The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  “What utter rot,” Blackwood said.

  “How else do you explain the hold she has gained over you? She is as much of a witch as those women threatening the king. Very likely, she also is a worshipper of this Megaera—”

  “Enough.” Blackwood cut him off before Meg had a chance to defend herself. “Graham, it is high time you were elsewhere.”

  Sir Patrick shook his head, but then vented a sigh of pure frustration. “I may as well be for all the good I am accomplishing here. You are far too much under this witch’s spell to heed me. And I have a hanging to attend.

  “I am sure it is nothing to you, but a good man is about to die today for no sin but being true to his faith.”

  Blackwood’s jaw was set at a hard angle, but as Sir Patrick started for the door, he relented enough to try to prevent him. “Don’t be a fool, Graham. You cannot do that priest any good by being there and I am sure Salisbury will have his spies present, taking down names, noting the presence of other suspected Catholics.”

  “The earl is well aware of my faith. Even if he wasn’t, it would be a risk I must take. I am tired of being a shadow Catholic, weary to my soul of the need for secrecy. The least that I can do for Father Gregoire is be there to pray for him, that he will be granted a swift and merciful end.”

  “He won’t be,” Blackwood said grimly. “Gilly Black is very skilled at his trade.”

  “Well, you would know that better than anyone else, wouldn’t you?”

  With this last bitter retort, Sir Patrick stormed out the door and slammed it behind him. As Blackwood frowned, staring after his friend, Meg tried to read his emotions. Anger? Concern? Guilt over the part his father, Gilly Black, would play in the brutal execution of the priest? But as ever Blackwood was a mystery to her, his expression unreadable. He strode over and placed the bar across the door.

  “A trifle late for that, don’t you think?” Meg attempted to jest to ease the tension Sir Patrick left in his wake.

  Blackwood responded with a taut smile. “I suppose we could not have expected to keep the world shut out forever. But it would have been good to have had a little more time.”

  “Yes,” Meg agreed softly.

  He regarded her intently and for a moment Meg hoped he meant to take her back in his arms, but he brushed past her and began donning the rest of his clothes.

  “I am sorry about Graham,” he said. “I warned you he could be a bit … strong in his opinions. Perhaps when he has had time for calm reflection—”

  “He will no longer consider me a witch and a strumpet and a threat to your soul?”

  Blackwood sighed. “No, I fear that is not going to happen. I think it would be best if you and the countess left his house immediately.”

  “I had already reached the same conclusion.”

  “You should find somewhere else to dwell, preferably an island, far, far from here.”

  Meg struggled to conceal the hurt she felt that Blackwood could part from her so easily. She tried to tell herself his suggestion was made out of concern for her safety.

  “I cannot return to Faire Isle yet,” she said.

  Blackwood splashed water from the basin over his face. “Why not? You have cured the king. You have accomplished all you came here for.”

  “Not all.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot your quest to find your dead mother. Margaret, you cannot truly think—”

  “I know not what to think. My mother may not be behind these attacks on the king, but someone is. Some witch who is obviously familiar with the coven of the Silver Rose.”

  “Yes …” His gaze rested upon her for a moment and then he sank down upon the edge of the bed to draw on his boots. He had defended her against all of Sir Patrick’s accusations, but surely there must have been some vestige of doubt planted in Blackwood’s mind.

  “Are you never going to ask me?” she prodded.

  “About what?”

  “Why I know so much about Megaera’s coven, the poison in the silver roses.”

  He paused, looking a trifle uneasy, then returned to dragging on his boot. “I just assumed it was because you are the Lady of Faire Isle and thus familiar with all this lore and tales of witches like Megaera.”

  He was offering her an excuse. So why could she not just seize upon it? She could almost hear Seraphine warning her. There is no need to be so honest, even with a lover.

  Meg moistened her lips. “Yes, I am familiar with Megaera’s story because …”

  Keep your secrets to yourself, Meg.

  But when he looked up and her eyes met his, she blurted out, “I am Megaera.”

  The boot he had been holding plunked to the floor. “What!” His expression mingled shock with disbelief.

  “Or at least I was. I—I had better explain.”

  He stared at her. “Yes, I think you had better.”

  Meg hugged her arms about herself and in halting sentences told him about the dark days of her childhood when she had been the Silver Rose, the obsession of a deranged mother and the object of worship to a coven of equally mad women.

  “They all believed I was destined to become this powerful sorceress who would conquer the world. I—I did possess some unusual gifts,” she admitted. “As young as I was, I was good at deciphering ancient codes and languages. I was one of the few who could translate the Book of Shadows, a compilation of black arts that had long been lost.

  “That is where I learned about how to make the silver roses and the syringes, although my mother never used them for any healing purpose. The coven called them witch blades and employed them as another means to deliver the poison.

  “I never wanted to place such lethal weapons in the coven’s hands, but Cassandra had means—painful means of enforcing my obedience.” Meg swallowed. “But it is also true that Cassandra was my mother and—and I wanted to please her. I wanted her to love me.”

  She hesitated, looking for any small sign of understanding from Blackwood. But he was hunched over, working on his other boot.

  Meg paced the room as she continued, “I know not what dark path Maman might have led me down, but I was fortunate to have a father who rescued me. It was he who placed me in the care of Ariane Deauville. She taught me what it truly meant to be a wise woman, a healer, and that is how I came to be the Lady of Faire Isle.”

  “So you simply forgot that you were ever this Megaera? No doubt that is why you failed to mention the fact to me.”

  Was that anger she heard in his voice? Revulsion? If only he would look at her.

  “I do not speak of my past easily, Armagil, because yes, I have tried very hard to forget. But it is never possible.” Tears stung Meg’s eyes.

  She drew closer and attempted to place her hand on his shoulder, but he leaped and strode to the hearth, putting the distance of the room between them. Meg cupped her hand and drew it back to her bosom as though that could somehow protect her heart from the ache of his rejection. Her tears threatened to spill over, but she blinked them back, striving for dignity and control.

  His back to her, Armagil said, “You speak of strange gifts. So then Graham was right. You can bewitch men, read their thoughts.”

  “No! I have never bewitched anyone. But I can read eyes to a certain degree and—and—”

  “And what?” His voice was like the crack of a whip, making her jump.

  “And dreams. I have these dreams.” Meg drew in a breath, and in a rush, tried to explain to him about the prophetic dreams that had plagued her childhood, the ones that had tormented her recently involving the death of Maidred Brody.

  “I have never had dreams about the past before, so I could not understand what this was trying to tell me, but I finally realized. Sir Patrick is the boy in my nightmares, Maidred’s brother. He vowed vengeance upon the king and now he has come back to get it.”

  “What?” Armagil rounded on her.

  “Sir Patrick is Robert Brody. He—”

  “The devil he is.” Armagil had been pale, b
ut his face suffused red with fury. “This is utter madness and you will speak no more of it, do you hear me? Christ’s blood, woman, if this is all the better you can read minds, your powers are quite faulty.”

  Beneath his rage, Meg caught a thread of fear because he knew Graham well. He had to know that Meg was speaking the truth, but Armagil would do anything to protect his friend. Meg well understood. She would have felt the same about Seraphine. She realized she had made a grave error in confiding her suspicions to him and sought to temporize.

  “Perhaps I am mistaken. I admit my skill is not what it once was.”

  “Can you read my mind?”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Try it.” His words were a challenge, like flinging a gauntlet in her face.

  “I—I would rather not.”

  But he stormed toward her. Backing her against the wall, he pinioned her with one hand braced on either side of her head.

  “Do it, Margaret. Read my eyes.”

  Meg reluctantly raised her gaze to his and found his eyes as dark and forbidding as the night she had first met him. She made a halfhearted attempt to probe their depths, but it was like trying to embark upon a black storm-ridden sea that threatened to engulf her.

  She averted her face and whispered, “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you will not let me in, not even when you held me in your arms and we were intimate.”

  Armagil levered himself away from her. “We coupled our bodies, my dear. There is nothing intimate about that.”

  “No, that is not true. I felt something deeper and I am sure that you did—”

  “I didn’t, which is why I tried to warn you that we should not lay together.” He strode back to the hearth and vigorously applied the poker, but there were no embers to stir. The fire had turned to ash. “I feared it would be a mistake and I was right.”

  “Because now you believe I am a witch?”

  “I know not what you are, except for one fact. You are not formed for casual tumbles in a man’s bed. I should have guessed you would imagine it meant more than it did.”

  His voice was so harsh, but it softened a little as he added, “I grant you it was most pleasurable and no matter what Graham said, I would not have you feel ashamed of anything we did.”

  “Sir Patrick did not make me feel ashamed. You are the one who has accomplished that.” With the fire out, Meg suddenly realized how cold the chamber was. She wrapped her arms about herself.

  Armagil replaced the poker. His hand gripped the edge of the mantel and he half-turned toward her when another knock sounded at the door.

  He swore. “Now who the devil?”

  When he flung the door open, Tom burst into the room. The boy let out a glad cry to see Armagil recovered. He flung his arms about Armagil’s waist, rushed to hug Meg and back to Armagil again.

  The boy’s joy was so boisterous, there was no opportunity for any more words between Meg and Armagil, but that was likely just as well, Meg thought bleakly. There was nothing more to be said.

  MEG WAS GLAD TO BE LEAVING SIR PATRICK’S HOUSE. SHE AND Seraphine did not have many belongings, but at least the packing and preparations for finding a new lodging gave her something to do other than think about Armagil.

  Seraphine, of course, was furious with Meg for vanishing overnight and giving her such a fright. Consequently the countess had haughtily announced that she was no longer speaking to Meg. Which meant that Seraphine had spent the last half-hour alternating between scolding and demanding explanations.

  Meg told her all the details of her audience with the king, including the subtle threat made by Lord Salisbury and Meg’s suspicions about Sir Patrick’s true identity. She was more hesitant when it came to relating all that had happened at Armagil’s lodging.

  But either Seraphine was far too shrewd or Meg’s blush betrayed her. When Seraphine continued to pelt her with questions, Meg gave in. If Armagil could treat their encounter so cavalierly, then why couldn’t she?

  “In the morning, we celebrated Armagil’s recovery by—by—I made love to the man.”

  When Seraphine whooped and applauded, Meg tried to smile, but ended up biting down upon her lip instead.

  “Oh ’Phine, I shouldn’t have. It was behavior unworthy of the Lady of Faire Isle, far beneath my dignity.”

  “Oh, be damned to your dignity. Did you enjoy it? Did the man pleasure you?”

  “It is hardly appropriate to discuss … yes, it was wonderful, wild, passionate, just as you predicted Armagil would be.” Meg attempted a careless toss of her head, but couldn’t quite manage it. She added wistfully. “He was also surprisingly tender.”

  Seraphine’s grin faded. “Oh, no! I told you to take a lover, not fall in love.”

  “I have not.” But her words lacked conviction even to her own ears.

  “I warned you, Meg. Keep your heart out of it, keep your secrets to yourself. I hope you at least paid heed to the last part of my advice.”

  Meg refolded a petticoat, steadily avoiding Seraphine’s gaze, but she could feel her friend’s eyes boring into her.

  “Margaret Wolfe, never tell me that you felt obliged to pour your heart out to the man about your entire past, your lunatic mother, your childhood as the Silver Rose.”

  “All right. I won’t tell you.”

  Seraphine groaned. “Oh, Meg, whatever is to be done with you?”

  “I am sorry, ’Phine. I cannot sort myself like a woman dividing up her clothing into trunks, my mind in this one, my body in that one, my heart locked away over here. I am not fashioned that way, and for all you pretend to be so hard, neither are you. Have you ever taken any other lover beside your husband?”

  “It is the way among the nobility, once one has provided one’s husband an heir, one is free to—”

  “I do not care what one does—what about you?”

  Seraphine started to shrug, but faltered beneath Meg’s steady gaze. “No,” she admitted softly, “there has never been any man but Gerard.”

  “And there never will be. My heart is searching for the same thing you had with your husband, one man to love, to be true to forever.”

  “You believe you may have found that with Blackwood?”

  “No. He reacted as any sane man would to the revelations about my past, angry, alarmed, and revolted. I cannot blame him, although somehow I thought Armagil might have been different.” She sighed. “Perhaps I am not meant to find love.”

  “Oh, Meg.” Seraphine hugged her fiercely, but Meg wriggled out of her embrace.

  “We need to finish our packing,” Meg said dully.

  The servant that Seraphine had engaged arrived to move their trunks downstairs. All of Sir Patrick’s household had made themselves scarce, no doubt as fearful of having such a witch in their midst as their master.

  But Meg refused to leave without seeing Sir Patrick. She tracked him down to his study and entered the room unbidden, catching him by surprise.

  He was examining a lock of hair, his face naked with grief. But upon Meg’s entrance, he shoved the hair back inside a locket, concealing both the memento and any emotion. He faced Meg, his features schooled into a mask of stony politeness.

  “We are leaving,” she said. “But it is customary to thank one’s host for his hospitality.”

  He dismissed her words with a curt wave of his hand. “No thanks are necessary. You performed a vital service and it is I who am in your debt.”

  “I helped Armagil for his own sake and mine. You owe me nothing.”

  “I was not referring to Armagil, although if you did indeed save his life, I am grateful. I meant what you did for the king.”

  “Again, I did not do that for you.” Meg regarded him steadily. “I do not even believe you truly wanted him spared the terror of being cursed. If you did, I fear it is because you have plans of your own regarding the king’s fate.”

  He averted his face, the color rising in his cheeks. “So you
admit it. You have used your witch’s tricks on me. You are privy to my thoughts.”

  “Only enough to perceive that you are a man in a great deal of pain. But this vengeance you are pursuing will bring you no peace or comfort.”

  His mouth twisted bitterly. “Won’t it?”

  “No, it will only end up costing you your life and perhaps even your soul.”

  “There are some causes worth forfeiting everything for.”

  Meg reached out to touch his locket. “Do you think she would agree? Is that what she would want for you?”

  “Don’t speak of her to me. Don’t you even dare breathe her name. You know nothing about— Just stay out of my head, witch!”

  He wrenched the locket away from her, trembling with anger. He strode away to the windows, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He did not face her again until he had regained control.

  “You obliged me by coming to London and attending to the king. I am grateful for that. I did promise you safe conduct and I will make arrangements to send you back to Faire Isle.”

  “That is kind of you, but I am not going back, at least not until I have found what I came looking for.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “The truth, Sir Patrick.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “STOP THIEF!”

  The angry bellow sounded in Amy’s ears. Heart thudding, she shoved her way past a drayman and a lanky shopkeeper closing up a storefront. At this late hour of afternoon, there was no longer much of a crowd for her to lose herself among.

  Her only advantage was that she knew this part of the city well and her pursuer was a fat merchant who should have been easy prey if she had not been so clumsy when cutting his purse.

  He huffed after her. She could have eluded him easily if he had not roused others to his pursuit, a pair of bored young apprentices who were clearly enjoying the diversion of the chase.

  Feeling like a terrified hare with a pack of excited hounds nipping at her heels, she darted around a wagon that was unloading merchandise at a tavern. She knocked over a few of the crates. That slowed her pursuers a little, but not enough.