The Ground She Walks Upon

by Meagan Mckinney

  “What you think of his character is irrelevant to the magistrate.”

  “Oh, please, please don’t take this to the magistrate. You must not get the magistrate involved in this petty mischief.”

  “Ravenna,” he tipped her chin up so that she would look at him, “this is not petty mischief and it is already in the lap of the magistrate because I am the magistrate.”

  She gazed up at Trevallyan in shock. She’d been away so long in London she had forgotten the hierarchy. It was easy to understand why Malachi hated Trevallyan so. Malachi always referred to Lord Trevallyan as if he were king. If Niall Trevallyan owned all the county and was the magistrate too, he might as well be king for all the difference it made.

  “Fifteen people came to the castle this morning demanding Malachi be hanged. They want the lad’s politics put to rest once and for all.”

  “Have they caught him?” she whispered, her voice wan and hollow from grief.

  “No. He’s hiding. But when they do catch him—”

  “When they catch him you can tell them he is innocent.”

  Trevallyan raised one faded gold eyebrow. “How so?”

  “Because he was with me last night,” she uttered, her face still as stone. Lying was a sin, but she couldn’t believe all the terrible things said about Malachi either. Besides, it was true. Malachi had been with her last night. At least part of the night.

  But, just as she had dreaded, when the alibi was out, she saw on Trevallyan’s face what everyone would think of her story. All would say that she and Malachi had met on the bluff because they were lovers. Her reputation, if she ever had one anyway, would be ruined.

  “By the clothing I found you in, I needn’t ask what you were doing.” The lord’s expression seemed to grow hard, as if he were fighting the urge to slap her.

  “Tell Lord Quinn that Malachi didn’t burn down his barn. He’s not a White Boy. He would never hurt anyone intentionally.”

  “His politics are bad, Ravenna. It’s rumored he’s hurt—no—killed people, whether he wanted to or not. He seeks justice with injustice. You’re a fool if you cannot see that.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then crumpled to the bed, defeated. “I don’t know if he burned the barn down or not. I only know that I was with him last night. And I shall say so if I must in his defense.”

  Suddenly she was grabbed by force and shoved against his chest. “You are never to see Malachi MacCumhal again, do you hear me! You are to stay away from him. Stay away from him!”

  She released a muffled sob and looked wildly into his aqua eyes. She had never seen anyone so angry. Not even Malachi had looked so murderous. “What right do you have to order me about like this and tell me who will or who won’t be my friend? You act like a jealous…” Lover, she’d almost said, and she might as well have, for the word stood between them as clear as if she’d spoken it.

  He released her as if he had suddenly discovered she was anathema. She fell against the satin coverlet and pillows in a heap of white batiste shirt and jet-black hair.

  He stared at her and said, “I do not care for you.”

  “Then why do my affairs concern you in so passionate a manner?” she retorted, brushing a knotted tress of hair out of her eyes.

  He looked away as if he despaired of answering. “This geis, it’s destroyed my life.…”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you know what a geis is, Ravenna?” He turned and looked at her with the same cold expression she knew so well.

  “I know what a geis is.”

  “The Trevallyans have a geis. I’ve defied it.” His gaze traveled to the window where the graveyard could be seen beyond. The black, crumbling tombstones jutted through the low-lying mists, which the sun had yet to burn away. She shivered at his expression.

  “Some in this county would say that beyond in that grave lies the proof of my defiance,” he whispered.

  “What is your geis?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  He looked at her and a fearsome smile twisted his lips. “The day I believe it will be the day I tell you.”

  “But … you must believe it a bit or you wouldn’t be behaving this way.…” Her words dwindled as he drew closer. His expression was hard and somewhat mirthful. She didn’t like it at all.

  “I’m an educated thinker. A modern man of the nineteenth century. The coincidence of this geis bedevils me, I’ll admit it. But believe it, never.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and clamped his hand at her nape. She stared up at him, frightened and yet intrigued by his strange moods.

  “You’ve grown into a beauty, Ravenna, and don’t think I haven’t noticed. It’s just one other thing that bedevils me.” His gaze slid downward to where the shirt parted, revealing a healthy portion of her breasts.

  Embarrassed by her loss of modesty, unnerved by his challenging stare, she struggled to clutch the shirt together, but with his remaining hand, he held hers to her lap.

  “What do you see when you look at me, Ravenna?”

  Her eyes locked with his. The pounding of her heart grew fierce. “What do you mean?”

  “Out of curiosity—if I were to come to your bed—how would I fare against your young stallion MacCumhal? Would you look at me and find me a good and worthy partner?” He drew her closer until their noses almost touched and she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. “Or would you just laugh at me and call me a lecherous old man for chasing such a sweet young skirt?”

  A red-hot blush prickled her cheeks. He had a right to think her a loose-moraled woman after how he had found her and after her confession that she had been with Malachi last night. Still, rational thought didn’t squelch the fire of anger burning in her chest. His insulting talk was too keen to ignore.

  “My lord, I would not reject you for your age,” she looked at him hatefully, “but for your wit.”

  He laughed. It was a deep black-humored chuckle that rumbled up from his chest. She thought he might let her go. Instead, he held her tight and whispered, “If you had answered any other way, I might not have wanted to do this.” Slowly he lowered his face. In a warm breath, he murmured, “This time there is no laudanum. This time you will know whom you are kissing.”

  She gave one jerk of her head for him to release her, but his hand on her nape was too strong. His mouth pressed down on her own, beckoning her to succumb. She refused, fighting the kiss with every grain of her strength; still, he was winning. His lips still held hers in a warm, hungry kiss, and moment by moment, his hold on her softened as his seduction grew more powerful and she began to melt in a slow surrender.

  Malachi’s attempted kisses had never been like this. There was a calculation in Trevallyan’s movements that strangely thrilled her. Where Malachi’s brusque lovemaking had been like the rut of an animal, Trevallyan’s was like being wooed ever so gently, ever so smoothly, ever so blindly, over to the devil. He was manipulative, as complex as a spider’s web, and with every repeated pull of his lips upon hers, she wondered how she was going to escape the maze of his weavings.

  In the end, the choice was not her own. As slowly as he had begun the kiss, he pulled back, making her wallow in every strange, mixed-up feeling he had given her. He fingered her kiss-burned lips as if his touch were salve. She wanted to spit on him, slap him, anything that would make him feel as damned and confused as she was feeling now. But she tried no retaliation. Anything she could do would look childish. He would only laugh at her, increasing her humiliation. He was king in Lir. He was God. He was even magistrate. She had no power over him. Only the power to reject. And reject him she would, for she despised him. Never more than right at that moment.

  “I sent Grania a note telling her about your accident,” he said softly. “The physician said you should have bed rest for a week. I’ve informed your grandmother about all of this. She knows when to expect you back.”

  Ravenna was suddenly glad for one thing. Trevallyan’s vileness had d
iverted her from her aching head. But now she felt the room spin and she began to realize that her eyes squinted from the pain in her head.

  “I won’t endure your hospitality for that long, I assure you.” She rubbed her temples and looked around the room for her clothes. Then she remembered again she had worn nothing but a night rail when he’d found her.

  Feeling cursed, she drew back onto the pillows and said, “If you would be so kind as to have Grania send me some clothes…”

  “She’ll send you a gown when the physician says ’tis time for you to leave. In the meanwhile, I believe you look rather pale. I suggest you get some sleep,” he stood and walked to the door, “and pray for Malachi MacCumhal’s soul.”

  She opened one eye and glared at him. Like a fencer who wished to be the last to parry, she said, “’Tis your soul you should be concerned with, my lord. You may be meeting your maker sooner than you think.” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth as if it had left a bad taste there. “Especially if you try to kiss me again.”

  His lips curved in an angry smile. “I don’t like this geis.” His gaze lit upon her lips as if in possession. “No, I think I’ll wait … and next time let you be the one to kiss me.” With that, he turned and departed.

  She fell into a fitful sleep. Greeves entered the chamber at one point with another servant, who brought her a tray of food, but the tray remained untouched as Ravenna dozed in the enormous four-poster bed, the darkness of closed eyes the only balm for her aching head.

  When she fully awoke, it was night. Candle shadows danced from the lit lusters that had been placed upon the caryatid mantelpiece, and the leaded glass of the huge windows were moist from the heat emanating from the fireplace. A servant had come and gone once more, for there was a hot pot of tea on a tray lined with pristine linen, and her pillows had been fluffed and placed in order behind her still aching head.

  She wanted to get out of bed and stretch her sore muscles. She was pleased and disconcerted to find one of Trevallyan’s Kashmir dressing gowns laid across the foot of the bed, should she care to use it.

  “Bother him,” she grumbled, and reached for the black dressing gown. Its softness amazed her, and when she wrapped it around her body she was further bedeviled by the fact that it smelled faintly of vetiver soap and something else … or rather, someone else.

  She rolled up the heavy emerald-green satin cuffs and touched her bare feet to the cold stone floor. Thick ruby-colored Persian rugs with birds and the Tree of Life design were scattered across the floor, and she used them for stepping-stones to the antechamber, where a pleasant little fire burned at the hearth, and the chair-side table was stacked with ancient, well-read tomes.

  After pouring herself a cup of tea, she sat in one of the two chairs. It was habit to take the lesser of two things, perhaps because of her days at the English school, so she sat in the used, worn chair first, pointedly avoiding the newer one. Yet, no matter how she tried, which way she shifted, she couldn’t get comfortable. The chair had been broken in in all the wrong places. Where she needed give, it bumped out, and where she needed support, the upholstery was worn down into a hollow. It should have been a comfortable chair regardless, for even in its age, it was a fine chair and well-made, but for some inexplicable reason, it proved nothing short of medieval torture for her. Unable to bear it, she lifted herself from the seat and stepped to the newer adjoining chair. She sank into it and released a sigh of exquisite comfort. It fit just right.

  With her thoughts again able to return to the situation at hand, she snuggled down into the chair and searched the room. Undoubtably, her dignity would be salvaged if she opened the door and trotted back to Grania’s right now, but her forehead still ached abominably, and she couldn’t summon the wherewithal to plan an escape. Short of one stolen kiss, Trevallyan had been more than generous with his hospitality. He had procured a physician and had even allowed her the most luxurious room in the castle in which to recuperate. She had nothing to complain about except for her host’s rather boorish behavior, and it wasn’t likely that Trevallyan would be visiting her often. It was probably wise that she stay a few days. The walk home seemed interminable and would probably only do her further harm. Besides, her head still hurt abominably and there was a tender red welt across her temple where one of the horses’ shoes must have met with her head.

  She sank further into the chair and made the decision to accept her temporary quarters. In a few days she would feel more like herself and would be able to return home on her own. For now, she would rest, and keep her mind off Trevallyan, the thought of whom made her head pound even more.

  Sipping the tea, she stared into the fire until she felt sleepy again, but unwilling to let herself go, she straightened and reached for one of the books beside her. A large piece of blank paper fell out where Trevallyan had marked his place. She made a halfhearted attempt to find the page the paper had meant to mark, then wickedly closed the book and replaced it on the table, the bookmark still in her hand. She felt the urge to write and was pleased to find an inkwell and a Venetian glass pen on Trevallyan’s nearby desk. Curled up in the unused chair, she began to scratch out Skya’s next adventure:

  The years went by. War with their neighbors dragged on, moving painfully on bloody, battled feet. Skya’s sisters grew into women, and Grace, the younger and more headstrong of the two, was the one to first ask about Skya.

  “Papa, I remember the dragon,” she said one day while her father, the king, was busy with his war minister.

  “My good, fair daughter, there, there, how nice. Now move along,” the king answered distractedly. “’Tis been a year since Prince Aidan has disappeared and King Turoe has just sent a note citing heinous retribution if we don’t surrender his son.”

  “Why don’t you surrender him, Father?” Grace asked with an innocent’s logic.

  “We haven’t got him, my sweet. We don’t know where the man has gone off to. Prince Aidan may have died on his travels, but his father, King Turoe, believes we hold him captive. I fear until he seizes our castle and searches it himself, he will not believe us.”

  “Have we sent a messenger and told King Turoe this?”

  The king rubbed his finely bearded jaw in frustration. “My dear, it’s not as simple as all that. I have sent messengers. For a year, I’ve done so, but in war one isn’t always believed. Prince Aidan was last seen to the north of our kingdom, and so his people have concluded that he is held captive here at the castle. All we can do now is defend ourselves against these new attacks. Now you can see Papa is very busy, so be a good girl and—”

  “Papa, did the dragon kill Skya? I had a dream about her. ’Tis been so long since I saw her—I was a child when we encountered the dragon—is that why she is no longer with us? Is she dead?”

  The king looked down at his youngest daughter, who had grown into the full bloom of womanhood. He looked damned, cursed, as if he didn’t know how to explain anything of the confusing world to so pure a creature as Grace. “Child—oh, if only you were still a child—your sister is gone because she had powers our people little understand and greatly fear. She lives in isolation, and there she must live until … until”—the king seemed to find a strange lump in his throat—“well, for a very long time. Until our people understand her and accept her as one of their own.” He looked away as if hiding something wet and sad in his eyes. “Go along with you, Grace. I’m very busy now.”

  “Where does she live?” Grace asked as she picked up her velvet kirtle and headed for the door.

  “Somewhere in the Dark Woods of Hawthorn. Somewhere quiet and lonely and unmarked by human hatred.” The king released a deep sigh, then he dismissed her and turned his attention back to the war minister who was telling him how many fires would be needed for all the cauldrons of oil.…

  Ravenna grew more and more sleepy until the glass pen went limp in her grasp and its point wept black ink onto the bottom of the page. Her head lolled back onto the plump, like-new l
eather chair, and she had one last thought before slumber took hold. ’Twas a curious shame so beautiful a chair had gone unused, lo, these many years.

  Chapter 14

  TREVALLYAN ENTERED his apartments with a candelabra in his hand to chase away the shadows. He walked through the darkened antechamber, and to his surprise, he found his bedstead empty, the covers thrown aside in a haphazard manner as if the occupant had been in haste to leave it.

  A thin light sputtered from the mantel where the luster’s flames were drowned in a pool of beeswax. He raised the candlelabra to better illuminate the room, but she was nowhere to be found. Ravenna was gone as if spirited away by the moss faeries.

  He looked toward the antechamber doors. The glow of coals dying in the hearth painted the small room an unnatural devilish red. When he entered it, he was unable to put his finger on exactly what was out of place, on what was bothering him. Then he froze in his tracks.

  The chair. There it was. The chair. The one that had never been used. She was in it.

  He stared, unable to summon the force to propel himself forward. His urge was to snatch her from the seat and shake her until her head spun. He didn’t want her in that chair. The chair was special. Waiting. But not for her. Never for her. Yet he knew he couldn’t do anything rash. If he forbade her a seat in the chair he might reveal himself to be a lunatic. And he didn’t want to do that. He was a rational, intelligent man who rarely got bested. Even now, he told himself it shouldn’t bother him what chair she chose to sit in.

  But it did. It did.

  She sighed and snuggled deeper into the upholstery, appearing completely at ease. As if the chair had been made for her.

  He scowled and eased himself down into his own chair, staring. She was Satan’s angel, asleep in his chair, her black tresses falling across the leather-upholstered arm like a widow’s veil. In the demon light, she looked wickedly beautiful, incongruously innocent. Everything about her tempted him.