by C. J. Archer
Her palms warmed, drawing heat and life from every part of her body into his. She concentrated harder, picturing him healed, whole, until her flesh burned. But she didn’t let go. Not yet. She’d only healed twice before, and only once on a human, but she knew instinctively that the process wasn’t complete. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the searing heat in her hands, using her mind’s eye to see his skin closed, the wound sealed, the blood flowing through his body not out of it.
Finally the heat lessened, the mad buzzing within her became a mere tingling vibration. She drew her hands away, not wanting to look at the burns on her palms. Instead she inspected Nick’s side. New skin, pink and shiny, covered the gaping hole that had been there moments before. Whatever damage had been done to his insides would also be repaired. She knew as much from her experience with the horse on the Kent estate. Its broken leg had knitted after she placed her hands over the injury.
That first healing experience had been an accident, discovered while inspecting the animal after it fell. The second experience, on a small child who’d fallen from a barn roof, had been done out of sheer desperation and instinct. The child would have died by the time a doctor arrived. She’d had no idea if she could heal people, or anything more than a broken leg, but she knew she had to try.
Except for her own minor cuts, she hadn’t used her healing powers since.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" Lord Ashbourne’s soft voice sounded close behind her.
She didn’t answer straight away. Couldn’t. Her tongue felt thick, her throat tight. She watched Nick as a spot of color appeared on each of his cheeks. He would live. Relief made her weak and dull-witted. She couldn’t think of anything to say to the earl. What should she say? I’m a witch. Will you have me arrested tonight or wait until the morning?
She pulled the bedcovers up to cover Nick’s chest and then she just sat there, watching him. It was the most perfect sight in the world.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" Lord Ashbourne repeated, no longer soft but with a hint of anger.
Without turning around, she drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. When she felt sure of her voice, she said: "I wanted to avoid it. Being a witch is not something I want everyone to know about." Especially a man with friends who made the laws that ensured her kind couldn’t be left in peace.
"It would have made a difference," he said. "I wouldn’t have tried to stop you if I knew how much it would have hurt."
She turned to look at him, a surrendering smile on her lips. "I’m sorry. Are you all right? Anything injured?"
"Just my pride." One corner of his mouth lifted in a returning smile then dropped again. "I’m sorry," he added. "I should have known that if Nicholas trusted you I should too."
"Apology accepted. He’s a friend of yours. You were protecting him."
"He’s my only friend," he said so quietly it was barely audible. He leaned down past Isabel to inspect Nick’s face. "When will he wake up?"
She shrugged. "I don’t know. I’ve never healed on this scale before." A sickening thought occurred to her—what if he didn’t wake? She may have healed the wound but what if something vital inside him had been damaged? "Did he have any other injuries?"
"There’s a gash at the back of his head. It stopped bleeding before we brought him in here but it looks nasty."
She gently turned Nick’s face away from her. The hair at the back of his head was matted and sticky. Parting it gently, she saw the jagged cut and placed her hand over it. The skin on her palm still felt tender and raw but she didn’t care. She bit her lip as the fiery power burned her, stripping her flesh. She let go only when she knew the process had finished.
"I’ll have the maid bring something for your hands," Lord Ashbourne said, already moving away.
"No, they’re fine." She closed her fists. The pain instantly eased and she could feel the skin beginning to heal.
The earl checked Nick’s head and nodded. "The cut is gone. You’re a good healer."
She pressed her fingers into her eye sockets, suddenly exhausted. It must be near dawn and she hadn’t slept a wink.
"One of the apartments upstairs has been prepared for you," Lord Ashbourne said. "I’ll have a maid take you."
"No." She stood, noticing the room for the first time. One wall was covered in dark oak paneling while the other three were decorated with cloth painted in a crimson and white floral pattern. The same pattern was reflected in the white plastered ceiling. Isabel had never seen a ceiling like it. Such detail and perfection. The craftsmen must have been very skillful indeed.
Apart from the canopied bed, an armchair, large chest, a pedestal table and two stools also occupied the room. The bed itself was a statement of opulence with its intricately carved corner posts and headboard. The quilt, curtains, valance and tester all matched the walls with the same pattern embroidered in gold on the crimson damask. Lord Ashbourne enjoyed displaying his wealth it seemed. Another characteristic that didn’t match the impression she’d built up of him, that of unpretentious, carefree gentleman.
"That chair looks comfortable," she said, pointing to the armchair by the fire with the thick red and gold embroidered cushion. "I’ll sit there until he wakes."
He nodded. "Very well. I’ll have blankets and other comforts brought to you. Good night, Isabel." He paused. "By the way, your secret is safe with me." He turned and left before she could say anything.
***
Isabel awoke with a sore neck, a tingling foot and a strange sensation of being watched.
"It’s about time," Nick said from the bed. "I’ve been awake for hours." He lay on his side, one arm bent, his hand supporting his head.
She threw off the blanket and sprang out of the chair. "You’re awake." And alive. She sat on the edge of the bed, too scared to embrace him in case his wounds hadn’t fully healed. Instead, she gingerly brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and simply stared into his eyes. Eyes that twinkled back at her, full of vitality.
He caught her waist and drew her on top of him. "Give me a kiss."
Very much alive. She obliged, kissing him hard, needing to taste him, feel him. And he felt amazing—so powerful and real beneath her, his heart beating a strong rhythm. Their kiss softened, became more sensual and loaded with the emotions they had not yet voiced—relief, gratitude, desire. Always desire. She raked her hands through his hair as he fumbled with her skirts, bunching them around her thighs.
"Not here," she muttered, even as familiar heat pooled inside her. She kissed his chin, his throat, moving down to his bare chest, snaking her hand down beneath the covers.
"Then you’d best stop now." But he too continued, arching up to her, grinding his hardness into her stomach.
He was right. With a sigh, she pulled away and sat down next to him on the bed. "Let me look at you," she said, drawing back the covers.
"If you insist." He flung the covers off and stretched his linked hands behind his head. "Best be quick. Ash’s maids are too efficient and I expect one of them to enter at any moment."
She tried to look anywhere but at his hardness, tenting his hose. "I want to look at your injuries," she said, giving in anyway and staring with unashamed hunger.
"Sure you do. Look as much as you want." When she swatted his knee, he sat up with a smile and lifted his right arm to show her his side. The skin covering his wound was pinker in color than the rest of him but there was no other sign that a blade had gored him only a few hours earlier.
She traced the outline of the barely visible injury on his skin. "Thank God." When her gaze shifted to his face, she realized he had been watching her. The mischievous grin had been replaced by a somber expression.
"Since I can’t recall how I got here, I take it I was not looking very well."
"No." She didn’t take her eyes off his. "Not very."
He nodded. "And you healed me."
She studied him carefully, looking for signs that he was wary of her powers even though
he’d already declared he didn’t care that she was a witch. There were none. "Yes. I healed you. You have Lord Ashbourne to thank for sending for me so quickly."
"And I will thank him. But first, I want to thank you properly."
He drew her down into an oh-so-tender kiss that tugged at her heart and brought tears to her eyes. His hands played with her loosened hair then massaged the back of her head and neck. When he touched her cheeks, ending the kiss, she sighed.
"Thank you," he whispered. "You’re my guardian angel."
At the soft knock on the door, they both turned but didn’t let go of each other. "Come in," they said together.
Lord Ashbourne entered. He stood in the open doorway, filling the width with his broad shoulders, and stared at them as if seeing a ghost. "You’re alive," he said simply.
"Well, that was a resoundingly unenthusiastic response," Nick said. "At least my wife gave me a kiss."
"Pucker up."
Nick laughed. Lord Ashbourne broke into a boyish grin. He approached the bed and slapped his friend on the back before briefly embracing him. When he straightened, Isabel noticed the darkened sacks beneath his eyes contrasting with the unusually pallid skin. She wondered if he’d been asleep at all, or if the effects of too much drink had caught up to him.
"So it worked?" The earl raised a brow at Isabel.
"The wound is healed," she said, still wary. Old habits, borne from years of self-preservation, didn’t vanish overnight. She looked down at Nick and couldn’t resist touching his warm, rosy cheek with her fingertips. "He seems to be as good as new."
"Better," Nick said. "Even the poison finally seems to have completely left my system."
"That wasn’t me."
"Perhaps it was the apothecary who tended to him then," Lord Ashbourne said. He smiled tentatively at her, as if sensing her distrust and wanting to allay it.
"She was one clever woman," Nick said with an overly theatrical sigh.
"But rather formidable," Lord Ashbourne said. "I don’t think she particularly liked me."
Nick snorted. "A rare jewel amongst women then. Perhaps I should marry her."
"She’s far too good for you," Isabel said, joining in. "But I’ll offer myself in her place."
"Ah, I was hoping you’d say that. I thought I’d have a better chance with you since you’re already here in my bed."
"On it." She swatted him but he caught her hand. His lips brushed her knuckles, lingering over each little bump.
Lord Ashbourne choked. "Enough, before I taste my breakfast again."
They broke apart but Isabel stayed close. She didn’t want to be any further away from Nick than was necessary.
"Speaking of breakfast..." Nick said.
"It’s on its way. You and your wife may enjoy it in here alone." But instead of leaving he strode to the chair Isabel had slept in and pulled it closer to the bed. He sat down, stretched out his long legs and fixed a heavy-lidded gaze on Nick. He seemed to be waiting for something and it took Isabel a few moments to realize he was waiting for her to leave, or for Nick to ask her to go.
Well, she wouldn’t. The two men were about to have a conversation that she very much wanted to hear. A conversation about who wanted Nick dead.
A servant entered and built up the fire which had died down overnight to a pile of ashes. He worked efficiently, unobtrusively, but all three sets of eyes watched him as if he were a fascinating creature from an exotic land. When he finished and turned round, his cheeks colored at the attention. Bowing awkwardly to all three, he hurriedly left the room, closing the door behind him.
Awkward silence again infiltrated the large bedchamber. Since neither man seemed to know of a polite way to dismiss her, Isabel thought she would put them both out of their misery. But not in the way they intended.
"So who do you think tried to kill you?" she asked her husband.
Nick shrugged. "I, uh, well, I don’t know. A footpad?"
"A footpad who followed you up the river to the landing at Ashbourne House? A persistent fellow."
He shrugged again. "There aren’t many fools out on a winter’s night. Perhaps he thought I’d be the only available victim."
She nodded at the table on top of which lay his sword and a full purse. "He went to all that trouble and didn’t take your possessions?"
"My men disturbed him before he had a chance," Lord Ashbourne said. "It was a footpad. If Nick had been fully recovered from his poisoning he would have easily beaten the vagabond off."
"If Nick had been in bed in Fox’s room he would have easily avoided the situation altogether."
Neither man spoke. Ash held her gaze levelly until she turned to Nick. Her husband took her hands in his, rubbing her thumbs with his own in a soothing, placating caress. But the turmoil in his eyes said far more than his gesture. Not a man normally lost for words, especially around women, his struggle to think of what to say to her was almost comical. Twice he opened his mouth but said nothing, snapping it shut as if cutting off words before they escaped. Eventually he let out a low groan and lay back against the pillows as if too ill to go on. She knew an act when she saw one.
Men! What sort of silly fool did they take her for? She could forgive the earl’s assumption of her lack of intelligence, but Nick? He should know better than to feed her such ridiculous lies about footpads. She glared at him and he gave a small shrug as if resigning to the inevitable.
But "I woke up and wanted some fresh air," was all he said. "Since I needed to speak to Ash about some business affairs, I thought I’d come here."
"In the middle of the night?" She stood, clicking her tongue at his lie, and strode to the fire.
"My door is always open to Merritt," Lord Ashbourne said. "The servants know him. They’d have let him in."
She stared at the orange-yellow flames, mesmerized by their dance. She tried to think of what to say next, how to bring the conversation back into her corner, but her tongue felt twisted. She had given Nick every avenue to answer her with the truth. All he had to do was admit he was a spy and together they could try to work out who had injured him.
Was it Ashbourne’s presence holding him back from confiding in her? Did the earl forbid discussing secret court business with someone not in their network, even the spy’s own wife?
She hoped so, because the alternative was too horrible—that Nick didn’t trust her enough to admit he was a secret agent for the Privy Council.
The only sound in the room came from the hissing, spitting fire. It seemed neither man would say anything else, nor would Lord Ashbourne leave her alone with Nick. And since she couldn’t ask the earl to step outside while she was a guest in his house, she decided to do the only thing in her power left to do. She would ask Nick outright if he was spy.
She turned, but the door opened before she could say anything and the same servant who tended the fire entered, bowing.
"A Tristram Fox is here to see Mistress Merritt," he announced to the earl.
"Fox?" Isabel blinked at him. How could her apprentice possibly have known where to find her? Lord Ashbourne, ever the considerate gentleman, must have sent someone to tell him what had happened.
She followed the servant out of the room and the door closed behind her with a thud. She imagined the earl moving closer to the bed and the two men discussing their secret business in earnest, going through the possible suspects based on Nick’s current investigation. The investigation that involved her and linked back to her father.
She was led into a small parlor, furnished rather plainly compared to the rest of the house. Fox stood with his back to the window, the cap in his hands worked into a crushed ball. He looked relieved when she entered.
"Is everything all right, Fox?" she asked, remaining near the door. "Master Shawe?"
"Is well, Mistress." The cap twisted between his fingers as if he were ringing water out of it. "When you weren’t in the shop this morning, I got worried." That she doubted. "But then I heard you were here so I th
ought I should make sure you were all right."
"As you can see, I’m fine." She turned to go. "Please take care of the shop until my return. I’ll be here all morning."
"So...is His Lordship well?"
So that was it. He came for the gossip. The news of an illness to one of the queen’s favorite nobles would make Fox a popular man in Bucklersbury Street, at least for the rest of the day. She saw no reason to let him know she was there for another person entirely. "Very much so."
