Lady Tamsyn and the Pixie's Curse

by Deb Marlowe

  Her brain was spinning and her heart pounded. Rowancourt? Wasn’t that the name Gryff had mentioned, in his story of the stranger who wanted the parcel of his father’s land? Where the pixies were supposed to dwell?

  “And a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” The man sent her father a charged look. “Every daughter you present to me is more beautiful than the last.”

  It was a pretty compliment to the girls, but Tamsyn sensed it was her father that the man was interested in. She looked wildly from him to her family, but they all seemed thrilled with the visitor. What did they see, when they looked at him?

  “Truly, this one is special,” Rowancourt continued. “You must feel right at home here in the wilds. You have the touch of mist and magic on your brow.”

  Her sisters tittered.

  Tamsyn wondered just what he saw when he looked at her?

  “Mr. Rowancourt was telling us the best places to keep our horses in London, Tamsyn. We told him what a grand rider you are.”

  “I suspect beauty and talent run together in all of your family,” he said smoothly.

  Tamsyn met the stranger’s gaze directly. His eyes were the only part of him that didn’t look on the verge of collapse. They were large and grey and she could almost swear she could see something swirling there, like a storm cloud. “Thank you, sir. You are kind. My father said that you have come for the reading of the will?”

  “Did he?” The man drew back. “Yes. It’s just a small matter. I’m sure all will be put to rights.”

  She blinked, not having to feign confusion, but determined to find out everything she could. “Do you mean that you have come on your own? You were not summoned by Mr. Hunt?”

  “Now, now,” her father interrupted. “I’ve assured Rowancourt that Hunt is a fine man and an upstanding solicitor. He’ll see everything is done just as it should be.”

  She watched the stranger closely. “Have you met Mr. Hunt yet, sir? Father is right, he seems irreproachable.”

  “I haven’t met him, but I will soon enough.” The old man arched a brow at her. “And I think that you, my lady, have an idea that no one is truly as they present themselves to the world.” He gave a little bow. “Save for the present company, of course, which must be even more pleasing on deeper acquaintance.”

  Her sisters laughed again, thinking he was being flirtatious, but Tamsyn knew he was fishing for clarity just as she was. “On the contrary, sir. If my time here in the last few days has taught me anything, it’s that people are often more than what they seem.” She tilted her head. “Oh, and you also must ask Father to introduce you to Mr. Drake, the castle steward. He’s been with the family for a long time and knows everything about the castle and the people here. Surely he might be helpful in your business.” She paused. “Or have you met him already, as you were getting settled in?”

  “No, but I got in late in the evening.” The stranger smiled at her mother. “Enough of business matters, they are sure to bore young ladies. We were going to have tea.”

  But it was too late. Tamsyn watched the truth form before him, an image of the old man standing over a confused looking Drake, while the steward handed over a file of papers. She looked closer even as the image began to fade. Rowancourt looked the same, but that was a younger Mr. Drake.

  She fought to contain herself as they sat down to tea. She couldn’t eat a thing and let her sisters carry most of the conversation. Eventually a notion dawned on her. She leaned over to Gwyn and asked, “What color would you call Mr. Rowancourt’s hair?”

  “Wheat?” Gwyn answered with a sigh. “Or Starlight on Wheat?”

  “Hmmm,” was all the reply Tamsyn could manage.

  “His hair is all well and good, but that chin? Those cheekbones? I vow, such bone structure is crying out to be immortalized in marble.” She giggled. “Forget the portraits, we should ask Father to begin a collection of sculpture—and to start with him.”

  Tamsyn made another noncommittal sound. Surely they must all be seeing the well-favored man that her father’s vision had shown her this morning. She was the only one who could see the truth.

  But what did all of this mean? She didn’t know. She only knew she had to tell Gryff.

  And that thought made her heart pound for a completely different reason.

  “Isn’t it exciting, Tam?” Rose asked. “Mr. Rowancourt travels with his own peregrine falcon. I saw it when he arrived last evening. I swear, it is the largest bird I’ve ever seen—and certainly the largest I’ve ever been close to.”

  “Falconry is somewhat of a lost art,” their visitor said. “But I am happy to demonstrate when I travel, and have found some new recruits for the old sport.”

  “He’s going to show us this afternoon,” Rose said with enthusiasm. “Have you finished, sir? Might we go out now before the rain starts again?”

  “Rose!” her mother admonished. “Calm yourself. You will convince Mr. Rowancourt you don’t know how to behave.”

  “No, indeed, ma’am. I am always happy to invite excitement about my beloved Piran. He is a very worthy bird.” He set down his tea cup and stood. “Come, I am more than willing to show him off.” His tone became sly. “And there is always such interesting quarry in this part of the country. We will do our best to entertain you all.”

  Tamsyn stood along with everyone else, but she drew her mother aside. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I think I will go up to my room. I’m feeling tired and I’d rather not turn missish at the sport. And I’d rather miss the hawking than dinner.”

  Her mother sighed. “If you must, but you are right, it would be best to come to dinner. I suppose you aren’t sleeping well, either?” She shook her head. “I vow, if I get my hands on whoever is pounding upon the harpsichord so late . . . “

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Her mother rolled her eyes. “Is it the thought of the hunt? When I was a girl I would never have let that stop me.” She heaved a sigh. “Oh, very well. If you see Marjorie, send her out. She’s not the sort to let a little blood keep her from pursuit of a gentleman.”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  She watched her mother trail after the rest, then ran back to her room. Who or what was that man? Rowancourt was the same name Gryff had used. Was he back here trying to get that patch of Lancarrow land once again?

  She had to get word to Gryff. But how? She couldn’t charge over there, her parents would have twin fits. A message then? Perhaps Mr. Drake would help her. She took up her shawl again and set out. She was hurrying down the main stairwell, heading for the first floor when she heard barking outside. The main door opened—and in strode Gryff, a muddy poodle in his arms.

  Her heart, which had been beating nearly double time all afternoon, gave a lurch. He looked like a knight of old, his silhouette so broad and strong as he came through the arched doorway, his hair loose and flowing free. For the first time in her life, her knees literally grew weak.

  “Gryff! Thank heavens you are here!”

  Maids and a footman converged on them, drawn by the dog’s noise.

  “I understand this might belong here?” Gryff put the dog down and it proceeded to run in noisy circles around the foyer.

  She drew a deep breath and commanded her dancing innards to behave. “Yes. This must be Oscar.” She shot an imploring look at one of the maids. “Will you be sure that he gets back to his mistress?”

  The maid called the dog to order and he followed her willingly, thank goodness. They hadn’t gone far when she saw Lord St. Giles intercept the girl. The poodle looked happy enough to see him, so she turned back to matters at hand.

  “And will you fetch my cloak?” she asked the footman. Tamsyn took Gryff’s arm. “Thank you ever so much, Mr. Cardew. Why don’t we step outside and I’ll help you brush the mud off of your coat?”

  Chapter 4

  She hustled him along with a hand on his arm, making him feel as exquisitely alive as a struck tuning fork, thrumming with anticipation.

  “I’m grateful
for the chance at a few moments alone,” he told her. “I wanted the chance to tell you . . .” He stopped walking abruptly, interrupting her headlong pace and pulling her around to face him. “I wanted to tell you that I am sorry.”

  Her chin went up. “About what?”

  “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have judged you so quickly or harshly.”

  “Well, that’s true enough.” She pulled her hand away. “Yes, I am a lady, but I am also a woman. I am far more than just a fragile piece of porcelain.” She leaned toward him, her expression fierce. “I am nuanced.”

  A gust of wind blew, as if in accompaniment with her words. It carried a few raindrops from the nearest tree and scattered them across her brow and cheeks, marking her like the dew on a petal. Her brave statement summoned a well of curiosity in him. He stepped closer. “Yes, I can believe that.” Reaching out, he brushed a drop from near the corner of her mouth. “Nuances. I’d like to get to know them all.”

  “Well.” She swallowed. He was thrilled to see that she was as affected by their proximity as he. Her hand reached up to stroke a lock of his loose hair—even as she stared at her fingers, bemused, as if they acted on their own volition. “That is good news,” she whispered.

  They stood there, the air between them alive with heat and promise—until she abruptly withdrew, taking a step back.

  “Oh! Well, lovely as that thought is . . .” She shot him a saucy look. “And as much I would like to return to it, we must talk first. Let me tell you what’s happened today.”

  She pulled him on, speaking as they went through the gardens. He listened, growing more irate and concerned, until she brought him to a bench near the entrance to the maze and pushed him down upon it. He almost laughed. It was too adorable, he felt like a great hound being led and pushed about by a kitten. But his smile faded when she sat next to him.

  Rather closer than strict propriety dictated.

  His blood started to heat.

  “Tell me more about what your Rowancourt looked like,” she demanded.

  Well, that cooled him off. He thought back. “Tall, blonde, dressed in the height of fashion.” He shrugged. “Good-looking enough to set the maids to tittering.” He frowned, suddenly struck. “Is that not what you see?”

  “No! I see an old, old man, so withered and decrepit, it seems a miracle that he moves, still.”

  Realization dawned. “So I see what the rest of the world sees and you see the truth of him.” He hated to gloat, but . . . “So that Second Sight has come in handy?” He grinned, but it faded quickly and he shook his head. “But what does it tell us?”

  “That Rowancourt is not a normal man,” she answered.

  They looked at each other, each wondering the same thing.

  What then, was he?

  A loud cry startled them both. Suddenly a large bird swooped over the tall hedge wall of the maze. Tamsyn shrank back into Gryff even as he realized it was a peregrine falcon, a big one—and it was struggling. The mighty wings flapped madly and the animal fell lower before climbing higher than the hedge again. He shaded his eyes, the better to see.

  “It’s got something,” he said, registering the delicious feel of her against him with part of his brain. “And it’s fighting back.”

  The bird screamed again. It was close now and he put an arm around Tamsyn—even as the falcon dropped its prey. It fell to ground not far from where they stood.

  “Sweet saints in heaven—” Tamsyn leaned forward, peering at the thing, then drew back with a cry as the falcon made another run for it.

  The intended victim, a large white hare, jumped up, its sides heaving and blood streaming from the marks left by the bird of prey. Gryff watched, stunned, as the animal didn’t run, but turned to face the oncoming bird. As the cruel talons descended, it dodged, but then it leaped and tried to sink its teeth into the falcon’s leg.

  “What in—? Get back!” He pulled Tamsyn away as an extraordinary battle ensued, the like of which he’d never seen. The bird hovered, flapping furiously, taking swipe after swipe at the hare and even coming about for another swoop at it. But the hare continued to stand its ground and fight, leaping high, out of the way, and in an effort to take the bird down.

  At last, it succeeded, sinking its teeth into the falcon’s meaty thigh. The screech was deafening and the hare dropped away with a mouthful of feathers as the falcon gave up and flew away.

  The hare waited until the bird was out of sight, then collapsed to the ground.

  Gryff exchanged a look with Tamsyn. Together they gingerly stepped over to examine it.

  “What under the heavens?” She sounded fascinated. “What kind of creature is that?”

  He looked between her and the injured animal. “It’s not a white hare?”

  She crept closer. “Not unless Cornish white hares spout rams horns below their ears, sharp claws and a ridge of spiked dark hair along their spines?”

  “It’s Jump.”

  They both started as a young boy stepped up behind them. Gryff glanced at the gravel path and then at Tamsyn. “Did you hear him coming?” he asked.

  She was focused on the boy. “Jump?” she asked.

  “Yes. That’s his name. He’s Tuft’s mount—and his friend. They work together.”

  “And Tuft is . . ?” She waited, eyebrows raised.

  But Gryff was blinking, trying to reconcile what he was seeing. “Tamsyn? Who is your friend?” He could swear that where the sun’s rays hit . . . he could see through the boy to the path behind.

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Gryffyn Cardew, meet Master Paul Hambly.” She paused and turned a surprised expression to the child. “Oh, I hadn’t thought. We’re cousins, of a sort, aren’t we?”

  “Paul Hambly is dead, Tamsyn.” Gryff announced, still staring.

  The pair of them just stared back at him.

  He sucked in a breath.

  “You are the one who told me Cornwall was a land of magic and mystery,” she reminded him with an impertinent grin.

  “Fine, then. I am pleased to meet you,” he said with a short bow to Paul.

  Tamsyn turned back to the animal in the grass. “The poor thing is hurt.” She removed her cloak and crouched down beside it. “We should take it to the castle,” she said, folding the cloak.

  “We should take him to Tuft,” Paul said.

  “Who is Tuft, Paul?” she repeated.

  “He’s a . . . pixie. The pixie, really, the most ancient and powerful one. He can heal him. He takes care of . . . everything.”

  “Fine, then,” she said, echoing Gryff’s words. He had to admit, she was handling the exceedingly strange situation well. “I’ll wrap him up.”

  “No, let me. Wounded animals can be dangerous.” He bent to ease the creature onto the cloak, but it raised its head and bared its teeth at him. “Since when do hares growl?” he exclaimed.

  “Let me try.” Tamsyn gently ran a hand over the long ears and the creature submitted, its breath coming fast.

  “Here.” He fashioned a sling from the cloak and she tenderly laid the animal in before he fastened it around her shoulders and back. “Let’s get you home, Jump,” she said and looked to Gryff.

  He looked to the ghostly boy. “To the barrow?” he asked.

  The boy nodded.

  “Then let’s go.” He cupped a hand under Tamsyn’s elbow and they set out.

  She knew she was flushing more and more as they walked that never-forgotten path, but she could not help it. Passing the gnarled oak was bad, but she nearly groaned out loud in embarrassment when Gryff helped her navigate the fallen log with her burden.

  Paul walked with them and he drew close to her as she stepped into the open meadow. “There’s something you should know,” he said slowly.

  She arched a brow at him and waited.

  “Hares can growl and spirits can look nervous,” Gryff remarked to no one in particular. “I am learning so much today.”

  Paul ignored him, obviously gathering his courage. “Tuf
t is the one who gave you the ability to see . . . to see the truth in a man.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “Tuft did,” she repeated flatly. “The pixie?”

  The spirit boy nodded.

  “Why? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “He meant it as a gift.”

  “But—” Jump moved against her just then and emitted a pitiful moan. She started forward again, her lips pressed tight, trying to move smoothly and not jostle the poor creature. Gryff kept a light touch on her arm as they crossed the clearing and she was grateful for his presence. He led her across the meadow to a corner that was bordered by an impenetrable-looking thicket of trees, vines, thorns and shrubs.

  “It’s through here. I’ll try to clear a path for you. Stick close behind me.”

  He pushed and pulled and hacked, and held branches and vines aside for her as she gingerly followed in his steps. And then they were through and out into another smaller clearing.

  The barrow rose up, dominating one end of the spot. An earthen mound standing taller than a man and covered in grass and moss and the detritus of the forest, it stretched back, longer than she could make out. A doorway, lined with thick stone, opened into the clearing. Nothing but black gloom showed past the entryway and there was no noise or movement in the clearing. Even the birds and the sough of branches in the wind had gone silent.

  “Tuft!” Paul called. “It’s Jump! He’s been hurt!”

  Suddenly, he was there.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He was small, perhaps the height of her knee, and ancient, but in an absolutely different way from the old man masquerading at the castle. Rowancourt reeked of wrong and a faint taste of decay. This creature—his nose was bulbous, his mouth wide with deep grooves etched at the sides, but his eyes were large and . . . knowing. He looked weathered, like he’d drunk in a thousand sunsets and sighed happily at the end of each one.

  He looked at her makeshift sling and his expression darkened. His large ears tilted slightly toward her and then moved closer to his head.

  Gryff immediately stepped closer, as if to protect her and Paul followed suit. “It was the falcon,” he explained.