by L. A. Banks
At last Olivia returned to the one man she knew had something to hide. The ticket seller was just as stubbornly uncooperative as before, and Olivia finally resorted to bringing Kit along for motivation. One glance at Old Shuck convinced the terrified agent that he was best served by honesty.
"They said they'd pay me well if I kept me mouth shut," he said, mopping his forehead with a damp handkerchief. "They also said they'd be . . . most unhappy if I said aught about—"
"Who are 'they'?" Kit demanded.
"I don't know." The man squeezed his eyes closed. "Important toffs, they was, but they didn't want nobody to recognize 'em. I saw when they met the lady . . . just like the one you described, ma'am."
"She did not go willingly?"
"Not as I could see. They carried her off to their carriage, and—"
A streak of fire shot narrowly past Olivia's head, slipped through the window of the ticket booth, and dropped to the ground at the agent's feet. He yelped and danced wildly to put it out.
"Where did they go?" Edward said in a dangerously soft voice.
The man shrank in on himself, trembling. "East, 'at's all I know. All I know."
"He's telling the truth," Olivia said. "Kit, we'll require your services again."
Fortunately, there was only one road leading east out of town. Once they had changed horses again and collected a hasty dawn breakfast of bread, cheese, and freshly picked berries, the Black Dog sniffed out the trail without undue difficulty. It led them to Cheltenham and another set of fresh horses ... as well as an innkeeper who reluctantly admitted to having seen a number of "rough characters" with a lovely young woman headed east.
Edward was nearly beside himself, but Olivia managed to calm him before he set the inn afire. On they traveled through the morning, skirting Gloucester and Hereford. Inevitably the road branched into any number of smaller lanes, and at each one Kit sat on his massive haunches, pricked his long, silky ears, and sucked air through his broad, black nose until he had isolated the desired scent.
It was by such winding back roads—and after making several stops throughout the long day—that they came to the river Wye, which led at last to the border of Cymru. The hilly country was interlaced with pockets of dense woodland, secret valleys, and isolated farmsteads, any one of which could have concealed an abducted young woman and her captors.
Kit never gave up. He made clear that the others were to wait with the carriage while he ranged ahead. Olivia, Edward, and the coachman shared the last of their luncheon of sausage and meat pies and nursed the bumps and bruises of the long and difficult ride. Olivia kept up a steady patter of soothing conversation to distract Edward, who smoldered like a peat fire barely contained under the earth.
The Black Dog returned with the setting of the sun. He quickly changed and approached Edward with very sensible wariness.
"I've found her," he said. Edward leaped up. Kit gripped his friend's shoulder. "Steady, my lad. She's in the hands of several very competent-looking fellows, and there are guards outside the byre where they're keeping her."
"Is she hurt?"
"I was only able to catch a glimpse through a window, but she seems unharmed," Kit said. "She is bound, however, and they appear to be questioning her."
Edward rattled off a string of obscenities, hardly remembering to beg Olivia's pardon. "By God," he rasped. "I'll. . . I'll. . ."
"You'll remain calm, and we shall approach this as rational beings, not children," Olivia chided. She met Kit's gaze. "How many men did you say?"
"Ten, at most, including the guards."
"And we are three."
"I won't have the law involved in this," Edward said.
"No need," Kit said. "One of the Black Dog's most useful skills is the ability to arouse fright in most men . . . especially since he is often a harbinger of death in myth and legend." He grinned. "Let me handle the guards. You and Livvy wait until I give the signal, and then we'll deal with the rest"—he pinned Olivia with a particularly meaningful stare—"when it's safe to do so."
Grim-faced, Edward pulled a gun from his coat pocket and checked it over carefully. Olivia shuddered, loathing the thought of violence and yet knowing it might not be possible to avoid it. She had no useful weapon like the men; she was no Puppetmaster to actually influence the workings of the human body. But she did have the element of surprise.
Kit set out again. Olivia found a patch of soft bracken where she could rest her weary head and jarred body for a few regrettably brief moments. When she woke, Edward had disappeared.
Her own store of imprecations was considerably larger than even Kit would have believed. She spoke briefly to the coachman, instructing him to stay with the horses in readiness for a hasty flight, and made her way by moonlight in the direction Kit had gone. A mile of stumbling over pebbles the size of boulders, and collecting a forest's worth of twigs and leaves in her skirts, brought her to an escarpment overlooking a scattering of farmstead buildings, many collapsed and all dark save for faint illumination streaming from the byre. Olivia scrambled down the steep and rocky incline, landing on a very welcome patch of soft grass.
It was not difficult to tell where Edward had gone. Even as she made her way cautiously toward the byre, a hot light blossomed at one corner of the byre. Alarmed voices rose in the distance. Olivia ran.
She arrived to a scene of utter chaos. Men were fleeing the byre in all directions as the fire, spreading rapidly, consumed half-rotted timbers and thatch. The Black Dog bounded this way and that, his thunderous voice shaking the ground beneath Olivia's feet.
Olivia could think only of Emma, trapped somewhere within that raging conflagration. She darted for the byre's open door, dodged the wall of searing heat, and peered through the choking swirls of smoke.
Two figures crouched in the center, one male and one female. Just as Olivia was plotting her path to reach them, the man rose with the woman in his arms and raced for the door. Olivia retreated, and the three of them collapsed in a coughing, soot-stained heap.
A warm, wet tongue slurped across Olivia's face.
"Ugh. Kit, do you mind . . ."
The Black Dog grinned, showing massive white teeth, and trotted away. A moment later Kit returned.
"The men are gone. Are you all right?" he asked, including Edward and Emma in his glance.
Olivia dragged her hand across her face. "I am fine," she said. "Emma?"
The young woman looked up, blinking, her dazed eyes catching the reflection of the suddenly dying fire. "Where . . . where am I?"
Edward held her in his arms, his cheek pressed to her hair. "She doesn't seem to know how she got here," he murmured.
"Her captors were certainly treated to a glorious announcement of our arrival," Olivia said crossly. "Could you not control yourself?"
Edward flushed. "I saw her through the window, and I couldn't bear—"
"Edward?" Emma turned in his arms. "Edward, are you really here?"
"Yes, darling. You're safe now. Those brigands won't bother you again."
Olivia knelt before Emma. "You aren't hurt?"
"I . . . no." She glanced up at Kit. "Did you all come after me?"
"You simply disappeared," Edward said, his voice growing stern. "What did you expect? That I would not take an interest?"
"Oh, Edward." She covered her face with her hands. "I've made such a mess of things. If only you'd stayed away . . ."
"I'm sure we all have much to discuss," Kit interrupted, "but it would be best if we leave this place, as the fire is very likely to attract attention, and the men may return with reinforcements."
"An inn is out of the question—" Edward began.
"But I have another suggestion. When he died, my father left me a cottage not far from here. It is extremely modest, but it should serve to provide us with shelter and a bed tonight."
"A cottage?" Olivia said. "I never heard of it."
"I've scarcely ever been there, and not in many year
s," Kit said with a diffident air. "There may be an elderly caretaker in residence, but no servants. I wish I could offer you better. . . ."
"I'm sure it will suffice," Edward said. "Lead on, my friend."
They hurried back to the carriage as fast as bruises and aching muscles would allow, only to find that Olivia's coachman had deserted them. Edward admitted to some skill in driving, but since Kit knew the way, he took the ribbons while the others climbed into the seats and resigned themselves to another fast and uncomfortable ride.
"Who were those men, Emma?" Olivia asked once they were well on their way. "Can you tell us why they abducted you?"
Emma took a deep breath, and Olivia could see that she was considering prevarication.
"You'd better tell us the truth," she said. "Nothing less will do, I fear."
"Yes." Emma fixed her gaze on Olivia. "I don't know who they were, as they always wore hoods or low hats, but one was an Inquisitor. He was the man I saw most often."
"An Inquisitor?" Edward said. "Why were they questioning you, Emma? Has this to do with what happened at the wedding?"
Emma pulled away from Edward and wrapped her arms about her chest. "These men . . . and quite possibly the man in the church . . . must have known that I have spent the past several years working for the War Office as a confidential agent at the Burgundian Court. My captors are almost certainly the enemies of Albion."
Edward paled. "A confidential agent? You?"
"Good Lord," Olivia murmured. "The mist begins to clear."
The tale spilled out of Emma as though she had no means or will to stop it. With every revelation Edward lost a little more color. Yet when it was finished and Edward recognized the extent to which his bride had deceived him, he forgave her with all his generous heart.
"My poor darling," he said. "What you must have endured, risking your life for Albion!"
Emma looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
As Kit had warned them, the cottage was an unprepossessing affair—a single-story house surrounded by an overgrown garden amid a few acres of rough land—yet it was certainly no laborer's hovel. Olivia supposed that it might have been used as a hunting lodge, or a country residence for men who desired to take holiday without their womenfolk. Kit went inside while Edward stabled the horses in a small byre adjacent to the house. Kit reemerged with a grim expression.
"It's somewhat the worse for wear," he admitted. "Old Dafydd, the caretaker, isn't here at the moment, but at least he left the place reasonably clean." Kit's cheeks took on a tinge of pink. "I can draw a bath for the ladies and prepare a meal of sorts. I do apologize for my poor hospitality."
"Don't be ridiculous, Kit," Olivia said. "Anything remotely civilized will be welcome under the circumstances."
Once they were inside, Olivia could see that the place had been long neglected in spite of its resident caretaker. Of course she knew a little about Kit's father . . . he'd been one of the old nobility and also a clandestine member of the Rebellion, which had exhausted his fortune and eventually compelled him to flee Cymru and settle in East Anglia. There he had met and married Sarah Brasnett, a viscount's daughter of exceptionally good breeding, who had lost something of her reputation by joining her name to a man whose family blood ran hot with Wild Magic. In fact, the couple had lived and raised Kit in a condition of genteel poverty.
But Kit had always known he was loved, and nothing could take that certainty away from him.
He, however, was clearly out of sorts, and spurned Olivia's efforts to engage him in conversation while he prepared rooms for his female guests.
What has come between us, my friend? she thought. We have always been the best of co-conspirators. Something troubles you, and it is far more than the state of this house.
She never found the right moment to ask him, for shortly he announced that the yellow and blue bedchambers were ready for occupation. Once Olivia had seen to Emma's comfort, she retired to her own room, where she made a hasty toilette at the washstand and was glad enough to close her eyes after a night and day of rattling about in a coach, no matter how well sprung.
She woke to heavy silence and the aroma of brewing coffee. Buttoning up her gown, she went down to join Kit and Edward in the tiny sitting room. They broke off their conversation at once. It was still the wee hours of the morning, a time for secrets, and Kit had a vaguely guilty look about him. Olivia vowed that she would not allow herself to be hurt by Kit's behavior.
"I smell coffee," she said brightly. "I would dearly love a cup."
"You detest the stuff," Kit protested with a slight smile.
"I will have some, nonetheless."
She had barely taken her first sip when a bloodcurdling scream rent the air.
Edward shot to his feet. Kit dashed for the stairs, Olivia at his heels. She rushed ahead and blocked the way into Emma's room.
"Let me go in," she said. "If I require assistance, I will let you know."
"She needs me!" Edward protested. He lunged for the door, but Kit intercepted him, holding on with stubborn strength. Olivia went into the room and closed the door.
Emma was sitting upright in bed, her face streaked with tears. Her gaze was focused on some point above Olivia's head.
"Did you see it?" she asked in a whisper.
Olivia looked up at the wall. "See what, Emma?"
The young woman swiped her sleeve across her face. "I couldn't have imagined it. It was real. Just as real as . . ." She paused, her eyes acknowledging Olivia with guarded defiance. "You will think me mad."
"Not at all." Olivia sat on the edge of the bed and took Emma's hand. "You have been through a great deal. What is it you saw?"
Emma shuddered. "A spirit. A particular kind of apparition that. . . that my maid, Kate, used to speak of."
Kate O'Brennan, as Olivia well knew, was the young woman who had met an untimely end on the Continent while she was serving Emma. Her tragic and unexpected demise had brought Emma home to Albion, but Kate's body had been left behind, lost in the Loire River.
"You saw a ghost?" Olivia asked gently.
"Not a ghost. A banshee."
"A banshee? The creatures that are supposed to appear when . . . when someone is about to—"
"—die. Yes." Emma shivered. "It is not the first time I have seen one, Olivia. The first time was at St. Bertram's . . . just before the young Eirishman fell down the steps and broke his neck."
Kit grunted as he pulled the massive book from the dusty library shelf and began to thumb the dog-eared pages.
" 'Banshee,'" he muttered. " 'Bean-sidhe. Eirish folklore. A spirit or fairy who presages a death by wailing.' "
"Do you mean that this 'bean-sidhe' killed the man in the church?" Olivia asked.
"Not at all. They don't kill. . . they only warn of impending death." He looked up with a frown. "That much is common knowledge to any student of magic. But from what I understand, they only appear to those of Eirish descent, particularly those of noble or royal blood."
"Emma isn't Eirish," Edward said.
"Some prefer not to advertise such connections," Olivia said dryly, stirring her cold coffee with a bent silver spoon. "There are but three possibilities: Either Emma imagined this apparition—"
"I don't believe it," Edward interjected.
"—there is hidden Eirish blood in either the Denholme or Brightwell lines, or this bean-sidhe is behaving very much out of character."
"And there is a further complication," Kit said, setting the book down on a side table. "The bean-sidhe is only supposed to appear when a loved one or member of the family is about to die."
"And Emma said that she saw the spirit in the church just before the stranger met his untimely end," Olivia said.
Edward sat up in his chair. "She had nothing to do with his death!"
"I was not implying that she did. She denies ever having seen his face."
Edward remained stiff as a poker. "She has no family in this house,"
he said, "But depending upon the definition of 'loved one' . . ."
"We gain nothing by such cheerless speculation." Olivia tapped the spoon against her lip. "Only Emma can make sense of this, and evidently she is not prepared to tell everything she knows."
"Are you suggesting—"
"If she was a spy for the War Office, there are doubtless many things she isn't permitted to reveal," Olivia said. "As soon as she is recovered, we must get her back to civilization and under the protection of the Crown."
"If that is what she wishes," Kit said. "She tried to escape before. Apparently she doesn't believe that the War Office can protect her."
"There's no telling how many enemies she has, even here in Albion," Edward said. "I'll get her out of the country. We'll go to the Colonies if we must."
"I doubt that the War Office will simply allow her to leave," Kit said, "particularly once they've learned that she was abducted and questioned. If she has knowledge of state secrets—" He stopped, jerked up his head, and swung toward the door to the hall. Olivia could almost see the hair stand straight up on the back of his neck.
"Someone is approaching the house," he said. "Several men, from the sound of it."
Edward snatched the gun that he had left on a side table. Kit growled deep in his throat.
"I should have sensed them if they followed us," he said. "Unless one of them is a Dissembler. . . ."
"They are the same men?" Olivia asked, peering between the faded curtains.
"Stay away from the window, Livvy." He flared his nostrils. "I can't quite make out the scent." He glanced at Edward and then toward the stairs. "You stay with the women, and I'll go out and meet them."
"You should stay, Christopher. I can raise a firewall if they don't listen to reason."
Emma's Talent might conceivably be of some use about now, Olivia thought, if only she would reveal it. Olivia coughed behind her hand. "Gentlemen . . . though I am not well versed in the matter of fisticuffs or firearms, I do have a small skill that should free you both. I can set wards across the doorways, so that no stranger can enter without triggering an uproar."
