The Lady of Secrets

by Susan Carroll

  Meg’s stomach clenched, the sight of the pentagram smeared in blood far more disturbing than the stained trunk. She felt the first icy whisper of the room’s aura and the ribbon dropped unnoticed from her hand.

  She forced herself to approach the wall. She was loath to admit it, but she was grateful for Armagil’s solid presence at her side as she inspected the symbol.

  “It is a pentagram, is it not?” he asked. “The mark of the devil.”

  Her throat had closed. She cleared it and struggled to respond in a dispassionate tone. “Not necessarily. In a proper pentagram, the top of the star represents the spirit. The other four points are the elements, earth, air, fire, and water. It is usually considered to be a good sign, a protection against evil.”

  “When it is not painted in blood,” Armagil said dryly.

  “Y-yes. And whoever fashioned this inverted the star, so that it is pointing upside down.”

  “That is significant?”

  “It shows that her spirit has become enslaved by her carnal desires. She needs to face the darkness within her before it rises up to take complete control of her.”

  Except that it already had. Meg rested her fingers near the tip of the star. She was assailed by a maelstrom of rage, pain, and hatred. She snatched her hand back, her senses reeling.

  She swayed and might have fallen if Armagil had not caught her.

  “Meg?”

  Seized by an uncontrollable shivering, she could not answer him. He drew her into his arms and held her hard against him. She burrowed against his chest, grateful for his strength. He stroked her hair, murmuring something she could not understand, but it didn’t matter, the tone was so soothing and gentle. His tenderness and warmth gradually drove back the darkness.

  She could have clung to him forever, but as she regained her senses, she felt confused by his behavior. When she risked a glance up at him, he smiled.

  “Better?”

  She nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “I—I don’t know. Sometimes I just sense things I wish I didn’t. When I touched the wall, it was as though I could feel the witch’s darkness.”

  She expected him to recoil, but he didn’t.

  “Is that another of your—er—gifts?”

  “Yes.”

  He sounded more curious than wary, more like the man she believed she had known, the Armagil who had made love to her so passionately, not the one who had turned cold and all but ejected her from his bedchamber. Her heart ached with such hope it was painful, but she could not bring herself to trust the emotion or him.

  As she drew away from him, he seemed reluctant to let her go. Meg stepped back and tried to read his eyes, but he averted his gaze.

  “Why did you really come here, Armagil?”

  “I already told you. My reason is the same as yours. I am on a witch hunt.”

  “Does that include me?”

  “I do not regard you in that light.”

  “That was not the impression you gave me when we parted.”

  “That is because I am an oafish clod. I admit I was shocked by what you told me. When you confessed to being Megaera, it left me overwhelmed. I was not sure what to think or feel.”

  “And now?”

  He risked meeting her gaze and for the first time gave her one glimpse behind the barrier.

  He loved her.

  Meg’s breath caught in her throat. Armagil had experienced the same powerful emotion that she had when they had lain together. But it frightened him and not because of her strange heritage. So what was it? Something in his own past perhaps? Some terrible event that left him estranged from his family to the point of denying his own father? For one moment, she could see the shadow of the tenderhearted boy he had once been. But Armagil lowered his lashes, shutting her out.

  Something had turned him into the hardened man he had become, afraid to risk his heart. But Armagil loved her in spite of himself. That thought brought a tremulous smile to her lips, but she suppressed it. It would be unwise to push him any further, force him into avowals that he was not ready to make.

  “You are determined to track down these witches and yet I find it hard to believe that it is because they poisoned you,” she said. “You have so little regard for your own life.”

  “I lost all my coin dicing at the tavern last night. I could afford no other amusement.”

  “And how did you even find this place?”

  Her question clearly caused him unease. “I heard gossip about the murder and I am familiar with a man who has an uncanny knack for knowing about crimes that take place in the city.”

  “What man?”

  Armagil replied grudgingly. “Gilly Black.”

  “Your fath—” Meg started to gasp, but checked herself at the sight of Armagil’s scowl. She amended, “Mr. Black. You reconciled with him?”

  “I would hardly call it a reconciliation. I went to him for information, nothing more.”

  “That must have been very hard for you, to go to him and ask for such a favor.”

  Armagil shrugged.

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  He shot her an exasperated look. “You are extraordinary in so many ways, Margaret Wolfe, but in one respect, you are like every other woman in the world. You ask too many damned questions.”

  He turned away from her as though he could outpace her gentle probing. But in this small chamber, there was nowhere to go. Just as she feared he might fling open the door and bolt from the room, he spun around and snapped at her.

  “It is all because of you, you little fool. You will persist in putting yourself in danger. The only way for me to protect you is to find those witches myself. If anything were to happen to you, I couldn’t bear it.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I think I would go mad.”

  Meg’s heart swelled. She longed to fling her arms around his neck, but instead she held out her hand as she would to reassure a beast she found wounded in the woods.

  Armagil stared at her hand and then placed his palm against hers, entwining her fingers with his.

  “So you do care about me,” she said. “What happened in your chamber was not some careless tumble.”

  “No, I am sorry I said that. I just needed—I wanted to—”

  “Push me away because I alarm you.”

  “You do. And it has naught to do with thinking you are a witch. It is those eyes of yours. They are always searching my heart for something I am afraid to give. I am a weak man, Margaret. And a coward.”

  She pressed his hand. “I do not believe that.”

  “Oh, I would have no difficulty shielding you if someone came at you with a naked length of steel. My life is worth nothing. But when it comes to opening myself to the pain of great loss, I am as craven as a milksop boy.”

  “So you would rather close yourself to the prospect of love and great joy as well?”

  “My only experience of joy is that it is fleeting, leaving one hollow when it is gone.” He heaved a deep sigh. “But whatever fears you rouse in me, it is too late now. All I can do is keep you safe as best I can.”

  Meg was warmed by his words, by the tenderness in his eyes. She should not press him for anything more, but a thought had occurred to her, one she hardly dared mention.

  “I am grateful you wish to protect me, Armagil, but there is something far more important you could do.”

  He brought her hand to his lips. “Tell me. I would do anything for you.”

  “Protect Robert Brody instead.”

  He swore and dropped her hand as though it had become a live coal.

  “But even now Sir Patrick could be—”

  “Nay, Margaret, I implore you. Do not start that nonsense again about Graham being Robert Brody. I have already told you that it is not possible.”

  “I am convinced that it is. I dreamed again about Maidred.”

  “Stop,” he said. “I can reconcile myself to your other strange gifts, but these dreams of yo
urs are too unsettling. I don’t want to hear anything more about them.”

  He held up his hands to silence her. Then he groaned and lowered them. As though he could not help himself, he demanded, “Fine, damn it. Tell me what you dreamed.”

  “The same thing as before, Maidred begging me to save her brother. Her pleas have become more desperate and I can do nothing. You may be the only one who can help.”

  “Save a man I don’t even know? Someone who is merely the figment of your nightmares?”

  “You do know him. And I am convinced you are the only one who can stop Sir Patrick.”

  “Stop him from what?” Armagil demanded.

  “You know perfectly well what. Sir Patrick, or should I say Robert Brody, is bent upon getting his revenge upon James Stuart.”

  “If the king killed someone he loved, perhaps Brody is entitled to it.”

  “No, it will only mean your friend’s destruction. Even if Sir Patrick could destroy James and somehow get away with it, don’t you know what it will do to him? That kind of bloodlust leaves a stain on a man’s soul that cannot be washed away. I know. I came too near embracing that kind of darkness myself.”

  “Even if what you say is true, what do you think I can do about it?”

  “You are his closest friend.”

  “Was. We have not even spoken since the day we quarreled over—” He stopped, looking uncomfortable.

  “Over me,” Meg finished softly. “You will never know how much I regret being the cause of such a rift between you, but that does not change one thing. You know Sir Patrick better than anyone. You must have some idea what he is planning.”

  “I never meddle in anyone else’s affairs. That would require too much effort on my part. I don’t know what Graham might be plotting except …” Armagil frowned and then admitted, “I fear he is not acting alone.”

  “You think he is in league with the witches?”

  “No. I cannot fathom how they figure into all this, but Graham would never willingly consort—well, I am sure he made it painfully clear to you how he feels about sorcery. But I have been aware for some time that Graham has been attending secret meetings. I suspect other men who are Catholic zealots.”

  “Then they can have but one aim, the assassination of the king, which would further Sir Patrick’s own desire for vengeance. Even now he is gone off with the king on that hunting expedition. It would be the perfect opportunity to strike against James.”

  “Then it is likely already too late.”

  “No. If it was, I don’t think I would still be dreaming about Maidred.”

  “So you would have me do what? Abandon you and go haring after Graham?”

  “I will be safe enough until you return.” When he cast her a skeptical look, she insisted, “Truly. Those witches have gone deep into hiding and I have no idea where to find them.”

  “But you won’t stop looking.”

  “I will until you return. I give you my word on that. Please, Armagil. You are the only one Sir Patrick will listen to. You are the only one who can give peace to Maidred’s spirit by saving her brother.”

  “Me?” Armagil gave a harsh laugh. “You have no idea how amusing that is. Sending me after Graham is like sending a jackal to stop a wolf. I have no love for James Stuart either. He is a miserable excuse for both a man and a king.”

  “But you would not see him dead.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” he challenged, his jaw set at a hard angle.

  “If you had wanted to become an executioner you could have done so years ago. You chose to become a physician instead.”

  “Considering how skilled I am at that, the two professions are often one and the same.” His bitter expression faded. He sighed. “Very well. Perhaps I have stood by idle for far too long. I shall go after Graham, although I cannot guarantee you will be pleased with the results.”

  “I have every confidence and trust in you.”

  “As I said before, you are a little fool.” But he softened his words by kissing her. And then he was gone.

  AMY STOOD BENEATH THE OVERHANG OF THE HOUSE THAT JUTTED two stories above her. Clutching her cane, she leaned back against the wall. To any passersby, she would look like some tired old beggar woman huddled beneath her shawl, seeking a respite from the chilling wind. As long as no one paused to study her too closely. To her relief, no one did.

  She was taking a grave risk by venturing so near the area of London where the hue and cry after her was bound to be the most intense. From her vantage point, she could see the sign of the Two Crowns swaying in the breeze, keep watch over the door where Margaret Wolfe had vanished inside what seemed ages ago.

  If Amy were caught—that did not bear thinking about. It caused the hand clutching the cane to tremble. Unlike her sister, she got no thrill from the prospect of danger. The shiver of excitement that raced beneath her fear came from an entirely different source—Megaera.

  By now, the Silver Rose must be studying the symbol Amy had painted on the wall. Would she understand its meaning? Would she be impressed by what Amy had done? Would she comprehend that in Amelia Rivers, the Silver Rose had a true follower indeed?

  A hand clamped down on Amy’s shoulder. She squeaked in fright and twisted around, lifting the cane to defend herself against the lad who had seized hold of her.

  Bea’s eyes mocked her from beneath the brim of the feathered toque. Amy lowered the cane with a tremulous sigh, her pulse still thudding.

  “Damn you, Bea! You nearly caused my heart to stop. I thought you were a constable.”

  “Which I well could have been for all the more heed you were paying, staring off again with that mooncalf look in your eyes.”

  “I am keeping sharp watch for the Silver Rose,” Amy hissed back.

  “And doing a poor job of it. What is taking so long? She probably slipped past you and is long gone.”

  “She did not! And if you feel you could do so much better, you should have been on the watch yourself, you who claim to love danger so much.”

  “I enjoy taking risks, but not stupid ones. Your disguise is so much better than mine. You make a far better old woman than I do a boy.”

  Amy gritted her teeth at the gibe. Her hands clamped down on the cane as she resisted the urge to crack it over her sister’s head. Bea had been more spiteful than usual since they had had to flee their lodgings at the Two Crowns. But she did not think that that was the true source of Bea’s displeasure. No, her sister was simply jealous because Amy had done something that Bea had never dared to do, for all of her bravado.

  Amy had actually killed someone. After her initial shock at what she had done had passed, Amy had felt fierce and brave, much more so than Bea. She had boasted of her deed to her sister every chance she got.

  She would have done so now, but her attention was caught by someone emerging from the inn. She and Bea both tensed with anticipation. To Amy’s surprise, it was Armagil Blackwood.

  “What is he doing here?” Bea muttered.

  “I don’t know.” Disappointed, Amy sagged back against the wall. “Probably drinking himself into a stupor as usual.”

  Except Blackwood did not look drunk. He strode away from the inn with more purpose in his step than Amy had ever remarked before.

  “I don’t like this, Amy,” Bea grumbled in her ear. “What reason could Blackwood have had for coming to the Two Crowns? Could he be looking for us?”

  “Oh, why would he?”

  “Maybe your precious Sir Patrick sent him. He did threaten to turn us over to the law.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. And he is not my Sir Patrick,” Amy sniffed, her cheeks stinging with the remembered pain and humiliation of his rejection. “He is just a stupid useless man, as unworthy as his ass of a friend. Neither he nor Blackwood are of any concern to us.”

  “But—”

  “No! I don’t want to speak of him anymore.” Amy banged her cane against the ground. “We shall make both of them pay when we have come to power.�
�

  She waited for Bea to echo her agreement. But her sister frowned instead. “About that. I am thinking that we should forget all of this, leave London, and make a new start elsewhere.”

  “What!”

  “I have no desire to be hanged. Or burned alive as our grandmother was.”

  “Aye, our grandmother. How good of you to remember her. She must be avenged.”

  “Sir Patrick and his friends will see to that.”

  Amy could hardly believe she was hearing this. Entirely forgetting her guise of a hunched-over old woman, she straightened, spluttering in her indignation.

  “You would completely abandon everything, all Granddam’s teachings, everything she promised us, the cause that she died for. Why don’t you just spit upon her grave? Fie upon you, Bea. Fie.”

  Bea ducked her head, for once having the grace to look a little ashamed.

  “Very well. If you want to turn craven and flee, go ahead,” Amy continued. “Spend the rest of your life getting poked by some man in a dark alley for a few coins. Keep at it until you are so old and poxed, no one will want you. Then you can beg for scraps until—”

  “All right. All right,” Beatrice muttered. “ ’Tis just that I am wearied of waiting, all these games we have been playing with the king and Sir Patrick. When is all this to end, Amy?”

  “You know when, the night of—” Amy broke off. Across the busy street, Margaret Wolfe emerged from the inn, accompanied by her friend, the French countess. She was the sort of woman Amy had always detested, graceful and arrogant in her beauty and grand title. But she was of little consequence set next to the grave, dark-haired woman at her side.

  Amy studied Megaera, her heart swelling with adoration. “Our Silver Rose looks so tired. She has expended a great deal of effort searching for us.”

  “Then don’t you think it is about time that she found us?” Bea demanded.

  “Soon.” Amy’s lips curved in a feline smile. “Very soon, my dear sister.”

  Chapter Twenty

  THE LIGHT OF DAY HAD BEGUN TO FADE ACROSS THE FROST-hardened fields. Most of the courtiers who rode after the king showed signs of fatigue. Cold, tired, and hungry, they longed to return to the castle and the comforts of a roaring fire and good meal, Sir Patrick Graham among them.