Under Your Spell

by Lois Greiman

  “What happened?” he asked, tone level, eyes steady.

  She raised a regal brow at him. “I believe we just saw a play written by Shakespeare and performed with a modicum of talent by an Italian girl with middling legs and—”

  “You looked as if you had seen a ghost.”

  “She’s not a ghost!” Ella rasped, remembering the stifling closeness, the smell of decay, a child’s boundless terror.

  Drake’s brows lowered a notch. Ella wanted to close her eyes against her foolishness, to hide beneath the worn leather seat. He hadn’t been speaking of the girl named Elizabeth. She did clear her throat now, then chuckled a little, glancing down at her lap and trying hopelessly to hide her panic. Why the visions? Why now? She was done with that. Had put it behind her.

  “I didn’t think you the kind to believe in hobgoblins and the like,” she said, but she felt pale, shaken.

  His gaze never strayed. Their knees were all but touching as they faced each other across the brougham. “Are you gifted?” he asked.

  “What?” She drew back, filled with terror, with memories too harsh to entertain.

  He watched her with darkling, inscrutable eyes. “Are you gifted, lass?”

  “I believe I shall get my own cab,” she said, and standing, moved toward the door, but in that second the carriage lurched forward. She bobbled on her feet, almost falling, but he reached out and grabbed her, bearing her onto his lap.

  Outside, drivers cursed each other with verve.

  Beneath her, Drake’s thighs felt hard and un-giving despite his wounds, despite his pain.

  “Do you have the gift?” he asked again, close now, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Well…” She felt light-headed and cold despite the stifling heat of the theater. “I’m a fair hand at whist and my needlepoint is quite spectacular if I do say so myself.”

  Quiet settled in, as if they were no longer a part of the world at large, but in their own private bubble, locked away in the semidarkness. “In County Galway there are many with the sight.”

  “The sight?” She laughed. It sounded maniacal to her own ears. “You think I possess some sort of ungodly power to read minds?”

  “Some might call it such,” he admitted, but his tone suggested that he was not one of those. “My mother and her kin did not.”

  Was he lying? Was he hoping to draw her out? To destroy her?

  Her hip was pressed snug against his cock. She could feel its hard length burn through the gauzy fabric of her gown. “I do know that you desire me, if that’s what you mean,” she said. Perhaps she was hoping to distract him, but suddenly she wanted nothing so much as to be held, to lie in his arms and forget all.

  His gaze burned her lips. Her breath came in small gasps. For a moment all was still, all was silent, but in the next he slipped his hand behind her neck and pulled her into a kiss. It was neither tender nor uncertain, but hot and demanding, burning with passion and strength and need.

  And she answered, barely aware of her actions as she bent one knee and turned in his arms, hugging him with her thighs as she pressed against him.

  He growled something low in his throat and yanked down her bodice. It scraped against her aching nipples, but there was no time to think of that, for suddenly the world exploded as he took her in his mouth. She shrieked, arching wildly against him, holding his head to her breast. He strained against the confines of his breeches and suddenly, inexplicably, she could wait no longer. Scrambling backward, she tore at his pants. They opened with irritating slowness, but finally his erection strained forward, hard, ready. He was struggling with her skirts, tugging them up out of the way. They bunched beneath her, but she cared little for their condition. She only wanted to feel, to do, to be lost in the tangible world. A world she could understand. Grabbing his coat in both hands, she yanked herself onto him. He filled her to bursting, thrusting deep with a growl of need so primitive, it was beyond words.

  Still, he tried to articulate his question “Are you—”

  “Shut up!” she snarled, and jerked against him.

  He swore, wrapping his arms about her back, grabbing her shoulders from behind, pulling her onto his straining desire. One breast was bare, its ruddy nub bursting forth, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but finding utopia, finding oblivion.

  He bucked into her, and she took him, every inch, every spasm, every hard thrust until she shrieked on the summit of release.

  He gritted his teeth against the painful pleasure and spilled into her, throbbing, pulsing, shuddering. She collapsed against him with a little shriek, used up, sated, just as she felt the carriage slow. She jerked her head up. They couldn’t have arrived already. Couldn’t have.

  Drake cursed and reached for her, pulling her gown back into place, before reverently covering her breast with one palm for a moment.

  “Damn! Dammit.” She slid off him, thoughts tumbling dangerously in her head. “My slipper.” She was smoothing her hair, tugging at her gown, searching the floor. “Where’s my slipper?”

  “Ella—” he rasped, but she dared not look at him.

  “Just find my shoe.”

  He turned his head, dazed, then reached behind him to pull her slipper from behind his back. She reached for it, but he held on tight.

  Their gazes fused.

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said.

  “Really?” She tried to steady her breath, tugged the shoe from his hand. “Because I did,” she said, and tumbled out the door and onto her cobbled walk.

  Chapter 14

  The streets were dark, but it mattered little. The way to Lavender House was etched in Ella’s mind like an old memory, frayed with time and thought and worry. Silk’s hooves rang hollowly against the cobbles before coming to a halt in front of the towering manse where her mistress had once lived.

  Ella slipped to the ground.

  Her feet were bare. The paving stones felt cool and contemplative beneath her soles, as if they waited, pondering. She needed no key to open the door, simply a thought, a motion, and she was in.

  No rug lay in the entry, for the inhabitants within wished to hear every sound, to be aware of every movement.

  Perhaps the house was silent, but to Ella it hummed with smoldering thought, with energy. She strode inside. A noise sounded from the parlor. A right turn and a left and she was there. The room was spacious, elegant, twice as long as it was wide, decorated in sea greens and golds. A graceful divan lounged near a window draped in heavy brocade and tassels. Two upholstered armchairs faced each other, inviting conversation. The wall coverings were striped with cheery yellow flowers twining in rows.

  And two combatants faced each other from the center of the room. Dressed in taut breeches and tunics, they examined each other in silence. One in white, the other in black. Both were lean; both were barefoot. Both were women. Neither turned to face Ella.

  “Josette,” said the nearer, back still toward her.

  “Where is he?” Ella asked.

  “Bed,” said the other, and without warning soundlessly launched forward, flying through the air at the white fighter. They connected and rolled, spun apart, sprang back to their feet, but Ella had already left.

  Grasping her rumpled frock in one hand, she took the stairs two at a time. They creaked beneath her feet. The second door on the left was closed, but it mattered little. She burst inside.

  A splash of light spilled across the bed’s lone occupant. Jasper Reeves sat up.

  “Damn you,” Ella said. Her voice quivered in the darkness.

  “Josette.” His voice was level, unhurried, unsurprised. He was fully dressed and wide awake with not a hair out of place.

  “It’s hers, isn’t it?” she asked, and threw the crumpled handkerchief in his face.

  He wadded it in his fist and swung his feet to the floor. They were bare, the only part of him that suggested less than full readiness. But then he had ever taught them that shoes were uncertain. When
in doubt of the surface, bare feet were best. Perhaps he had been ready for a battle. Perhaps he’d anticipated her arrival. The idea did nothing but stoke her anger.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  Feelings flared up like fireworks. A child. Freezing, terrified, alone. Just holding the handkerchief had told her that much. Touching it to her face had nearly been her undoing. She should have realized the visions were caused by the hankie. Should have known Jasper would try to use her yet again; she’d not been thinking clearly. “I believe I told you I quit.”

  He stood up. His clothes looked strangely unwrinkled. His cravat was only slightly askew. “Her mother tells me she would be eight years old on Sunday.”

  She felt her heart rate slow. Felt her skin go cold. “I can’t do it.”

  His eyes met hers for a lifetime, and then he nodded. “I had to try. The council is applying some pressure. Elizabeth’s father is quite high placed.”

  Elizabeth. Lizzy. She gritted her teeth against the name, but the images, raw as fresh wounds, raged through her nevertheless. Darkness, then a blast of brilliant light. Sun on water perhaps.

  “Where is she?” he asked again. His voice was low, hypnotic, pulling her in, rolling her under.

  “A river,” she said.

  “How far from here?”

  Trees. A boat. “I don’t know.”

  “Can you see it?”

  “No. But I did.”

  “When?”

  She shook her head. It was gone. She felt drained, angry, worn. “Damn you,” she said again, but softly now.

  “Josette.” Madeline rushed up behind her, eyes wide, dark hair tumbling down her back. “What are you doing here?”

  “Returning a handkerchief.”

  “A—” Maddy glanced toward Reeves, and for an instant, if Ella hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she saw the flash of regret in his eyes, of guilt and shame and hopeless remorse, but in a moment it was gone, replaced by businesslike implacability.

  “Gather the others,” he ordered.

  Maddy turned toward Ella, but neither spoke. A thought was enough.

  “Are you certain?” Madeline whispered.

  Ella nodded. They turned away together.

  It took only minutes for the coven to be complete. Thirteen women. Warriors of sorts. Ambassadors for a government that did not claim them. Some wore naught but flowing night rails. Two were dressed in breeches. Only Shaleena was naked. But then Shaleena would be, standing tall and alone, apart from the loose circle, breasts outthrust. They were large and round above a narrow waist and full hips.

  “This is my project,” she said, her voice husky and dramatic in the stillness.

  A fire burned in the hearth. Darla fed a handful of meadowsweet to the flames. It flared, casting a blue tint to her silvery hair.

  “I believe I’ve asked you to remain clothed for these sessions,” Jasper said.

  “True witches work sky-clad,” Shaleena said.

  If he was irritated, Ella couldn’t tell. If he was aroused, no one could tell. If he had feelings, none would ever know. When he spoke again, his words were absolutely level.

  “You work for the good of the coven,” he said. “For the good of Britain, or you work alone.”

  She stared at him a moment, then sauntered to the center of the circle, hips swaying with provocative exaggeration, but he had already turned away to hand each of the others an item. A doll. A chemise. A hairbrush. They held them in silence, eyes closed, not thinking, merely being until one by one, they set their items near Shaleena’s feet. To her he gave a scrap of gray linen, two feet long, as wide as her hand. It was knotted some inches from its ragged ends.

  “We found this on her father’s lawn near the street,” Jasper said. “We think it was a blindfold.”

  Shaleena held it in her hands and flared her nostrils in disdain. “It’s been handled since then.”

  “It’s all we’ve got,” Jasper said.

  Their gazes met. Shaleena scowled, then tugged the fabric through her fingers. No one spoke. She closed her eyes, then smoothed the cloth across her face. A log popped behind her, but she failed to notice. Indeed, she almost smiled as the others joined hands in a circle around her.

  Madeline squeezed Ella’s. Support, strength, sisterhood flowed between them. The room was silent but for the crackle of the flames, sparking blue and orange. It flared again and fell, casting light and darkness across solemn faces.

  Shaleena began the ancient chant. The words rolled quietly along, rose in volume, fell away. The world went silent, but the room vibrated with power, with energy. Ella felt herself drawn under, as if she were being immersed in warm waves. She could hear, could see, but everything was muffled, altered, distorted.

  Finally Shaleena spoke, but her voice was changed, low, raspy with hate, rough with anger. “Ain’t so pretty now, are you, girl?”

  Feelings flared up, casting Ella into burning white light. “Where am I?” She felt her heart beating heavy and frightened in her narrow chest. Her face felt grubby, tight with grime and tears. Her throat was raw and dry.

  “Ain’t so sassy neither.” The words were a rusty snarl. Shaleena was gone, replaced by another, an image almost indiscernible against the stunning light. Ella blinked, her sight adjusting, but the speaker turned away. He was short, broad, his hair a greasy gray.

  “I want to go home,” Ella whispered.

  “I wanted my boy to come home too, didn’t I?” snarled the other. “But he’s not coming. Dead.” He nodded, voice singsong, eerie. “Died brave they say.” His body went still, remembering. “But that does me little good.” His voice broke. He reached up to wipe his nose with his sleeve. “But they’ll pay now. They’ll pay dear.”

  Ella dug her fingernails into her palms. They were broken and jagged, not unlike her spirit. Her legs felt wooden, her chest compressed. “Please.” Her voice was filling with tears. Her throat constricted. “Let me go.”

  “Shut up,” he ordered, and fiddled with something on the scarred table before him. His voice was steady, past mercy, past caring.

  “They’ll find me,” Ella said. Anger swirled up from the bottomless fear. She fisted her tiny hands. Her eyes stung.

  But her abductor only chuckled. The sound was gritty.

  “You know they’ll find me,” she said, trying to force strength into her wavering voice, but her tone was high-pitched and panicked. “And then you’ll not—” But suddenly he turned. His fist cracked against her temple. Pain and shock exploded in Ella’s head. She flew backward, striking the floor. Darkness streamed in, reaching for her, drowning her.

  A dozen emotions seared her; a hundred images flowed by on a thousand trilling voices, but finally the voices separated, became clear. They were talking about her. An argument maybe. Ella remained very still, floated in dark water. It lay heavy and deep. Maybe cradling her, maybe pulling her under.

  “Jos. Josette.” It was Madeline’s voice that finally brought Ella to consciousness.

  She was lying on the floor, her shoulders bruised against the hardwood. Above her, the ceiling looked shadowed and distant.

  “Are you well?”

  She didn’t try to answer immediately. Five women surrounded her, their faces wreathed in varying degrees of concern. Madeline’s eyes looked strained and haunted.

  “Jos—”

  “I am well,” Ella said, and tried to sit.

  “No. Wait.” Madeline pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Stay for a moment, gather your senses.”

  She relaxed as requested, not because she wished to, but because she seemed to have little choice.

  Jasper appeared in her line of vision, his face as expressionless as a stone. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She stared at him. “You’re an ass,” she said.

  From somewhere out of sight, Shaleena laughed. Darla breathed a sigh of relief, and for a moment Ella feared Maddy might cry.

  “Let her sit up,” Jasper ordered. />
  They did so. The world blurred around the edges, but Ella remained upright.

  “Can you stand?” Maddy asked.

  She pushed herself to her feet. Many hands helped her, steadying her, supporting her. It was the way of women.

  “How’s your head?” Reeves asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  They pointed her toward a nearby chair, but she refused to sit. Instead she turned and faced Jasper, feelings fierce and hot in her soul. “She’s still alive.”

  He made no indication that he had heard her. “Who has her?”

  She delayed a moment, letting the feelings wash over her, shifting through the fear, the horror to the practical truth. “A man. Older than you. Virtually the same height.”

  No one spoke.

  “He’s hurt,” she said, though she felt no mercy for him. “Angry.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  For an instant she felt the sharp strike of pain again, but she ignored it, looked beyond. Still, there was so little. “No.”

  “Shaleena?” Reeves asked, glancing away.

  Ella turned toward the other. Still naked, she stood with her back toward them. The fire limned her curvaceous form as she warmed her hands by the flames, refusing to answer.

  “A girl’s life is on the line,” Reeves reminded her, and she turned, slowly, deliberately. Firelight gleamed on her thighs, her belly.

  “Good,” she said, and her face was twisted.

  Not a breath was released.

  “Shaleena!” Jasper said sharply, and suddenly she jerked, blinked, glanced about as she shifted from the trance. They watched her, breath held.

  “What did you learn?” Reeves asked.

  Her lips curled up a little. “It is rather unpleasant being old,” she said, and glanced down at her breasts. “Everything sags.”

  Reeves’s brows lowered. “Try—”

  “His son is dead.” She narrowed her eyes. “He longs for revenge.”

  “Why Elizabeth?”

  She shrugged.

  “Who is he?”

  “As you know, I can only see the thoughts present at the time. I didn’t happen to be thinking about my name when I struck her.” She glanced at Ella, eyes gleaming.