Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  “Won’t you come, Pip?” Dick asked, aligning his canons in order to smite a company of Fox’s soldiers.

  “Hm.”

  “Pip?” Amy prompted. His strange behavior caused a twinge of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, she went over to him. “What is it?”

  He regarded her with earnest dark eyes. Then he took a deep breath and blurted, “I’ve found something.”

  She raised her brows. “You did?”

  “Where Dick slipped.” The muscles of his throat moved as he swallowed hard. “On the stairs.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached into his coat and drew forth a wrinkled brown object, only slightly smaller than Amy’s fist. He presented it to her on his flat hand. “This.”

  She stared, then frowned. “It looks like a folk charm. The heart of some animal pierced with nails and thorns. How in the world has this got into Rawdon Park? It’s perfectly harmless, though.” She reached for it to examine it more closely. “See?”

  Her fingers closed around it—and a wave of evil hit her.

  Chapter Nine

  Gasping, Amy staggered back. This was magic. Real magic.

  “Is something the matter?” Fox asked from behind her.

  She fought for control and managed to make her voice sound almost cheerful. “No, everything is all right.”

  Pip had his head cocked to one side and eyed her curiously. She gripped his arm.

  “Show me where you’ve found it,” she whispered fiercely. More loudly, she added, “Pip and I will step in front of the door for a moment. We will be right back.”

  “Boom!” Dick crowed. “I got your left flank, Uncle Stapleton!”

  “Come.” Amy opened the door and steered Pip outside. “Now, show me.”

  He threw her another strange look before he finally trotted to the staircase in the tower that led to the schoolroom and the nursery. Halfway between the first and second floor he squatted down and pointed to a loose brick in the whitewashed wall. He glanced up. “It’s difficult to discern.”

  Nearly impossible to discern, she would say, for the brick had been chosen well: near the bottom of one step, shadowed by the step above. Abruptly Amy sank down to sit on the stairs, her knees suddenly feeling as weak and wobbly as syllabub.

  It was impossible to tell how long the charm had been hidden here. She drew the brick out and fingered the small enclosure behind it. “How did you find it?” she whispered.

  “I thought it strange that Dick fell. I thought he must have slipped, and that’s why I looked. You said it’s a folk charm?” Pip’s voice rose and echoed eerily within the stone staircase. “What sort of charm?”

  Amy answered automatically, reciting what she had learned about this particular form of folk superstition. “A heart, pierced with nails and thorns, placed in a chimney to cause harm to the people living in the house.”

  “To cause harm?”

  “Yes.” Only normally it didn’t work, of course. Because normally there was no magic added.

  But this…

  Amy felt sick.

  Above them a door was opened. “Is that you, Master Philip?” the voice of the nursery maid was to be heard. “I expect you to come back immediately!”

  Pip looked at Amy, and weakly she nodded. “Go. But wait! Give me that thing first.”

  He watched as she wrapped it in her handkerchief.

  “Master Philip!”

  “Coming!” he hollered, but still he hesitated. “It’s”—he searched her face—“it’s more than a simple country charm, isn’t it?”

  Amy swallowed. “Yes. Yes, it is.” She took a deep breath. “But you don’t need to worry. I will get rid of it.”

  “Master Philip!”

  Again, the boy cocked his head to the side and eyed her from head to toe. “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  He nodded, and finally dashed up the stairs.

  ~*~

  Amy sat on the edge of her bed and watched numbly how the flames in the fireplace consumed the charm. The stench of burned flesh filled the room, and the nails stuck into the heart glowed an eerie orange.

  Real magic.

  Dark magic.

  And there was nothing she could do.

  Amy shuddered. Where had the heart come from? Who would wish the Stapleton family harm? Thoughts whirled in her head and chased one another like frightened rabbits. Fear crept into her bones. Whatever should she do now—without magic and without any hope of regaining it anytime soon?

  She forced herself to breathe deeply and coughed at the horrible smell.

  Calm yourself. You have already destroyed the charm. Still, the horrible fear she felt could not be subdued. It tightened her throat and transformed her blood into ice. It did not matter that she told herself no real harm had come to young Baron Bradenell, except for a sprained ankle. Whatever purpose the pierced heart had served, it had not achieved it.

  Her breath escaped on a sigh. No, the foul magic had not achieved its goal. Amy closed her eyes.

  And yet… and yet… and yet… The force of the evil had been terrifying. In the safe world of Three Elms she had never encountered anything like this before.

  She rubbed her hands against her thighs as if this might erase the stain of dark magic from her soul. Now she finally understood why her uncle had been so adamant that none of them, neither she nor her cousins, dabbled in blood spells and the like, and why he was so irate when he found her reading books that were kept in a special locked part of the library at Three Elms. Over and over again he had told Amy and her cousins how easily the misuse of magic could corrupt a person, had shown them the miniature of a long-ago friend, a smiling blond youth, who had found too great a fondness for the powers he could exert over others. Eventually he had turned his back on all that was decent. Uncle Bourne had tried to stop him, but all in vain. Through blood magic the other’s powers had risen to indescribable heights and Uncle Bourne had been lucky to escape with his life. Only now that Amy had touched real evil herself could she fully comprehend the horror and helplessness her uncle must have felt.

  Amy didn’t know how long she had sat on her bed, thoroughly shaken, when a soft knock sounded on the door. Rosie, her maid, entered and curtsied. “Good evening, Miss Bourne. Lady Rawdon sent me to tell you that dinner will be served in three quarters of an hour’s time.” She coughed. “Sh-shall I help you change? Eww, what’s that smell? Is the chimney blocked?” She went over to the fireplace to investigate.

  “A dead mouse perhaps,” Amy said quickly. “Fallen into the fire. These things happen.”

  “Indeed, miss. I will air the room while you’re at dinner.”

  Amy gave her a wan smile. “Thank you, Rosie.”

  What if it had been something other than a modified country charm? What if she had not been able to destroy it? Desperately, Amy tried to suppress the trembling of her hands while the maid helped her to prepare for dinner.

  Since Amy had already chosen her evening dress that morning so that it could be ironed, she now only had to change. Rosie adjusted the fall of the white muslin over the pink satin slip and drew the pink sash tightly around Amy’s waist, before she held it in place with a pin in the front. In the back she tied it in a neat bow, which she deftly secured with more pins.

  Afterwards Amy sat down on the stool in front of the mirror so Rosie could do her hair. “I have thought to do it in the French style this evening, if this is all right with you, miss?”

  “Perfectly,” Amy murmured, for what did it really matter which hairstyle she wore?

  “I have ordered some sweet peas from the greenhouse. They will look lovely with your dress.” Rosie arranged the back of Amy’s hair into a tuft, which she adorned with a coronet of delicate sweet pea blossoms in shades of pink.

  Judging from Fox’s dumbfounded expression when Amy entered the South Drawing Room some time later, it was certainly a most pleasing arrangement. A smile blossomed on his face as he came toward her. “You
look exquisite,” he whispered to her. He inhaled. “Hmmm, and you smell sweet, too.”

  Even though she had attempted to don a cheerful mask before she went downstairs, something must have given her away because Fox’s smile quite suddenly dimmed. “What is it, my dear?” he asked, pressing her hand. “Tell me. It’s not…” He peered into her face and dropped his voice. “Is it because of what happened at the Temple of the Muses?”

  At his tender, worried tone, tears sprang into her eyes. Sniffing, she shook her head. “No, no, it’s not that,” she choked out. “Young Dick could have been seriously injured and—”

  The soft brush of Fox’s fingers against her lips stopped the flow of words. “Ah, but nothing has happened to him except for a sprained ankle. You’ve seen it for yourself.” He lifted her hand and bestowed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “This is merely the delayed reaction to a shock. Truly, there is no need to worry,” he murmured huskily.

  But there is! she wanted to yell.

  Behind them the dowager countess cleared her throat. “Sebastian.”

  Fox’s lips twitched. “Do you hear that? We’re being called to order.” Under the eagle-eyed stare of his mother, he led Amy to one of the sofas. Amusement registered on the faces of the others. Surely they had taken their brief exchange for lovers’ play. Amy bit her lip. If only they knew!

  As if he had felt the dark turn of her thoughts, Fox touched her shoulder. “Everything is fine.” His whisper stirred the fine hair curling around her ear, while his scent enveloped her in the warmth of bergamot.

  Amy took a deep breath. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps her worries were nothing more than delayed reaction—not to the shock of Dick’s fall, but to shock of the evil charm. However, now that it was destroyed, it could no longer wreak any damage.

  At dinner, Fox sat next to her, and while the conversation moved around them, while they ate and drank, he found ample opportunity to touch her hand or arm and to let his knee brush hers as if to reassure her with his body that yes, indeed, everything was fine once more. When he took wine with her, raising his glass and gazing at her, the glow of his bluish-gray eyes and the warmth of his regard were sufficient to dispel her last lingering worries. With her mind now at rest, she basked in his affection. Each small touch thrilled her and brought her secret delight. It seemed a continuation of what they had started in the Temple of the Muses that morning, and just like then, her hunger for him blazed to life. What a fool she had been to have thought it tamed!

  When Fox laid his hand on her thigh, she looked up at him and found the same hunger burning in his eyes—and the sight of it sealed her fate.

  She wasn’t aware of having made a conscious decision; she only knew of the hum of the blood in her veins, of the heavy pulse that had started deep inside her. Her skin felt painfully thin, and she absorbed the smallest of his movements next to her with a painful intensity. Each little touch, each accidental brush of elbows now became a sweet torment. Despite the food she was eating, she felt starved.

  Amy never knew how she made it through dinner, nor through tea and coffee in the drawing room afterwards. At the earliest possible moment, she excused herself.

  Fox took a step forward. “Allow me to escort you to your room.”

  “With pleasure.” No, she couldn’t have helped smiling, even had she wanted to.

  So she said her good nights before she put her hand on his arm and let him lead her out of the room. They walked in silence down the corridors and up the stairs, yet the air throbbed between them. At her door she turned her back against the wood and lifted her eyes to his.

  For a heartbeat or two, they only gazed at each other.

  Finally, he reached up to cup her cheek in his hand. “You’re so beautiful.” His voice sounded as tormented as she felt.

  Amy laid her hand against his chest and felt his heart beating, hard and fast. Her own pulse quickened. Fire licked along her veins and she moistened her lips. “Come to me later,” she said.

  All at once his expression sobered. He searched her face.

  “Come to my room later,” she repeated. She thought of the pleasure they had shared in the Temple of the Muses—his hands on her breasts, her bare thighs. The flames flared up, burnt her inside out. Compared to this scorching desire, the reasons why they should not indulge in pleasure seemed trivial. If she could not have him—tonight—she would die; she was sure of it.

  “Amy…”

  “Don’t say no.” Her voice quavered. She took a step forward and leaned into his body. Her hands curved around his waist. “I wouldn’t be able to bear it,” she whispered. Shivering, she pressed closer against him, his warmth; she felt his muscles bunch. “I need you.” A sob caught in her throat as her feelings for him rolled over her like a tidal wave. “I need you, I need you, I need—”

  Strong fingers lifted her chin and his mouth closed over hers in a hard, intense kiss which made her bones melt.

  “Yes. I will come,” he said against her lips, while his hands feverishly followed the shape of her body from shoulder to hips. His hardness swelled against her belly and caused her insides to flutter with mingled apprehension and delight. “Soon.” And then Fox strode down the corridor.

  Dazed, Amy opened the door and stepped into her room. Leaning back against the door, she closed her eyes. Her whole body tingled and sang and felt more alive than ever before. A delighted laugh gurgled in her throat and the next moment she danced and whirled around while joy exploded inside her like a thousand soap bubbles.

  Eventually she rang for Rosie so the maid could help her undress and get ready for the night. When all hooks, pins, buttons, and laces were finally undone, Amy sat down on the stool and let the girl brush out her hair. The gentle motions of the brush and the crackle of the fire melted together into a hypnotizing melody. Amy twiddled the discarded sweet pea blossom in her fingers, while she eyed herself critically in the mirror.

  Her nightdress was thick and rather plain, and for a moment she wished she had bought one of the sheer, gauzelike chemises she had seen in London. To wear one of those would have been daring, to be sure, but she suspected Fox’s face would have been worth it. A rosy glow warmed her cheeks. Was this forward creature truly her? How could she sit here so calmly when she was prepared to take the ultimate step and lose her innocence within the span of this night?

  And yet, as she looked at her shining eyes and glossy lips, she was once more overcome by the memory of the heavenly delight she had found in Fox’s arms that afternoon. Her passion for him burned inside her like a white-hot flame that cauterized all doubts and worries.

  All would be fine.

  More than fine.

  He would take her to heaven tonight, she was sure of it.

  After Rosie had dressed Amy’s hair in a tight plait for the night, she took a step back. “Will this be all, miss?”

  “Yes.” Amy smiled at her in the mirror. “Thank you, Rosie. If you could just give me my shawl—no, not the beige one. The red.” She felt her cheeks flush even more, but hoped the maid wouldn’t notice in the mellow candlelight. “I have got a fancy to read a little in bed,” she added hastily, “and the red is the warmer shawl.” Not to speak of lending her simple nightdress an exotic, alluring touch.

  Rosie went to fetch the shawl, which she proceeded to drape around Amy’s shoulders, before she picked up Amy’s discarded clothes to brush them out and put them away.

  When she was finished, she curtsied.

  “Good night, Rosie,” Amy said.

  “Good night, Miss Bourne.” With the softest click the door closed behind the maid.

  For a moment Amy sat as if frozen in the silence of her room. Then, with a deep sigh, she stood and slowly walked over to the bed, where the blankets and the quilt had been turned down earlier by the maid. She eyed the white wrought-iron bed as if she were seeing it for the first time. She tried to imagine it filled with Fox’s large form.

  A delicate shudder tore through her.

 
She climbed into her bed and leaned back against the headpiece, a pillow in her back.

  When would he come? What if he had changed his mind? What if common sense had won once more?

  She twisted the corner of the quilt between her hands.

  But he had promised, hadn’t he? No, no, this time love would triumph.

  Time seemed to pass endlessly slowly. Amy strained her ears so she wouldn’t miss even the smallest sound. Still, when the knock at her door finally came, it made her start violently. Her voice trembled as she called out to enter.

  She saw the door open, and then he slipped into the room, resplendent in a dark green banyan. In helpless admiration, her gaze roamed his body. Underneath the coat he was in shirtsleeves, which she saw when the heavy material fell open to reveal a flash of white. Her candle flickered and sparked a glint of fire in his hair.

  “Amy,” he breathed.

  Their gazes met and clung.

  With a soft click, the bolt at the door slid close, shutting them into the room together. His lips curved.

  “Amy,” he repeated.

  She remembered how he had whispered her name against her skin, and unfettered, her breasts swelled. Amy held out her hand to him.

  With a few large steps he was across the room and at her side. His palm slid against hers. Their fingers twined.

  “Lovely, adorable Amelia.” His gaze fell on the book that lay on her nightstand. “Still The Horrible Histories?”

  She nodded, moistened her lips. “I find my reading time rather curtailed.”

  “Do you?” he murmured, while his thumb caressed the pulse point at her wrist in delicate little circles. But still she was sure he felt her pulse speed up. “I wonder why.”

  Amy aimed at keeping her voice as calm as his. “I have a fondness for walks in the gardens.”

  “Do you?”

  Oh, yes. She had to bite her lip to hold back a moan.

  He must have noticed something, because the smile that hovered around his mouth widened. “Do you indeed?” His eyes gleamed. “Is there any place you are particularly fond of?”