Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  He took her in his arms. “You’re not sure?”

  She rested against him, so grateful to have someone at last to lean on. “No. It’s terrible, but they loved each other so much. Love can be a dangerous force.”

  “A kind of magic, yes, and often with a sting in the tail.”

  She wished again that he might love her.

  “So you think she wished to go with him?” he added.

  After a moment, Meg said, “No. She was too much the optimist. I’m sure she wished for his recovery. But perhaps there are some things the sheelagh cannot do. Or perhaps she just worded it carelessly.”

  “Such as a wish that they not be parted.”

  She stared at him. “Yes! But I’m sure if that was her wish, it was deliberate. She’d hope it would lead to his recovery, but be ready to die with him if necessary. She’s doubtless been pacing the clouds of heaven impatiently, urging me to get on with it and use the sheelagh to save her children!”

  He grinned and kissed her hand. “I’ve just realized, I’m the answer to a maiden’s prayer!”

  Meg groaned. But then she asked, “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “It’s an astonishing relief, in fact. I always suspected the truth—a highwayman on that road wasn’t likely, and my parents’ trip there had been arranged by my aunt, who generally did what the duchess said. But what could a ten-year-old boy do? Who would believe him? There were times when I thought perhaps I was the one who was mad, who had a distorted view of reality.

  “Once I escaped, the trail was cold, and I knew with an adult’s eye that proving anything against the duchess would be impossible. Even if I found the person she’d used, it would stop there. So I just continued to refuse her any reward from her crimes.”

  “I’m glad you’re not seeking revenge.”

  “Don’t think me too saintly. If I didn’t believe she was going straight to hell, I’d be at her beside making her last moments miserable.”

  “Sax!”

  He met her eyes. “That’s the truth, Meg. She tried to ruin my parents’ lives, and then she killed them. She tried to ruin my life in many ways, and partially succeeded. She killed my uncles, for heaven’s sake, out of spite. Then, in the end, she tried to kill me and you. I’m not Christian enough to forgive all that, but I’m God-fearing enough to believe that He will deal with her.”

  “It all started with love. Doesn’t love frighten you sometimes?”

  “It terrifies me.”

  Despite her own words, that was not what she wanted to hear. “And yet you’ve surrounded yourself with love. Even if it meant so many meddling fingers in your life.”

  He laughed, perhaps with a touch of embarrassment. “Perhaps I have a hunger for love, then. Feed me, Meg?”

  She looked at him, wondering if she misunderstood. She seized her courage and took the first step. “It’s early days yet, but I do believe I love you, Sax.”

  He drew her into his arms. “You have to. I don’t think I could endure unrequited love, and I’ve decided to give up smashing things.”

  She was so overwhelmed, she couldn’t think of anything beautiful to say. “Pity. I’d like to have one last clear-out.”

  “What a marvelous idea!” He snatched Knox from his adoring attentions to the sheelagh and popped him in his cage. Then he led Meg into his bedroom, and together they happily destroyed every trace of ugliness.

  With a final, satisfied survey of the shambles, they staggered off to her bedroom and collapsed in exhausted sleep.

  Meg thought perhaps the whole of London had come to Sax’s Twelfth Night Ball, and most of them were curious about her. She would have hated it except that he stayed by her side and he was magic enough to drive away any fear or doubt.

  Also, Laura was attending, and she was distracting most of the male attention. The twins were watching from a quiet corner, nipping out—she was sure—to filch delicacies from the supper display. They’d already had traditional Twelfth Night cake in the servants’ hall earlier.

  Meg was in the “apricot thing” which was truly a fairy-tale gown of cream silk under a tunic of embroidered apricot gauze set with small russet stones and seed pearls. And she was wearing her mother’s pearls.

  When Sax had come to escort her down to the ballroom, he’d brought two boxes. One held an exquisite parure of diamonds—necklace, earrings, brooch, bracelets, and tiara. The other contained her mother’s simple pearl set, her locket, and her rings.

  “I put Owain to finding some of your property that first day. Your family helped. Thus far, we have some of your father’s books and these.” He looked almost uncertain. “If you’d rather wear the diamonds, I brought them in case. . . .”

  Meg burst into tears and tried to crush him with a hug. “Sax, you’re impossible!”

  “Impossible, like magic?”

  “Wickedly magical,” she’d said, and they might have been late if Susie hadn’t bullied them into behaving themselves.

  Her mother’s simple jewels kept her feet on the ground, but her real confidence came from Sax, from the deep, true feeling that ran between them. It was early days yet, and there was much they didn’t know about each other, much to learn. But they loved, and their love was something wonderful added to the world.

  They’d slept together last night, but only slept. He hadn’t needed words to tell her that they wouldn’t only sleep tonight. Or tomorrow, for the ball would go on into the early hours of the morning.

  Perhaps they’d both be too tired.

  She doubted Sax was ever too tired, and he’d make sure she wasn’t either. Or perhaps, as he’d first suggested, he would sleep with her to be ready when she felt more rested.

  So here she was, greeting people as the Countess of Saxonhurst. The scandalous Countess of Saxonhurst, which was the last thing sensible Meg Gillingham had ever expected to be. And here beside her was her husband, the handsome, charming, magical earl, stealing her breath with his beauty in his stark, dark evening clothes, his yellow hair and eyes shining, touching her heart with his kindness and his need for love.

  And here he was leading her down to open the ball with the first dance, but pausing, despite all eyes upon them, to lean his head close to hers.

  “Tonight,” he murmured, “in your room. Do not undress, for I intend to strip you layer by layer in candlelight, and discover every one of your magical secrets.”

  Meg knew she was blushing, but as the first bars of music started and she sank into a grand curtsy, she looked him in the eye. “It will be my pleasure, my lord. Truly my pleasure.”

  Author’s Note

  Writing is magical fun! Sax came to me first—a crazy earl trashing his room because of a letter from his grandmother. Then Meg revealed her racy underwear. By the time the sheelagh, the parrot, and the snarling, cowardly dog arrived, I knew I had trouble on my hands. But wonderful trouble.

  The sheelagh came about because of a lot of thought, actually. I needed a magic item, and I didn’t want it to be anything trite like a medallion. Also, I needed it to be something not easily carried and hidden. I was getting desperate, and even thinking of major items of furniture, when I remembered an on-line discussion about sheelagh-ma-gigs. That discussion had been about whether they were remnants of pagan goddess-worship, or Christian warnings about the evils of women. (My own, inexpert opinion is that there are two sorts and two purposes: the ones giving birth to leaves and flowers which are of the goddess; and the ones exposing themselves, which are the warning. It won’t be the first time the Christian faith took something pagan and turned it to its own use.)

  The sheelagh suited my purposes perfectly because it gave Meg another reason to keep her secret. Any well-bred Regency lady would be hesitant to reveal that they owned and treasured such a scandalous item!

  However, I thought I was using something very obscure. Imagine my surprise to open my paper one Sunday and find a full-page item with a picture, because there was a major exhibition
of sheelagh-ma-gigs on in Dublin. Writing, as I said, is a strange and sometimes magical business.

  The pets came when I realized that a man like Sax would acquire some needy animals. What should they be? An unattractive dog sounded good, as did a bird. What would make a parrot an unwanted pet, though? Parrots that talk dirty have been done too often, and so I came up with the idea of a misogynistic parrot passed on when its owner married. That was clearly going to create a few awkward moments!

  I was intending to use Knox as a plot device for only a few cute moments. I can’t resist research, however, so off I went on the Internet to see what I could find. What a fascinating subject, and what wonderful stories bird people have to tell. Soon I saw that Knox needed more attention, and he became a secondary character.

  The really strange thing, however, was that it was as if he’d been there all along. From first writing, the heroine had noted how warm the hero kept his house. Now, anyone who has ever lived in a house without central heating will know that’s not easy to do. Anyone who’s spent December and January in England will know that though the temperature rarely drops low, the damp climate makes it miserable, and that damp chill seeps in everywhere.

  Sax clearly isn’t delicate, so why the warm house? Of course, for Knox!

  As I said, creating fiction is magical.

  Is Knox possible? Today, yes, even to his psychic powers. Many animals show them. Unfortunately, back in the Regency, he is unlikely because people didn’t understand the needs of these tropical birds and they died of cold, of lack of water, from being fed the wrong foods, and being deprived of light. But this is fiction and Sax is a hero, so Knox thrives.

  Perhaps it’s just the power of love.

  Many thanks to the many on-line people who shared their bird knowledge with me, especially Whitney Walters in the Genie Romex, and the newsgroup rec.pets.birds.

  Unlike all my recent books, this is not linked to any previous ones. I decided it was time to do my first, true Regency historical. The Regency period, which lasted from 1811 to 1820, was a mostly prosperous time of aristocratic elegance and gracious, rather idle living, peopled by astonishing eccentrics. It is, of course, the period of Jane Austen’s later works, and though she wrote of her own gentry class, the atmosphere is much the same.

  The Georgian, on the other hand (my other main period), is a more racy, full-blooded age. The aristocratic elegance is often blended with rampant immorality, and a zest for learning, expansion, and new ideas.

  I enjoy hearing from readers. Please address letters c/o The Alice Orr Agency, 305 Madison Ave # 1166, New York, NY 10165, and enclose a SASE if you want a reply.

  Or send e-mail to jobeverley@poboxes.com

  My web page is http://www.sff.net/people/jobeverley and contains, among other items, a complete annotated list of my books.

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  And remember, romance readers know how to value love, joy, courage, and triumph. More power to us!