged and set the satchel on the bed.
Removing three small, round candleholders and an incense burner from the satchel, she carried them over to the mantle to set up her altar. Pausing to determine the location of her bedroom in relation to the four directions, she set the holders in the appropriate spots: the one to hold salt instead of a candle to the north, the one she filled with water from the bedside pitcher to the west. The last candleholder she set to the south, where the flame, once lit, would be the symbol for fire. The incense holder went to the east, where burning it would indicate the last basic element of air.
She took two more candleholders and four candles from the satchel, then a bottle of jasmine oil. When she detached the stopper, the scent filled the room. She slipped a surreptitious look at Nick. Good Goddess, he actually looked like he was interested in what she was doing.
Closing her eyes, Wendi murmured her welcoming phrases, then prepared each candle by dipping a finger into the jasmine scent and slowly rubbing it up and down the sides and around the tips of her candles. She could feel the bubble of magic enclose her, and she continued the process until her altar satisfied her. Then she propped a small tintotype of her mother near the incense, where the scented smoke filtered across it. Last she added the light-blue crystal she carried in her pocket at times, a stone that symbolized her desire for peace and harmony.
She turned to look at Nick. His aura in the magical atmosphere shimmered and rippled a deep red, indicating tension, his hooded gaze impenetrable. After a second, he turned and limped away.
Chapter 12
It rained again the day of the funeral. The very next day, in fact, since there was no way they could keep a body very long in the southern climate. Wendi watched the drops slide down the
window pane, finally tiring of the trapped heat in her bedroom and raising the lower portion of the window.
There. The open window afforded little relief, but at least it gave the illusion it would.
She hadn’t let the idea of attending the funeral service grow to a full thought in her mind. She and Sybilla had spent most of yesterday and all of this morning with Miz Thibedeau in the kitchen house, helping prepare food and drinks for the visitors at Belle Chene.
Visitors. Yes, she couldn’t truly call them mourners. The vibrations she sensed were more curiosity than sorrow, and she’d bet the fictitious broom people thought witches rode upon that the curiosity stemmed from their desire to see Nick after all these years, rather than pay their respects to Jacques or the Bardou family. Cecile and Lucian appeared to be the only true mourners for Jacques Bardou. Even his son, Julian, didn’t act overly heartbroken.
Catching a vague reflection of herself in the window, Wendi reached up and pulled off the frilly cap Sybilla had found for her to wear when her aunt realized Wendi meant to mingle with the Belle Chene visitors. In a plain gray gown and with her well-known strawberry hair hidden beneath the cap, no one noticed her. Indeed it rather irked her to see how nondescript she became in her role as a servant, even though the near-invisibility, unless someone wanted a drink, served her purpose well.
She didn’t catch anything interesting in the furtive murmurs when she paused unnoticed here and there to listen to conversations. The mourners knew no more than she about the scandal and death, their whisperings fueled by speculation and innuendo. And it didn’t look like she’d learn anything more today, if there was anything to learn. The rain had most people heading for their carriages to return home, rather than stay for visitation after the service.
Miz Thibedeau had anticipated the rain would result in people leaving instead of staying over, if only to remove their damp clothing as soon as possible. Some would linger, though, and Wendi wanted one last chance at uncovering any clues about her mother’s death. She left the room and headed down the rear stairwell--the one the servants used. It opened onto the back veranda, and she could go to the kitchen house unobserved that way.
She sighed as she crossed the veranda. She’d come to Belle Chene hoping to find a ghost lingering here; to contact it and ask it for some answers not available in her present world. Now it looked as though she’d have to learn how to investigate in the human way--with human senses and her brain instead of her magical abilities.
Not that her magical abilities had shown themselves as anything but average and mundane so far. At her age, she ought to be able to demand her mother appear to her, or use her skills to breach the barriers of the two worlds if necessary. She pursed her lips wryly and shook her head. In this disrupted karmic condition, even her aunt, with years and years more experience with magic, couldn’t do that.
A small figure sat coiled up, head on knees, on the far edge of the kitchen house porch. Something flickered in the recesses, and a light danced on the wall. A wind chime tinkled, but above that sound, Wendi heard a muffled sniff.
Lucian. The boy’s place at Belle Chene and relationship to the rest of the occupants was a mystery to her. However, his sorrow at the loss of Jacques was undeniable. The idea of him being Jacques Bardou’s son had probably crossed more than just Wendi’s mind, but right now the boy needed comfort instead of questions about his ancestry.
Wendi started for him, but the porch squeaked behind her. Before she could turn, Nick caught her arm.
“I’ll take care of him,” he said. “Go on about whatever you had planned to do.”
“I had planned to offer Lucian some comfort,” she said in a soft voice, not wanting to upset the boy further by having him overhear her and Nick arguing about him. “I’m sure you have guests to take care of.”
“Curiosity seekers, you mean,” Nick said. “I long ago quit giving a damn about appearances and the false decorum demanded by some outdated code of conduct in Louisiana. The few people who stayed behind will get tired of waiting for me to make an appearance and leave soon enough. Why weren’t you at the service?”
She stared at him in amazement. “I didn’t expect you’d want my aunt and me there. We’ve been trying to keep ourselves inconspicuous.”
“Maybe your aunt has accomplished that.” Nick chuckled drolly. “But you’ve been in evidence everywhere I look lately. Did you learn anything we didn’t already know about what happened here when your mother died?”
“How--?” Wendi shook her head. “It shouldn’t surprise me that you were aware of what I was doing. There’s been a connection between us ever since you walked off that ship that day. Even before.”
“What do you mean, even before?”
He frowned, his eyes darkening in that pattern she was coming to know meant he wasn’t impressed by any reference to her magical abilities. And his body tensed in the manner she knew meant he wouldn’t take evasion for an answer.
“Our lives have been entwined since my mother met your father,” she said, attempting evasion anyway. It didn’t work; she knew it immediately.
“I think you’re referring to something more recent.” He took a step closer to her, bending his head. “Maybe even something very recent. Entwined, you say? I can remember being entwined with you.”
She forced herself not to retreat. She’d been wanting him to kiss her again since the first time, but not here. Not in the open and not like this. Not with this attitude on his part.
What on earth was it about him? She wanted him, even allowed him to invade her space. Was drawn to him more than she’d ever thought it possible to crave a man’s touch. Even now a warmth settled in her stomach, crawled down a little further to the area between her thighs. By the Goddess, her knees even trembled and her toes curled!
He didn’t kiss her, though. He stopped with his lips still several inches from hers, the pull of them an almost physical sensation. Different emotions sparked and died, one after the other, in his eyes. Desire was the most prominent one, hot, wicked and undeniable. Yet it intermingled with hesitation, uneasiness and indetermination.
The counter sensations to his desire flooded Wendi with humiliation. He wanted her, but he only wanted to satisfy his lust, not take her as woman to his man. Not as a partner to share something more than his body with. Nothing could be clearer to her than that, and she sensed it with her femaleness, rather than her magic. It made an even greater impact on her that way.
She stepped back, feeling as though she were swimming to the top of a deep pond after having touched the sandy bottom and the movement taking every bit of her concentration.
“You better see to Lucian,” she murmured, escaping into the kitchen house.
Escaping, yes, she admitted as she leaned against the wall inside the doorway, surprised not to find anyone else inside the house. Not escaping the desperately desired kiss, though. Instead, escaping the blow to her pride and undermining of her yearnings. She almost felt like she needed a bath, to wash away the feeling of Nick’s lewd craving rather than the meaningful caresses she wanted him to give her.
“He’s the son of my mother’s lover,” she reminded herself in a whisper. “He tolerates me for his own purposes. And if he ever did get me into bed, it would probably only be an act of revenge, not an act of love.”
She compelled herself to move over to the side window and make certain Nick had indeed gone to comfort Lucian. She didn’t need the guilt of knowing the boy was out there alone in his sorrow added to the already heaping pile on her shoulders. Relief filled her when she saw Nick sitting beside Lucian, and she started to turn away before the scene registered on her.
Nick probably didn’t notice, but then, he didn’t have magical abilities. He probably thought the pile of magnolia leaves between Lucian and the porch wall was just a pile of leaves. Wendi saw the layout, however, and hastily turned to shush her aunt when she came down the stairs from the upper story of the house.
Motioning with her
finger, she drew Sybilla over to the window and pointed at the porch floor. After glancing outside, Sybilla looked at Wendi in stunned amazement. Almost at once, her brow furrowed in alarm.
“This only complicates things, if it’s not just coincidence,” she whispered.
#
The next morning, Wendi paused outside the garconniere door. Surely nothing could happen in broad daylight. But it had been daylight yesterday afternoon when Nick had almost kissed her.
Not that she enjoyed labeling what he’d been prepared to offer her a kiss. The word was too special, meant too much to her as a woman, to degrade his actions by calling it that.
Colin had kissed her. Warm and tender, though unfulfilling, his kisses had at least meant something--meant he cared and considered her a partner in his life, someone special and important to him. Charles had mashed her lips with his own, dug his hand between her legs demanding she open for him, rather than coax her to respond.
Nick. She had no earthly idea what the pull between her and him meant. As surely as there was magic, there was a pull there, though.
And it deepened the moment he opened the door.
“You need something, or are you here to clean?” he asked.
“Clean?” she gasped, then gleaned his meaning. He was putting her in her place.
“I wasn’t, but I can be,” she said, struggling to keep her voice neutral. “I don’t mean to be staying here without paying my way. Far be it from me to expect your charity.”
“Get inside, Wendi,” he snarled. “We’ve got things to talk about.”
Yes, they did, but all of a sudden it didn’t seem like a good idea to discuss them right now. Discuss them in the privacy of his quarters. She shook her head and moved back a step.
“I--”
By the Goddess, she’d be darned if she offered him any more medications! He moved as though his leg didn’t bother him at all today, grabbing her arm in a firm grasp. But as soon as she looked into his eyes, she saw he’d only managed to cover up the pain for a brief instant. His grip tightened, and she winced, knowing he didn’t mean her discomfort; he was fighting the weakness brought on by the pain his abrupt movement had caused him, using her to steady himself.
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