Touch of Passion

by Susan Spencer Paul

  He kept pushing until she stood directly in front of the older man, who hadn’t moved an inch. Loris could see his eyes now and drew in a sharp breath. They were the same color as her own. The same as the dress she wore. Not quite brown, not quite gold. That was how Niclas had described them, and it was true.

  “Loris,” Lord Graymar said, “I make known to you Alexander Bissinger, Earl of Perham. Lord Perham, this is Loris, ward to my uncle, Ffinian Seymour, former Baron of Tylluan.”

  Julia had taught Loris how to make a proper curtsy, and she performed it now, praying that her feet didn’t twist beneath her and send her straight down onto the exquisite carpet.

  “My lord,” she murmured.

  “Miss Loris,” Lord Perham said in return, his voice still perfectly level, as if there were nothing at all remarkable about the occasion that brought them together. “Thank you for coming to meet with me. I hope that you will not regret the effort. Will you leave us to speak privately, Graymar?”

  “I regret to say that I shall not,” Malachi replied in such an easy and friendly manner that Loris couldn’t imagine anyone taking exception to his refusal. “But I will be glad to sit here, on the other side of the fire, far enough away so that you may both converse in a more comfortable manner.”

  Lord Perham frowned at his peer but seemed to realize that to argue would be pointless. The door opened and a servant entered bearing a tea tray.

  “Set it here,” Lord Perham directed, pointing to a table near the chair he’d been seated in. “Will you do us the honor of pouring, Miss Loris?”

  “I should be happy to do so, my lord,” she replied, glad to have something to occupy her mind, even briefly. “Please don’t stand on my account,” she said, looking at both men. “Lord Graymar, do you still take cream in your tea?”

  The men settled into chairs as Loris prepared their cups. She was aware that Lord Perham watched her closely, but he would be disappointed if he thought she would falter in this particular task. She might not have any of the finer skills that ladies of the ton possessed, but years of being hostess at Castle Tylluan had trained her well in such small matters as serving tea. It was an ability that had been self-taught, with a little help from Dyfed and Kian, and Loris had added touches that simply made sense to her. By the time she settled into her own chair, next to Lord Perham’s, she saw the approval in his eyes.

  “You are aware of what my interest in you is, I believe,” Lord Perham stated, rather than asked.

  “Yes, my lord. You believe I may be your granddaughter.”

  “May be,” he repeated. “Yes, that’s so. I’ve had dealings with individuals who own an establishment where I believe you once lived—”

  “The Goodbodys,” Loris said. “At the Red Fox.”

  “Just so,” he said, his tone tinged with obvious distaste. For that Loris didn’t blame him in the least.

  “They knew nothing of who your mother was,” he said. “But they knew your father and described him to me in detail. And you also, of course.”

  “They wouldn’t have known my mother,” Loris told him. “She died when I was seven, and my father began to frequent the Red Fox when I was ten. Shall I tell you what I remember of my parents? Would that be helpful?”

  “If you wouldn’t find it too difficult,” he said, sitting up more straightly in his chair.

  Lord Perham appeared to steel himself for what she was about to say, and it occurred to Loris that he was the one who might find such knowledge difficult. And of course it would be, she thought, feeling a great deal of sympathy for the elderly gentleman. He had been searching for his daughter for years now, with so much disappointment. He must be very weary of wrong turns and empty destinations.

  “My mother’s name was Nancy, but my father’s pet name for her was Nan. My father’s name was John. As I was telling Lord Graymar earlier, I don’t know what his actual last name was, for he changed it wherever we went. The name he was using when he died was Whitford.”

  She paused to see if Lord Perham wished to make any comment, but he wasn’t even looking at her. His hands were tented beneath his chin, and he was deep in thought. When he noticed her silence, he glanced up and said, “Please continue.”

  Loris tried to think of what else would interest him or be helpful.

  “Let me see. Well, my parents often told me about the countryside where they had been raised, that it was exceedingly beautiful and green, and that there were many lakes and rivers. They promised that one day they would take me out of London to see countryside.”

  “Did they keep this promise?” he asked curiously.

  “No.” Loris gave a single shake of her head. “It wasn’t until Ffinian Seymour took me away to Wales that I saw the beauties that my parents had spoken of.” She glanced at Lord Graymar, who nodded encouragingly and sipped his tea. “Tylluan—my home in Wales—is the most beautiful place on earth. I hope that, regardless how matters end between us, sir, you might see it one day.”

  “I’m glad that you found refuge in a happy place,” he said. “Especially after the life you were forced to endure in London. Did your parents ever speak of any relatives?”

  “My mother sometimes spoke of her family,” Loris said. “Not anything specific, of course, for it always angered my father terribly, but in a general way. She wished to return and make amends, but my father wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t like her to speak of it in front of me.”

  Lord Perham sat forward, gazing at her intently. “She wished to return to her family?” he asked. “Your mother? Did she?”

  “Very much,” Loris assured him. “It was the final request she made of my father before she died, that I should at least know her people. But he was absolutely set against it. If she was your daughter, sir, then I’m very sorry.”

  He had lowered his head into one hand, grieving, and Loris’s heart clenched at the sight.

  “Damn him,” Lord Perham said, his voice filled with anguish. “Damn that man. He took her away and kept her away, even when she wished to come back.”

  Loris reached out to touch his hand, wishing that she might soothe his pain. “Lord Graymar has told me something of what happened to your daughter, sir, at her mother’s hand. If that is so, and if my mother was your daughter, does it seem so unreasonable to you that my father would be afraid to return? Not just for his wife’s safety, but for his child’s, as well?”

  Lord Perham lowered his hand and looked at her, his expression a mixture of fury and sorrow. “My wife was an ill woman. Ill in her mind, if not in her body. I didn’t realize it before she tried to murder my grandchild, but once I did, I would have done everything possible to protect my daughter and her child.”

  Loris privately thought that he should have protected his daughter long beforehand, for surely he’d had some idea of his wife’s sickness, but didn’t speak the thought aloud. Instead, she said, “I’m sure you would have, sir. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

  “But not for your own?” he asked. “Do you believe yourself to be my granddaughter, Miss Loris?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” she replied honestly. “Do you believe it?”

  “You say that your mother’s name was Nancy. My daughter’s name was Anna, but there were those who called her Nan. The scoundrel who dallied with her and stole her away was the youngest son of our rector. His name was not John, but Donald.”

  “Oh,” Loris said, surprised to find that she felt a touch of sadness, rather than the relief she’d told Malachi she thought she would know. “Then I’m doubly sorry for you, sir, for it seems that I cannot be the grandchild you’ve been seeking.”

  “And why not?” he asked. “It would be expected that they would not use their real names, for fear of being discovered.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” she agreed. “But how can we know for certain, one way or the other, my lord?”

  “I believe this will tell us,” he said, and with slightly shaking hands withdrew something from a
pocket within his coat. It was a small portrait, and with fingers still trembling he passed it to her.

  Loris gazed down at the painting and was deeply surprised to see that it was of a young woman who was very much like … well, like herself. They might almost have been sisters. The color of the woman’s hair was identical to Loris’s, as were her facial features. She appeared to be younger than Loris in the depiction but far more refined, and was clearly a very grand and elegant young lady.

  But as similar as they might be, Loris was obliged to tell him the truth.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” she said once more. “This isn’t my mother.” Looking at him with all the sympathy she felt, she said, “I do wish I could tell you that she is, if only to give you peace.”

  His eyes filled with tears, and he reached out to take her hands in both of his, folding the portrait into her palms.

  “Do you know, my dear,” he said, sounding very close to weeping, “I have shown that portrait to dozens of young women and men in the search for my grandchild, and each one has eagerly asserted that this was their mother. You are the first to deny it, though the resemblance between you and this woman is so striking that you must in some way be related. But you see, Loris, this woman could not be mother to any of them, or to you, as you have so honestly stated. Because this is a portrait of my wife. Of your grandmother, my dear, of whom you are the very likeness.” A tear rolled down one of his leathery cheeks. “You are my granddaughter, Loris. I’m convinced of it.”

  She came out of her chair to kneel before him and went into his arms. They hugged each other tightly as Lord Perham wept into her hair and shook with what she thought must be tremendous relief.

  “I’m so glad,” she murmured, an indefinable happiness filling her. She stroked his hair and felt tears on her own cheeks. “I’m so very glad, sir. I’ve always longed to have someone to call my own. Now we will have each other, and you may rest from your searching. My mother would have been very happy, I think. You must tell me everything about her, and I shall do my best to remember all that I can, as well.”

  From his chair in the corner Loris distinctly heard Lord Graymar blowing his nose. He stood and said, in a thick voice, “Well, now that matters have been so happily decided, I believe it might be best for me to leave you alone for a little while.” He paused to clear his throat. “I shall just have a walk through your gardens, shall I, Perham? I’ve heard tell that they’re exceptionally fine. I won’t be gone long, Loris, my dear, and if you should need me, send one of the servants.”

  Lord Perham was still beyond the ability to speak, but Loris smiled gratefully at Lord Graymar and murmured, “Thank you.”

  He left the room, shutting the door behind him. Lord Perham, hearing his guest depart, at last lifted his head and began to fumble for a handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” he managed, wiping his face. “I fear this isn’t a very good way for us to begin.”

  “I don’t mean to disagree with you, my lord,” she said, rising and fetching him a fresh cup of tea, “lest you think me ill-mannered, but I think it’s a wonderful way to begin.” She sat down in her chair and smiled at him. “Indeed, sir, I can scarce think of any better one.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “D’you think she’ll come tonight, m’lord? It would be five in a row for the first time since we’ve started feeding the beast.”

  “That’s so, Horas,” Kian agreed, settling Seren when the horse moved impatiently. “But we’ll take no chances. She may be forcing the creature to rest after four nights of wandering, but Dyfed told me that he normally feeds for five. After tonight, we’ll have another respite for a few days.” He sighed. “And then we start again.”

  “A respite, yes,” Horas said, “but we’re going to run out of sheep if the beast’s appetite continues on like this. We’ve another two weeks at most before we’ll have to look for something else to offer.”

  Kian had been worrying about the very same thing. He was going to have to start buying sheep and cattle from other estates soon if he didn’t find a way to put the beast back into a deep and lasting slumber. Given enough time, the athanc would destroy all the local flocks and herds and would start searching for what it could find without going too far from the lake that was its home. It would destroy everything in its path, as it had done before Desdemona Caslin had begun to lead it into this particular pasture.

  They had an unspoken agreement: She led the creature to this safe spot, and Kian made certain that it was filled with a goodly number of sheep. When the athanc had finished feasting, Desdemona Caslin ordered it back to the lake, and it disappeared by draining away into the earth.

  They’d been playing this scene out for over a month now, and Kian still hadn’t gotten used to seeing the creature transform from its solid form into its fluid one. It was an astonishing magic that he never would have believed possible if he’d not seen it, and Kian had seen numerous astonishing things in his life.

  Nothing appeared to touch the creature. Kian had attempted to put an invisible trap about the area once the creature was in it, but the barriers melted away at the athanc’s approach, unable to hold it captive. He’d tried various spells, even daring to get as close as he possibly could to make them more effective, but they bounced back with such force that he’d been obliged to protect himself from his own powers. He’d requested aid from the elements, but neither the wind nor rain had been able to halt the beast’s progress or affect it in any discernible way.

  Clearly, Kian needed an incantation, one that would draw forth the might of those spirits, both heavenly and earthly, to lend him the strength he needed to force the monster back into its watery bower.

  The athanc gave him a new appreciation for the dangers that his ancestors had been obliged to face in centuries past. More than that, it caused him to realize that he had a great deal more to learn before he would be able to take on the duties of the Dewin Mawr. Though Kian supposed that even Malachi would be at something of a loss regarding how to deal with the beast. Thus far neither he nor Dyfed nor Professor Seabolt had been able to find the enchantments for overcoming an athanc. It was very frustrating, and incredibly surprising, since, according to Dyfed’s reports, they’d found well-documented spells and enchantments for just about every other ancient trouble that Europe had suffered. But for some inexplicable reason, no one had bothered to jot down the remedy for dealing with monstrous creatures, although, according to the professor, such beasts—sea serpents, dragons, and athancs among them—had been numerous in ancient days.

  Desdemona Caslin had proved herself a formidable ally in this conflict, and although Kian wasn’t precisely happy that Dyfed had given his heart to a dark sorceress, he was exceedingly glad that she was now on his side, even if only for Dyfed’s sake.

  They never spoke when she brought the beast; in truth, they purposefully remained on opposite sides of the clearing. But they communicated nonetheless. They were very similar in powers and could sense each other’s thoughts. Dyfed had told Kian that he’d been able to hear Desdemona Caslin, but this, Kian had told him, was not because she had the gift of silent speech but very likely because she was, in truth, his fated one.

  Kian couldn’t communicate with her that closely—nor did he want to, for that matter, for she remained as icy and forbidding as she’d been on the day when he’d met her at Llew. But he wasn’t unaware of what he owed her. It was a perilous undertaking for her, controlling the athanc in order to keep Tylluan from harm, rather than doing as Cadmaran desired and letting it wreak havoc and destruction. She was still beneath the Earl of Llew’s hand, and if he should discover her deception, Desdemona would be in grave danger.

  An hour passed, and then another. The fog grew thick and the night colder.

  “I believe she’s managed once more to convince Cadmaran that the creature is sated after so few days,” Kian said at last. “He’s not going to be pleased, but Miss Caslin seems to be made of stern stuff. Apparently, she’
s more than a match for him.”

  “Hope it stays that way,” Horas murmured, pulling his hat down about his ears. “Hell’s mittens, it’s cold tonight.”

  “It’s going to rain on the morrow,” Kian told him. “I can feel the storm approaching. This chill wind brings it to us.”

  “Rain,” Horas muttered. “That’s another thing we don’t need any more of just now. Beasts and rain. God help us, what will be next?”

  Kian understood how his steward felt. Weeks of struggling with the accursed creature were beginning to exhaust everyone who remained at Tylluan. Kian’s tenants had suffered a great deal of damage before Desdemona Caslin had limited the athanc to this one pasture. Crops had been destroyed, and the sheep were still dying. Worse even than that, rumors were beginning to spread to the nearby villages that a fearsome beast was living at Tylluan. If Kian didn’t get rid of it soon, people were going to start to wonder if he wasn’t, in fact, the one to blame for the creature’s appearance. He didn’t even want to think of what would happen if the news spread beyond the border of Wales, to the ears of the English, who weren’t as close to understanding or believing in magic as the Welsh were.

  “Has there been any word from Master Dyfed, m’lord?” Horas asked hopefully. “Has he discovered anything of help, yet?”

  “There’s been word, aye,” Kian told him. Indeed, a week hadn’t yet gone by since they’d left Tylluan that Kian didn’t hear from Dyfed and, more happily, from Loris as well. “But nothing particularly helpful yet. We shall simply have to be patient, Horas. There is nothing else we can do.”

  They waited another hour, sitting atop their obedient mounts until the fog and breeze had chilled them through to the bone. A few wolves attempted to sneak into the clearing, but Kian readily dealt with them, sending several rocks flying sharply in their direction so that they scattered and ran.