The Ground She Walks Upon

by Meagan Mckinney

  “All right. I’ll let Prince Aidan come back.” She picked up the skirts of her linen kirtle and squatted before him. “But you must behave.”

  He nodded.

  She snapped her fingers again.

  The prince returned with all the fury of a cyclone.

  He lunged for her.

  She snapped her fingers.

  The troll returned, even more furious than before.

  She smiled in relief. If not for the tiny three-legged stool tripping Prince Aidan, she might be the one stamping her feet in fury.

  “Why can’t you behave? Do you hate me that much?” She wasn’t sure she really wanted the answer.

  The troll righted the three-legged stool and resumed his penitent posture. She chose to ignore him for the moment and instead, she walked to the board and picked up a honeycake.

  Torturing him, she ate every sweet crumb right in front of him.

  “There.” She rubbed her belly. “Delicious. And look, I’ve so many left, I don’t know how I’ll eat them all.” Her lids lowered mischieviously. “And what do trolls eat for their supper? Cold toads? A poisonous mushroom or two?”

  The troll’s face twisted in disgust. When she pointed to the door, urging him to exit, his face twisted in horror.

  “So you want to stay and have all my mead and honeycakes, do you?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll give you one more chance. Be a good little prince, or there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  She snapped her fingers. The prince looked up.

  “How quaint you look,” she said to him.

  Aidan’s mouth curved in derision as he found he was seated on the tiny little stool.

  “How beautiful you look.” He stood but came no farther.

  She blushed. He didn’t know it, but when he was kind, the spell he wove around her was far stronger than all her magic.

  “Come. I’ll pour you some mead.” She smiled sweetly and dipped a cup in the cauldron. She placed it on the board within his reach.

  “You may sit if you like.”

  Cautiously, he made his way around the board and took a seat on the bench near the hearth.

  He drank his hot mead and didn’t take his eyes from her. He watched her like a knight watches his enemy.

  “You have to release me, you know,” he said in the deep-timbred voice of her dreams.

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I eavesdropped on you and your sister. My father is going to storm your father’s castle. King Turoe will murder everyone. I’m his only son.”

  “It was to keep you from murdering them that I’ve kept you here.”

  He scowled. A breathtaking sight, she thought, in one so handsome. “I came through these woods because I was lost. Indeed, my journey was to investigate your father’s artillery, but I never quite had the chance, now, did I?”

  She smiled a little sheepishly, but the news pressing on her made her quickly grow glum. “King Turoe will be defeated.”

  “His army is stronger than yours. You know it.”

  She stared into the flickering fire. “If I let you go, you’ll join your father and take the castle anyway. It’s just an excuse. All from Clancullen are warmongers.”

  “’Tis our right to gain land if we have the strength to do it.”

  She glanced at him. He was so strong, and his convictions so simple and pure. She had no doubts he could take her father’s castle even without King Turoe’s help. “But we are a peaceful people. We don’t want war.”

  He slowly reached out a hand and covered her right one, the one that made magic. “Witches do not aid the peace. They only stir up hatred and loathing and fear.”

  “I don’t want to be a witch.” She cursed the tears that wet her eyes. It was time to be brave, not weep like a child. “I’ve exiled myself here in order to keep peace. I can’t let you or your father spoil it.”

  “But the peace is spoiled. Right now, my father might be taking his broadsword and—”

  “No!” she cried out, jumping to her feet. Her mead sloshed onto the hard-packed earthen floor. “Don’t even think such things.”

  “Do you love your family? Then save them,” he commanded.

  “But how? Which is the right path? I can’t let you go only to find you’ve made war on them.”

  He grabbed her, one muscular arm sliding around her narrow waist, one hand interlocking fingers with her right hand. The hand that made magic.

  A panic seized her. She couldn’t protect herself if he held her hand that way. She tried to pull free but it was useless. He was too strong. Even if he did relinquish the arm around her waist, if he held on to her hand, she’d be as weak as a mortal.

  She stared up at him, a sickening feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. Without the ability to use her right hand, she was powerless. By his smile, well he knew it.

  He looked down at her, his mouth handsomely curved in a wicked grin. “Now You’re my prisoner, aren’t you?”

  She licked her lips, her gaze captured by his. “I’m your prisoner until you let go of my hand, which you must do eventually.”

  “Yes, but in the meantime, I can torture you as you tortured me.”

  “But how did I—?”

  “That rainy night—you think I wanted to come here and make love to a witch?”

  Her azure eyes glittered with tears. Depression seemed to weigh upon her body until it slumped like an old woman’s. “I did not think the night so terrible,” she whispered, holding back a sob.

  “It was exquisite.”

  His face hardened with some strange emotion she could not quite identify.

  “You seduced me,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to make love to you, and after you took me, you cursed me with it. You were all I could think about underneath that slimy dark bridge. But I was a little impotent troll. I could never have you again unless you took pity on me and changed me back.” His lips trailed hotly along her ear. “But you’ve turned me into myself again, and here you are, mine for the taking.”

  “Yes, but as you said my beauty could be just a facade.…” she panted, his mouth leaving her breathless.

  “Show me your old ugly self, if you have one, and perhaps I’ll leave you alone. It’s your only salvation.”

  She tilted her face toward his and studied him. She could, of course, change her appearance at will, but she was herself now, as he was himself. Her eyes darkened. Also, she wanted him. There was a naughty little voice deep inside that cajoled her into going along.

  He whispered against her hair. “So where is she, the old wart-nosed hag?”

  “She doesn’t exist,” she answered, dooming herself.

  “Good. Good,” he rasped, covering her mouth with his.

  Her free hand instinctively tried to stop him. It rode up his hard, hairy chest, all of him that was exposed by the ripped rags that were once the troll’s clothes. She pushed on him, but it was like pushing on a wall; he didn’t give. He just kept kissing her, his large hand running up and down the back of her linen kirtle until he sent a shower of delight through her belly.

  “I knew you were a witch the minute I kissed you,” he groaned, burying his face in her golden hair.

  “But how does a witch kiss?” she asked artlessly.

  He chuckled. The sound made his chest tremble beneath her hand. “I suppose it must be all the practice you’ve had holding men captive and taking from them their sanity.”

  “Oh no.…” Her eyes widened in amazement. “There are no others. There’s only been you. I love only you.”

  He seemed stunned by her confession, and she wondered briefly how he would use it against her. She prayed he would not.

  “What spells you weave,” he murmured before taking her chin in hand and lifting her for another kiss. When he was through, he stared at their clasped hands and said, “Let’s find your pallet.”

  “And tomorrow?” she asked in a scared, hushed voice.

  “Tomorrow I’ll be
gone, and this time I’ll make sure you don’t follow me. It’ll be your turn to want what you cannot have.”

  “But you must never let go of my hand. Promise me, you’ll never let go of my hand,” she pleaded softly.

  With a searing kiss, he took all thoughts from her mind. And left the promise unspoken.

  Ravenna looked up at Trevallyan as if just remembering he was still in the room. He stared at her, seated in his chair, his eyes piercing, yet brilliantly cloaking whatever genuine emotion he felt at that moment.

  Unable to stop herself, she flushed, hating the way her cheeks revealed all her insecurities. “I’ve gone on too long.”

  He said nothing. There was simply that piercing aqua stare, bathed golden in the firelight.

  “I think perhaps the story isn’t working. After all, who would believe it? A woman holding a prince captive—”

  “You must finish it.”

  The conviction in his voice surprised her.

  “For what purpose? To see it rot in a bureau with my hair ribbons?”

  “No, to see it published and in the homes of all who would admire it.” He shifted his gaze to his desk and all the unused paper and ink. “Tomorrow you’re to write all this down.”

  “I’m to write by your decree?”

  “Not by my decree, but because you love to do it. And because…” He stared at her through half-closed lids. “Because you can do it, as others cannot.”

  “If I publish, I shall move to Dublin,” she said convincingly.

  “No, by that time you’ll be my wife. What a shock to tell the peerage that Lady Trevallyan is actually a writer.” He smiled and lowered his gaze to his clasped hands. “In fact I can hardly wait.”

  “You’re so sure of everything.”

  He stared at her, clearly not having missed the acid in her voice. The old anger in his eyes was back. “I’m not sure of you. You’re so difficult, you make everything else seem easy.”

  She said nothing.

  He rose from his chair and stepped to her. “Good night.” He caressed her cheek. “If you get lonely, summon me.”

  She turned her head away. How could he think she was not lonely in this tower, far from anyone who cared for her?

  She watched him leave. He cared for her in his perverse, needful way. If only he would take his love further and let her go.

  Because then she just might come back.

  Chapter 25

  RAVENNA WAS ready for the ball. As threatened, Katey chose the fabrics for her, and five gowns were ordered. Now, though Ravenna had fought it, she was dressed, and she stood in front of an oak cheval mirror and studied her reflection.

  Katey had coiled her hair into smooth heavy loops and pinned them to her nape, but even under a violet-scented pomade, downy curls sprang along her hairline, giving her more of a Renaissance look than a modern one. Her gown was a royal purple satin with black hand-painted scrolls along the flounces of the skirt. The pièce de résistance of her attire, however, was not actually the dress, but the exquisite black-purple posy of velvet violets that was artfully pinned to her décolletage.

  Ravenna hardly knew herself. Gone was the street urchin of old. Gone, too, was the studious young woman who had returned from Weymouth-Hampstead. In her place stood an aristocratic lady. All self-doubts and insecurities were hidden behind the gown’s artful drape and flounces; physical flaws were rendered invisible. She was awestruck by the transformation; flattered by the adornment. The new gown made her feel beautiful, and she liked the feeling. It was kissed with power.

  Still she was not going to attend this ball, no matter how much she adored the ballgown.

  “You’ll be visiting with your grandmother tonight—won’t you be liking that?” Katey mused as she straightened Ravenna’s skirt and hooked the last hook on the back of her bodice.

  “I’ll like it fine. I’ll tell her that Trevallyan’s been holding me prisoner,” she retorted, sneaking another peek at the stranger in the mirror.

  “Hush now. None of that talk. You know it would only upset your grandmother for you to say such things. She thinks it’s grand Himself has taken you under his wing.” Katey clipped a thread from the heavily boned satin bodice and popped the tiny scissors into a drawstring purse adorned with a huge silver tassel.

  “Why is everyone so uncaring of me?” Ravenna couldn’t look at Katey. She didn’t want the servant to see the fury in her eyes. “You treat Lord Trevallyan as if he were a god and me but a rebellious servant who doesn’t know her place.”

  “But it’s not true! We love Himself, aye, ’tis so, but we care about you, too, miss. If not for you, how would we all get along? The county would go to rack and ruin.”

  Ravenna spun to face her. Surprise sparked in her eyes. “So you know about the geis, too? Why—has everyone here known about it—even all the years I was kept ignorant?”

  “’Tis only that my sister once cleaned for Reverend Drummond. Word spreads, miss. There isn’t much to talk about ’round here—or they wouldn’t call the obituaries Irish entertainment, now would they?”

  Ravenna smirked. She crossed her arms over her chest, careful not to crush the costly violets. “Who else knows?”

  “Well, I know for certain that Greeves does. He must. He used to hoist a jar with Peter Maguire, the old mayor.”

  Pulling away from Katey, Ravenna flung herself onto a black needlepoint bench. “I will not be forced to marry Trevallyan.”

  “No,” Katey answered smoothly.

  “So why not let me go? You can’t keep me here forever.”

  “You’ll love him one day, miss.”

  “How can you know that when I don’t know that?”

  “Because all good men are loved in time.”

  Ravenna glanced at her reflection. The expression on her face certainly contrasted with the festivity of her gown. “I would think better of him if he let me go.”

  “Can you run so far from your destiny, Miss Ravenna?”

  Ravenna watched Katey in the mirror. “I would like to try. That’s all I want, just the chance to try to run free. I’ve got to have it.”

  “Then God go with you, miss. Remember: Regret is a wound that seldom heals.” Katey gave her a troubled smile. She studied Ravenna’s appearance, then, as if patting herself on the back for so fine a creation, she curtsied, and left the tower.

  The clock in the antechamber chimed eight times at exactly the moment Trevallyan entered the tower room.

  Ravenna stood at the window, watching the stream of carriages pull inside the bailey and release their passengers. Lanterns lit the broad grass lawn that swept toward the looming shadows of Briney Cliffs. Already half of Lir seemed flocked on the lawn, laughing and drinking. Somewhere a fiddler played “The Piper’s Chair.”

  “I see Katey got you ready despite your protests.”

  Ravenna glanced at her visitor. Niall looked devastating. Dressed in black with a gold satin waistcoat, he was as refined and handsome as a prince from a maiden’s fairy tale. Any woman would be proud to hang on his arm. Though he was not the tallest gent, nor did he possess Fabuloso’s overly muscular physique, no other man could attain Trevallyan’s aura of power. Even in a crowd—as Ravenna had seen time and again—all eyes were helplessly drawn to him. Lord Trevallyan didn’t just enter a room, he took command of it.

  As he commanded it now.

  “I’m not going.” She stared at him, defiantly standing her ground while his gaze raked over her attire. He clearly didn’t like her rebelliousness; still, it seemed his eyes held only admiration for her appearance.

  “Did you hear me? I’m not going,” she announced.

  “Yes, you are.” His statement brooked no argument.

  “What are you planning on telling people? That we’re engaged despite my refusals?” She petulantly thrust out her small, pointed chin. She didn’t want to act like a child, but he drove her to it. This insanity of holding her in the tower was making them both into fools.

&nb
sp; “I don’t plan on telling them anything.… Do you?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. He casually walked through the antechamber, then leaned on one of the bedposts.

  She snatched up her skirts and stomped past him. “They’ll know I’m staying here when I appear with you. Do you really want to marry me then, with all the county believing I’m your mistress?”

  “I don’t care what they believe. Besides, they won’t think a thing of it. Grania and Father Nolan came early. When you appear at my side, everyone will think you came with them.”

  “You think of everything, don’t you?” she said bitterly.

  “Yes.”

  He caught her hand and put his arms around her. A tingle went down her spine the way his hands rubbed the slick, boned satin at her waist.

  Her gaze locked with his. He whispered, “And yet I haven’t thought to tell you how beautiful you are tonight.” His words seemed to come as an unwilling confession. “Ravenna, you take my breath away.”

  She closed her eyes. His hands rode well at her hips. All she had to do was tilt her head and she knew he would kiss her. His seduction once again proved to be an intoxicating elixir.

  She felt cold metal slip around her neck. Her eyes popped open. In the far pier mirror she could see he’d slipped a fortune in emeralds around her neck.

  “They were my mother’s. The Trevallyan emeralds.” He also stared in the mirror. “I thought they’d look betwitching on you … and they do.”

  Her expression clouded. “Not even jewels will make me go to this ball. I tell you, I won’t go.”

  His fingers played upon her tightly corseted ribs. His breath tickled her bare shoulder. “But you don’t want to disappoint Chesham. It’s his ball, remember that. Besides, I believe the only reason he did it was in the small hope of seeing you tonight.”

  She arched one black eyebrow. He had finally driven her to pettiness. “Lord Chesham? Of course, it’s his ball, isn’t it? So you may tell him he may escort me downstairs. He’s such a dashing young man, isn’t he?”

  “A true gentleman,” he answered, playfully chastising her with a bite on the neck, “as you will recall when he so rudely interrupted your bath.”