Masque of Enchantment

by Charlene Cross

  The last three words tore straight to his core; his contemptuous gaze raked her face, and he jerked her against him, his mouth crashing down on hers in a fierce, angry kiss.

  Alissa tried desperately to respond, but his deliberate cruelty frightened her; a whimper trembled in her throat. Hearing it, Jared tore his mouth aside and shoved her away. “It won’t work, Alissa. You say the words, hoping I’ll believe you. But I know you’re only trying to protect him. Your guile sickens me.”

  In disbelief, she watched as he slipped the key from the lock; the door swung on its hinges and slammed shut. Hearing metal scrape into the lock, she threw herself against the wood. “Jared, please!” she cried, her fists pounding furiously. “You’re wrong! Please don’t do this! Please … please … !” No response came, and she sank to the floor, her cheek pressed to the door. “It’s you I love,” she sobbed brokenly. “It’s you.”

  His mind already set, Jared strode the hall, closing out her anxious cries, and headed for the stables. With Thor saddled, he bounded to the stallion’s back and spurred him into a full gallop, heading to Falcon’s Gate.

  Ian Sinclair’s startled butler fell back as the door was shoved inward, Jared striding into the large mansion without preamble. “Find your master,” he demanded, his eyes hard as stone. “Tell him Jared Braxton is here.”

  “C-certainly, my lord.” And the man scurried off.

  “Jared. What brings you here?” Ian asked, coming into the huge entry, but he stopped in his tracks as his estranged friend turned toward him.

  “You common bastard,” Jared hissed, eyes narrowed. “Twice you’ve cuckolded me. Now I’ll put an end to your chicanery.”

  “What the hell are you inferring?”

  Jared laughed, raucously. “Sinclair, you truly believe I’m stupid, don’t you? She’s already confessed to your little rendezvous in the glade. You’ve trespassed for the final time.”

  “Nothing’s happened between Alissa and me. I swear.”

  “The same as nothing happened between Celeste and you?”

  “You know it didn’t.”

  “Still denying it, Sinclair?”

  “I never touched Celeste. I didn’t love her.”

  “But you love Alissa, right?” Jared asked, his madness driving him a step closer to Ian. In disillusioned anger, he added, “Since she doesn’t sleep in my bed, then she must be in yours. Conveniently, she’s made herself your whore.”

  “Hold your tongue, man,” Ian said, his voice threatening, eyes cold. “You’ll not call her that.”

  “I’ll call her what she is,” Jared answered, purposely baiting his opponent to ensure the proper outcome. “Paramour. Trollop. Harlot. Bit—” The flat of Ian’s hand connected with Jared’s cheek, turning his head sideways. Slowly swinging it back, he smiled, coldly. “I accept your challenge. Since you’ve been kind enough to make it, I’ll set the rules. We’ll dispense with the proper etiquette. No seconds are needed. Ready your pistols, sir. Be at the glade within the half hour.” He turned and strode toward the door. “I’d say it’s a fair place to die, wouldn’t you? And, remember, if you don’t show, Alissa will suffer for your cowardice.”

  “Braxton—” The door banged shut, and Ian swallowed his words. Releasing a long breath, he made his way to his study and retrieved his dueling pistols from the locked cabinet. The man was insane … completely insane. Or was he? he questioned, realizing he’d been duped into making the challenge. Yet, he dared not back away from it, certain Alissa would suffer Jared’s reprisal.

  After saddling his horse, Ian told a servant to summon the physician in Selkirk and lead him to the glade. An ominous feeling overtook him. Blood would be spilled.

  “Where’s the damned key?” the duke shouted, then snatched the ring from Mrs. Dugan as she rushed up beside him.

  “Hurry, Edward!” Eudora implored. “She’s hysterical.”

  The duke quickly unlocked the door and turned the handle; Alissa burst into the hallway. “We must stop him!”

  “Stop who?” Edward Braxton asked, not knowing what had caused the fuss, only that Eudora had anxiously called for him to find Mrs. Dugan and the keys. “And why were you locked inside your room?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Eudora can tell you.”

  As the group rushed down the hallway toward the alcove, Eudora hastily apprised the duke of his son’s intentions. “He’s bent on killing Ian Sinclair,” she finished as they reached the kitchens.

  Edward caught Alissa’s arm. “Does he have reason to, young woman?”

  Alissa shook his hand free. “No, Your Grace. His imagination has run wild. There’s nothing between the Earl of Huntsford and myself, except friendship.” Then she turned and rushed off to the stables, the duke and Eudora following her.

  “Eudora, order my son’s room prepared, just in case the worst comes about,” Edward said, impatiently waiting for Mr. Stanley to saddle their horses. “Plenty of clean linen and hot water. Ho! You there,” he called to one of the stable boys. “Head into Selkirk and alert the physician there’s trouble at Falcon’s Gate. Hurry, lad!”

  The boy quickly slipped a rope bridle onto the nose of an old gelding, hopped onto its bare back, and rode off at a steady lumbering pace toward town.

  “Give me a leg up,” Alissa ordered the moment Sweet Honesty came into view; Mr. Stanley’s cupped hands boosted her astride the mare. “We’ll cut across country. It’s faster.”

  Then she turned Sweet Honesty and headed toward the cottage. Don’t let it be too late, she prayed, edging the mare into a full gallop, the Duke of Claremore and Mr. Stanley close behind. Please, Jared, my love, don’t do anything foolish!

  In the glade, Jared and Ian stood back to back, pistols loaded and cocked, barrels pointed heavenward, resting at their shoulders. “Start the count, Sinclair,” Jared commanded.

  “You hotheaded catch colt,” Ian returned, angrily. “If you’re so intent upon dying, then you start the count.”

  “If I die, it’s a certainty you will, too. My faithful wife will be left with nothing.”

  “Then it’s to the death, Braxton. I’ll not leave her to suffer at your hands. You’ve gone insane! You’ll be damned for it!”

  Jared laughed, roughly. “Then I’ll meet you in hell, friend.” And he began the count.

  Sweet Honesty crested the hill in time for Alissa to see the men step the last few paces. An eerie slowness seemed to orchestrate their movements, and her mouth opened to emit a cry, but her voice suspended itself in silence.

  “Ten,” Jared shouted and started to pivot and level his pistol, Ian’s moves duplicating his own. A shot rang through the glade, exploding like cannon fire; Jared stumbled back, a jolt of pain racking his body. In disbelief, he stared at the red stain spreading across his white shirt. Blood?

  “Jared!”

  The terrorized scream of his name drew his fading attention and he turned on unsteady legs. His vision blurring, he tried to focus his eyes. A horse and rider bore down on him. “Alissa?” he questioned, somehow certain it was his wife. “W-why … why?”

  Then, strangely, Jared found himself staring into a dark abyss. His knees buckling, he slipped into oblivion.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty

  “Jared?” Alissa cried as she slid from the saddle and dropped to her knees beside his fallen body. Shaky fingers touched his blood-splattered shirt, covering his upper left chest. “Oh, Jared … why did you do this?” A shadow fell across her, and she gazed up.

  Ian read the frightened question in her eyes. He bent to one knee, braced his pistol across the other, and felt along Jared’s neck, searching for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he said, laying his weapon aside. “We need to stem the flow of blood.”

  A length of her petticoat ripped free, Alissa folded it and gently placed it over the wound.

  “By God, man, you fired too soon!” the Duke of Claremore accused, having leapt from his horse, his hand clamping onto Ian’s shoulder. “
I should throttle you! Coward!”

  Ian rose. “My weapon is still loaded.”

  Edward Braxton’s eyes narrowed. “Prove it!”

  Retrieving his pistol, Ian walked several yards away, the duke on his heels, and aimed it at the ground. The sudden explosion startled Alissa, and she screamed, “Stop this madness! It matters not who shot him! We must get him back to Hawkstone!”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth, than a buggy careened up the lane and across the glade, two lads on horseback behind it. Mr. Stanley caught the reins, steadying the lathered horse, as the elderly Dr. Drummond sprang from his seat. Without preamble, he knelt and examined Jared’s wound. “Let’s get him back to the house.”

  Carefully lifting Jared, the duke, Ian, and Mr. Stanley gently set him inside the buggy, then mounted their own steeds. His head resting against her shoulder, Alissa continued to apply pressure to his wound.

  “Hold tight,” the doctor said as the vehicle began moving again. “Should he start bleeding more, tell me.” Then he snapped the whip, sending the horse into a fast trot toward Hawkstone.

  Her lavender day dress stained with Jared’s blood, Alissa stood next to the doctor, sterile cloths ready upon request. A moan erupted from her drugged husband’s lips as the man probed his flesh, searching for the shot, while Ian held him down. Feeling suddenly light-headed, she fought for control. Usually strong of stomach, she decided it was her condition that caused the nausea. Her arrested fear that she might lose her husband suddenly welled up inside her and she prayed with all her might that Jared would live to see his new son or daughter.

  “There … I’ve got it.” Dr. Drummond turned and dropped the lead ball into the basin. Next came a bloody swatch of cloth, a remnant of Jared’s shirt, which he pitched alongside the lead shot. “Now hand me the antiseptic.”

  The bottle and a clean cloth were passed to him. “Will he be all right?” Alissa asked.

  “If his body can ward off any infection … we must be cautious, however. Should he start showing signs of a fever, notify me at once.” After taking several stitches, he bandaged the wound, instructing Alissa on how to change the dressing. “Keep him sedated with the laudanum. From what little I’ve been told, I take it his hotheadedness got him into this.” Drummond looked pointedly at Ian. “I don’t want him trying to leave his sickbed to take after you again.” He headed toward the door. “I’ll be back on the morrow. If you should need me sooner, send round for me.”

  From the moment the silver-haired man stepped from the room, Alissa kept a continuous vigil, Megan at her side. Eudora, Edward, Mr. Stanley, and Ian all took turns staying with the pair, Mrs. Dugan bringing hot tea and food to the room, periodically. Robert made his appearance at will.

  “If Sinclair didn’t down him, who did?” Robert questioned his uncle on one such visit.

  “We haven’t the slightest … a hunter … a poacher.”

  After a moment or two of pacing around, Robert quit the room.

  Despite everyone’s urgings, Alissa refused to leave Jared’s side. She ate little, if anything at all. Then, late into the night, several hours before dawn, her greatest fear came to fruition. Jared’s brow flamed with fever as a violent chill overtook him. Rousing Mr. Stanley from the corner chair, where he slept, she sent him after the doctor, then heaped cover upon cover over Jared.

  “There’s probably some cloth fragments still in the wound,” Dr. Drummond stated, sighing. “I had hoped I’d gotten it all.” He placed a fresh bandage over the festering wound, covering the angry red marks branching outward from it. “There’s not much I can do.”

  “He’s not going to die, is he?” Alissa asked, wildly. Ian quickly stepped from behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. She gazed at him and pleaded, “There must be something we can do.”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said, gently. “We’ll have to wait it out.” His gaze firmed on Ian’s. “Use any resource you have.”

  As soon as Drummond left, Ian turned to Mr. Stanley. “Go fetch Nanna. Tell her your master has a poisoning in his blood.”

  “Right, yer lordship.” Mr. Stanley headed for the doorway. “I’ll get her here in a flash.”

  Alissa fixed questioning eyes on Ian. “Who’s Nanna?”

  “She’s an old woman who lives on my estate. She’s probably a century old, if she’s a day. Some say she’s a witch. I say she’s a healer. If anyone can help him, Nanna can.”

  Staring down at her husband, Alissa felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. “What would I do without him?”

  “It is not a question you need to ask,” Ian said, comfortingly. “He’ll survive to see and to hold his new son.”

  Her head snapped around. “Who—?”

  “Eudora has told us. She’s worried about you. Especially when you refuse to eat. It’s not good, Alissa, that you spend so much time here. One of us can tend to him.”

  “I’ll not leave him.” She then wrung out another cool cloth, placing it on Jared’s fevered brow. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered in his ear. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  Within the half hour, the door flew back on its hinges, and an old crone, stooped and aided by a cane, limped into the room. Her skin looked like aged parchment; gray hair sprang from her head, wild and untamed. Her sharp eyes pierced the occupants of the room; then she ambled toward the bed. “Out’a me way, lass,” she ordered, prodding Alissa with her cane.

  Alissa’s gaze latched onto Ian. He nodded reassuringly, and she slowly stepped aside to watch as gnarled fingers slipped the bandage from her husband’s chest.

  “Eeh, ’tis bad,” Nanna said, and turned to Alissa. “The croaker, did he put anythin’ on the wound?”

  “Antiseptic.”

  “Bring me sack and kettle,” the crone called to Mr. Stanley, and he quickly did as told. Then all three eyed Nanna as she took the lid from the black iron pot and skimmed a moldy substance from the broth inside, slapping it onto a clean linen bandage.

  When she realized the woman intended to place it on Jared’s wound, Alissa opened her mouth in protest, but Ian bent to her ear. “Let her do what she knows best.”

  “But—”

  “She has the power to heal. Her cures go beyond those of most folk medicine. Drummond knows it. Because of his oath, he won’t say her name aloud, but she’s the ‘resource’ he spoke of.”

  “If anything happens to him—”

  “I’ll take full responsibility.”

  An agonized moan tore from Jared’s lips as the old woman’s fingers probed his injured flesh. Alissa’s fists balled, and she bit her lip to keep from ordering the woman from the room.

  “Hot water,” Nanna demanded, sharply. “Needs to draw some of this poison from him ’fore I dress it.”

  Ian slipped the kettle from the coals in the fireplace, carrying it to her, and in disbelief, Alissa watched as the crone plunged a clean cloth into the steaming liquid up to her wrist. Was she human? she wondered, noticing not even a flinch from the woman.

  “I need ye to hold him down. He might be drugged, but he’ll feel this for certain.”

  Once Jared was restrained, Alissa holding one wrist, Mr. Stanley the other, and Ian pressing his bulk over the Marquis of Ebonwyck’s middle, his hands bearing down on Jared’s upper arms, Nanna dropped the hot cloth onto the wound.

  Jared writhed; a tortured cry broke through his lips, and all three fought to constrain him. Even though he was virtually unconscious from the laudanum, Alissa was astounded by his strength. Then she remembered that night when she’d thought he’d intended to ravish her. Not so, she decided, realizing if that had truly been his purpose, he’d have succeeded, easily.

  The cloth was dipped again. “We have to repeat it thrice.”

  “Are you up to it?” Ian asked, noting Alissa’s pallor.

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “Hold him,” the hag ordered; the cloth was dropped again.

  After it was all done, Alissa felt a
sob rise to her throat, but somehow, she contained it. Gentle fingers brushed the hair from Jared’s hot brow, and she bent to kiss his cheek. “The worst is over, my love. Soon you will be well.”

  Ian helped her from the side of the bed, and they watched as Nanna placed the prepared bandage over the wound. Then she mixed a concoction of herbs in water and spooned it between Jared’s lips, allowing it to slowly trickle down his throat. “He ain’t to have laudanum. Vile stuff, it be. These herbs will make him sleep and help heal him. Mix a pinch in this much water”—she crooked her fingers an inch apart—“and don’t touch that patch on him. I’ll be back next sunup.”

  Mr. Stanley kept back a pace as he followed Nanna out of the room, her sack and kettle in hand. “You’d best get some sleep,” Ian said, after the door closed. “I’ll take watch over him.”

  “No, I’ll not leave him.”

  “Alissa—”

  “Ian, I am mistress of this house. Do not try to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

  “Then we shall keep watch together.”

  “I’d prefer to be alone with him for a while.”

  He gazed at her a long moment. “As you wish. If you need me, I’ll be outside in the hall.”

  Alone with her husband for the first time since he’d locked her in her room, Alissa sat on the bed, taking care not to jostle him. Her hand slid over his as she spoke softly, “It’s important, my love, that you fight this infection. You have a strong will, a strong body … don’t let it defeat you. Megan needs you. I need you. Our child needs you. Please, don’t leave us.”

  Another day and night passed, Alissa close to her husband’s side. Despite everyone’s efforts, she refused to leave him. Eating little, she dozed occasionally in the chair beside his bed, only to awaken the instant she heard his moan. When his fever raged, she cooled his brow and body with wet cloths, struggling against his flailing arms and delirious curses.