Bewitching the Baron

by Lisa Cach

  “You did not feel like this when you kissed her, did you?” Gwen breathed at him, still rubbing.

  “God, no . . .”

  Gwen pulled away from him, her skirt dropping back over her legs. “That just goes to show. You never really wanted her. ’Twas witchcraft.”

  He stood panting with frustrated desire. He wanted to finish what they had started. He would finish it with his own hand, if he had to. Her hand would be even better.

  “Come on, then,” she said briskly, turning and continuing down along the path. “Let us get this over with.”

  Hopelessly aroused, he followed.

  Valerian saw nothing of her surroundings during her walk home, her mind a muddle of emotions and conflicting thoughts.

  Common sense told her that the practical course would be to refuse any but the most cursory contact with the man. Her reputation, or what was left of it, would remain intact. She would retain her virginity, on the almost nonexistent chance that someone would one day want to marry her. If she rejected him, she would not risk caring for him, only to be abandoned at some later date.

  Common sense had guided her through many difficulties. It was safe. It was practical. One seldom regretted using it. And it was boring.

  She admitted it to herself: She was tired of being careful, and tired of denying her desires. A careful life was so difficult to maintain, so much work and worry. A rebellious light within her wanted to smash it to pieces, relieving herself of the burden of doing the right thing. She wanted to destroy it all in a glorious bonfire of misguided passion, and not spare a single thought for the future after the flames had died to ashes.

  Nathaniel Warrington was the only man who had taken an interest in her. It did not seem possible that there would ever be another, or at least not another who was young and handsome. Maybe some fat old sheep farmer who had been alone in the hills for too long would want her, but she sure as God would not want him. This might very well be her only chance.

  And then there was a small part of herself, that she could only barely stand to admit, that liked the idea of being the mistress of the baron, for the twisted prestige of it if nothing else. Let the townsfolk see that a nobleman wanted her, and not one of their own daughters.

  It was with these ruminations in mind that she arrived home. She was halfway across the meadow before she noticed Gwen and Eddie waiting for her, sitting on the wooden bench against the front of the cottage. They stood as she approached.

  “Good day, Gwendolyn, Edward. What brings you here?” They were neither of them people she wished to see, reminding her of that humiliating incident on the mudflats.

  “Good day, Miss Bright.” Gwen’s voice was as stiff as Valerian’s own. “We have brought your shovel back,” Gwen said, gesturing to where the tool leaned against the cottage wall.

  “Thank you. It is much appreciated.”

  “And Eddie has something he needs to say to you.”

  Valerian turned her attention to Eddie, who colored under her gaze. “I . . .” He looked at Gwen, swallowed, then stared past Valerian and spoke in a rush. “I want you to stop chasing after me. It is Gwen I want.”

  “What are you talking about? I never went after you. You were chasing me.”

  Eddie’s lips moved silently, like those of a fish. His round eyes searched out Gwen for help.

  “ ‘Tis not true, and you know it, Valerian Bright!” Gwen said hotly. “You cast a spell on him, luring him to you. Well, it will not work, and you cannot have him. He is mine, and he wants me, not some dried-up old hag.”

  “You are welcome to him!” Valerian snapped, Gwen’s misguided anger sparking her own. Eddie’s slimy kiss flashed revoltingly to mind. “And good luck to you. You will not be having much pleasure from him, I will tell you that!”

  “Is that a threat? Are you cursing us?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, get out of here, will you? Go!”

  Gwen’s face was livid, in stark contrast to that of Eddie’s, which was pale with apparent fright. Gwen dragged him by the arm across the meadow.

  For a moment, Valerian almost wished she really could curse the pair of them, or at least bean one on the head with a well-aimed rock. The most offensive part of it all was that they were convinced that she lusted after Eddie. As if she would want the empty-headed boy.

  She stomped inside the cottage and busied herself chopping vegetables and making loud noises with the crockery. Idiots. She would like to see their faces if they heard she was spending her nights with the baron. She dumped onions and water into a pot, then hung it on the swinging iron arm over the fire. They would probably think she had cast a spell on him, too.

  Her seething had calmed to a low simmer by the time Theresa came home, carrying a small bag of rare plants that only showed themselves at this time of year. They worked silently for a time, Theresa preparing the plants to be made into an infusion, Valerian slicing bread and preparing for supper. Her aunt’s calm presence was soothing, and when the meal was half-eaten Valerian finally told her about Gwen and Eddie.

  “I cannot decide whether to laugh or to worry,” Theresa said when she had finished. “That girl’s foolishness grows less charming by the day. It is not a pretty picture, what Eddie’s life will be like if they do marry.”

  “They deserve each other.”

  “Have they hurt you so deeply that you must be uncharitable?”

  Valerian poked at a remaining potato chunk on her pewter plate, examining her feelings before replying. “No, they have not hurt me. Offended my pride, perhaps. And it galls me that they had the power to do even that.”

  “They do not have that power, Valerian. Others can only offend you if you in some way agree with them. What would you have done if Gwen had said you were too ignorant to cure the rash on a baby’s bottom?”

  “As if she would know!” Valerian laughed.

  “Right. You would laugh. You are confident of yourself in healing. But you are vulnerable in your relations with others, especially men. You have grown up being avoided by most of the townsfolk and ignored by the men your age. In part, you may believe that they were right to reject you.”

  “They are ignorant. I have always known that.”

  “I know you think that, and may almost believe it, but does not some part of you feel that they would not dislike you unless there was something to dislike? Is not the truth that the worst part about that encounter with Gwen and Eddie was that Eddie was saying he had no interest in you?”

  “But I do not want him.”

  “I know you do not. But it was nice to have the attention, was not it? To have someone act foolishly over you, and find you more attractive than Gwen, the closest thing to a beauty the town has. You believed him sincere, and now here he comes and says he did not mean it.”

  Protests came to her lips, and remained unspoken as she felt the hidden bite of truth, and then the hated sting of tears in her eyes. “How miserable and weak it all sounds.”

  “How human it all is.”

  “So how do I change it?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  In her loft that night, Valerian lay staring up into the darkness, listening to Theresa’s snores and the rustling of small creatures in the thatch above her head. She thought about herself and about Nathaniel’s desire for her. It seemed impossible that he would ever have feelings beyond lust for her. Was that the truth, or was it only her own insecurities? And even if he never loved her, would it not do her good to be adored, in whatever way he offered? Being wanted by one man for however short a time sounded infinitely better than being wanted by none.

  She rolled onto her side, pulling her blankets down tight around her neck, her hands bunched in front of her throat. There were a hundred reasons not to become involved with Nathaniel Warrington. She closed her eyes, and felt the yearning of her skin for a loving touch. There were a hundred reasons, and she could not care about a single one.

  Eddie crouched in the shadows outside Gwen’s ho
use, waiting for her to appear and make good on her promise. For months he had dreamt of this. For months he had known just what he would do to her. His waiting had gone on so long that he had abandoned hope of it ever being rewarded.

  A half moon cast pale light across the dirt yard. A small shadow darted across the space, startling him. A cat, just a cat. He waited. A breeze picked up, rustling through leaves and making branches creak. Were those wings he heard in the air?

  He did not like waiting in the dark like this. It gave him too much time to think about Miss Bright, and what she had said. He had felt his balls shrink and suck themselves up into his groin when she had cursed him. Gwen had said prayers against the witch all the way home, but he did not think that was enough. Had she not first cast her spell by staring at his crotch? Had she not visited him in his dreams, making a plaything of his flesh? And now she had cursed him, and he had felt his tool shrivel in response.

  An owl swooped silently down, clear enough in the silvery light that he could see its talons snatch a small form from the ground. Owl, evil omen. Damn that Gwen, where was she?

  You will not be having much pleasure from him, I will tell you that! That is what she had said. She had cursed him, he was sure of it. He put his hand down to cup himself, but could not find the familiar bulge. He whimpered, patting at his breeches. God in heaven, had she taken it completely?

  A touch on his shoulder made him yelp, and then there was a small hand over his mouth.

  “Eddie! Hush, you fool, you want to wake my father? Come, into the barn.”

  Gwen dragged him by the hand into the musty barn, with its warm scent of animals and the quiet sounds of their movements in the straw. She led him through the near blackness to an empty stall, where she pulled him down on top of her.

  Gwen’s eager wet mouth sought out his own, her hands running down his chest. He pushed her away, holding her hands captive in his own. “She has cursed me cock, Gwen,” he whispered, his voice quavering.

  “What?”

  “It is gone. I cannot feel it.”

  He felt her stiffen beside him, and a silence full of evil possibilities built between them. “Have you looked for it?”

  “I have not had the chance, but I cannot feel it.”

  She pulled her hands free of his, and reached for the fastenings at his hips. “Let me check.”

  He submitted, helping her to pull down his breeches. He felt her hands on his skin, and then they disappeared.

  “Eddie, here it is right here,” Gwen said, and he could hear the relief in her voice. It only frightened him the more.

  “Where? I do not feel it, I tell you!”

  She grabbed his hand and brought it down to his groin. “Here, feel it in my hand?”

  “I feel your hand, nothing more. ’Tis gone, I tell you!” His voice rose. “She has stolen it. It is her revenge against me for throwing her aside!”

  “Quiet! Eddie, come outside. We will look in the moonlight, and you will see it is there.”

  They made their way back through the barn and out into the yard. He dropped his breeches and turned into the light.

  “There, you see it there, sitting nestled like a mouse in its hairy nest? It looks a bit small, but the cold does that, does it not? That is what my brothers say.”

  He looked, and an owl hooted from the trees.

  “Jesus Christ preserve me, it was the owl took it. He swooped down and took a shadow from the ground, and it was after that I could not find it. I have lost me cock!”

  “She has bewitched you. The Satan-loving whore! She has made it useless to you, invisible, though I see it clear as day.”

  “How am I going to take a piss?” he wailed.

  “Who is out there?” a suspicious male voice called from the house.

  “My father! Go, Eddie. I will meet you tomorrow, and we will think on this. There must be a way to break it.”

  “Gwen, is that you?” the voice asked.

  “But how will I piss?”

  “Quiet! Squat down like a girl, if you have to. Now go!”

  Eddie went, sobs in his throat, his hand down the front of his breeches, cupping the hairy stretch of flesh where his manhood used to be.

  Chapter Ten

  “Darling, could you bring me up some apples from the cellar? I have the urge to make a tart.”

  Valerian looked up from her mending. “A tart? Is Charmaine coming today?”

  Theresa frowned in concentration. “I do not know. I only know that I have a strong feeling that I should make a tart. An apple tart.”

  “Then she is no doubt on her way already.” Theresa’s gift often gave oblique messages such as this. Apple tart was Charmaine’s favorite dish, and any time Theresa made one, Charmaine was certain to show up. Or perhaps the family’s psychic abilities had not completely passed her cousin by, and Charmaine had inherited a sense for when and where tarts were baking. For all Valerian knew, the woman might spend her days roaming from house to house, partaking of tarts from here to Yarborough.

  Valerian lifted the hatch in the wood floor and climbed down the ladder into the cellar. The air was cool and faintly damp, with the clean scent of the earth. She found the apples, withered from their long winter underground.

  She climbed out again, and dropped the hatch into place. “You must have been frightened when you discovered you were pregnant with Charmaine, after all that had happened to you and Mother,” she said, putting the apples on the work table.

  “I do not know if ‘frightened’ is the right word. After all that had happened, having a child seemed more a blessing than a curse.”

  “Tell me about it, when you and Mother left London.”

  “You have heard the story a hundred times, Valerian. Why do you want to hear it again?”

  She shrugged.

  “Are you thinking your life might end up running along a parallel path?”

  Valerian picked up a knife and chopped an apple in half, not looking at her aunt. “Not really. I like the story, is all.”

  “Hmm.” Theresa did not sound convinced.

  “Please, Aunt Theresa?” Valerian pleaded, looking up at her with her best innocent expression. “Start after Grandmother Grace was murdered.”

  “Murdered,” Theresa intoned in her story-telling voice, finally giving in. “And set to burn. ’Twas a blessing they killed her first. Your mother, Emmeline, came and found me, still entangled in Thomas’s arms, wearing nothing but a chemise.”

  “Thomas the viscount.”

  “Yes, Thomas the viscount. He had been pursuing me for months, from party to party, and I finally gave in. It was only for a few short hours, but what hours they were! But then, when he heard what Emmeline said, he became frightened.”

  “He had ignored the rumors until then,” Valerian put in, the story as familiar to her as a childhood rhyme.

  “I have often thought since then that the rumors excited him. Maybe they made me seem more appealing, more of a challenge. Who but the wildest dared to bed a girl whose mother was a suspected witch, who had foretold more than one death? I think he wanted to impress his friends with his bravery, or maybe he wanted to appear more wicked than he truly was.”

  “He abandoned you.”

  “Who is to say who abandoned whom? There was Emmeline, her eyes wild, begging me to flee with her. They would be after us next. I think poor Thomas was too shocked to think clearly. He gave me what gold he had on him, as well as his horse. I think it was that horse that saved us. We would have never made it on foot or by coach.”

  “You fled north.”

  “Yes, although not before slipping back to Mother’s garden for the stash of gold. She had always feared something like this would happen. So we fled north, changed our names from Harrow to Storrow, and settled into a town as spinster sisters.”

  “And Mother met Father.”

  “It was acceptable to be female and a doctor’s assistant. It is only unacceptable to act and think on your own. Your father wa
s a different breed from most, though. He loved your mother for her wits as much as her beauty. He did not want her to practice any sort of medicine on her own, but to his credit it was out of fear for her safety that he felt that way.”

  “And then Charmaine.”

  “Yes. I discovered I was pregnant. One night with Thomas, and Charmaine was on her way. The town knew me as a spinster, not a widow, and I did not want to raise my child as a bastard. Neither did I want to ruin the life that Emmeline was hoping to build with Dr. Bright.”

  “And that is when you came here.”

  “Yes. I bought myself a wedding ring.” Theresa waggled her hand in the air, showing the familiar gold band. “Came here, and claimed I was the widow of a fisherman by the name of Storrow, gone down with his boat in the North Sea, God rest his sainted soul.” She put her hands together in an attitude of prayer, and rolled her eyes heavenward.

  “I do not know that they completely believed me,” she continued, dropping her hands back to the bowl where she mixed pastry for the tart. “But it was a good enough story. And then Baron Ravenall showed his favor for me, and whatever the townsfolk did or did not believe, they kept to themselves. With the baron’s patronage, I felt safe enough to seek work as a healer and midwife, albeit amongst far simpler folk than those I was used to.”

  “Did you miss your former life, all the parties and gowns and Grandmother Grace’s big house?”

  “I did not much think on it. I could not think of London and my life there without thinking of what happened to my mother. I knew I could not go back, and there were new pleasures to be found here. The country has its own rewards, if one is of a mind to look.”

  “And Thomas?”

  “I do not know what happened to him, or where he may be. I hope he has led a happy life. I am thankful that Charmaine has never asked for his full name.”

  “You do not think he would love her, were he to learn of her?”

  “I do not know what he would do, but I can hardly imagine any good coming of it. Sometimes I think it has been of help to Charmaine, having him unknown but for his noble background. I think she enjoys seeing herself as the tragic offspring of a noble affair, and imagines that Thomas would have loved her if he had had the chance to know her. She can imagine the truth as she pleases, without threat of disappointment.”