Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  *

  Disregarding Matilda’s rules, Abby had left the grounds and was walking along the road toward High Chipping, hoping by some lucky stroke of fortune to intercept Julian. But though she had been marching at a soldier’s pace for some time and was growing hot and dusty, she had seen no sign of him.

  It made her a little angry, which she realized was irrational. But he had promised to make contact, and now that she’d made up her mind, she wanted to see him before she changed it again.

  That morning she had decided to accept his offer.

  The decision followed a night of inner debate. She could not think of another option providing escape so easily and quickly. And now that the possibility of flight had entered her head, she was itching to be gone. Her grandmother had harangued her for hours after his visit yesterday, bombarding her with questions and demands, making Abby want to leave more than ever.

  She was taking a huge risk, she knew that; entrusting herself to a stranger’s care. But if she could persuade Charlotte Ann to accompany her, propriety would be served. And if Julian proved to be a criminal of some sort, she would steal away during the night and find a place in one of the towns they would pass through on their way to the border. It would be an adventure.

  She could not help feeling a twinge of regret that she’d not had a long courtship full of soft words, meaningful glances, and stolen kisses. Perhaps after she and the magician had their mock-marriage annulled, she would meet someone and have such a relationship.

  For some reason the thought did not cheer her.

  When she heard hoofbeats approaching behind, she turned gladly, knowing it must be him; but it was Philip, riding toward her like a thunderstorm on hooves. She struggled to keep her face neutral and not betray the ache of disappointment she felt.

  He dismounted when he reached her. “What are you doing here, Abigail? Where’s your maid?”

  “You know I don’t have a servant,” she answered. “And I’m merely taking a walk. It’s perfectly safe.”

  “A female is never safe alone. Matilda shouldn’t tighten the purse strings as she does; she’s not penniless, but she’s allowing Sharonfield to fall to pieces. I’m not a spendthrift myself, but I don’t regard a maid as an extravagance. My mother has one, and so shall you when we’re wed.”

  She wanted to say, I shall never marry you, but, although this was a well-travelled road with open fields all around, they were alone, and she was not so reckless. But something of her feelings must have reflected in her eyes, for Philip’s countenance clouded with doubt.

  He moved closer and touched her hair, pushing a wayward lock beneath her bonnet. His hand lingered, then trailed down to her shoulders. Alarm coursed through Abby’s body, and she shrugged him away, reversed direction, and began walking rapidly toward Sharonfield.

  “Abigail,” he whispered, abandoning his horse to pursue its interest in the roadside grasses. In a few paces, he caught up with her and brushed her flailing hands aside. “Stop. Don’t fight me. Have you forgotten the taste of my kisses? You liked them well enough before, I know you did.”

  There was desperation in his voice, and rage as well. His hands were like iron claws on her arms. Realizing the futility of resistance, she grew still but kept her head downcast. He forced her chin upward. The anger and desire she saw in his eyes stole her breath away.

  And then, with a surge of hope, she detected movement over Philip’s left shoulder. A rider. Surely it would be Julian come to her rescue. But as the horseman drew nearer, she saw it was not. This man was taller and more strongly built than the magician, and he wore servant’s livery. In one hand he carried a large bouquet of flowers. He looked vaguely familiar.

  The rider was coming so fast she thought he meant to pass them by, but at the last moment he drew on the reins, causing his steed to kick a spray of gravel across her skirt. He looked down at her without emotion.

  “May I help you, miss?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Abby immediately replied.

  “No,” answered Philip at the same time.

  Cool green eyes studied them. “Would you happen to be Miss Abigail Lyons?” When a surprised Abby confirmed her identity, he leaped off his horse as easily as she would overstep a puddle. “I am Francis Morgan, come to express the regards of my master, Lord Julian Donberry, to you and Mrs. Lyons.”

  While Philip drew an indignant breath, Francis gave her the flowers, which were late-blooming China roses. Remembering now that he was the man she had seen backstage during Julian’s performance, she accepted the bouquet with a keen sense of disappointment. Was she not to see the magician today, then?

  But the servant was still speaking. “You look tired, Miss Lyons. Why don’t you ride Cracker here, and I’ll walk you home?”

  “She can ride my horse,” Philip said, but Francis was already boosting Abby into the saddle, which was difficult for her to arrange herself upon without falling, since it was not a sidesaddle. Philip moved as if to pull her off, but the servant inserted himself between them.

  “I shall be all right, Philip,” Abby said quickly. “Do you go home.”

  Bristling, he eyed the width of Francis’s shoulders, then the stubborn set of Abby’s mouth, and seemed to deflate. “Very well. I’ll go because you have asked me, but I shall call on you tomorrow.”

  Francis slapped the horse into motion, and Abby lurched forward, the saddle horn gripped in one hand, the roses held in the other. Looking over her shoulder, she watched Philip stalk down the road toward his mount. When the roan caught sight of his master, he tossed his head and edged away. Philip’s pace increased. The horse moved accordingly. Before long, it was an all-out chase.

  Abby’s lips trembled until she could no longer contain her laughter. Francis followed the line of her gaze, then looked up at her, his eyes flaring with amusement that quickly faded.

  She observed him with some puzzlement. If not a handsome man, he was certainly well-favored. He had narrow green eyes that looked used to laughter, if the crinkles at the corners were a true indication. At some point in his life, his nose had been broken. He possessed a thatch of thick brown hair that fell across his forehead appealingly.

  But for some reason, he didn’t appear to like her, and while she was used to being bullied and treated like a rattle-head without a will of her own, she had little experience with not being liked. She set herself to win him over.

  “The roses are lovely,” she said.

  “I’ll tell milord you said so,” he answered.

  “Is there a card?”

  “Yes, miss. ‘Tis in my pocket. Should you like to see it now?”

  “I wish I could, but if I release my hold on the saddle, I shall fall.” He made no answer to this. She tried again. “Have you been in Lord Julian’s employ for a long time?”

  He sighed, as though opening his mouth were a burden. “Since we lived at Donberry Castle, miss.”

  He continued to trudge on in silence, tugging now and then on the reins when Cracker slowed. Abby gave up. “Do you know, I believe I would like to see that card after all. I shall be careful not to fall.”

  He halted the horse and fished in his pocket, then handed a gilt-edged rectangle to her. It was only Julian’s personal card. His name and title were inscribed on one side, and a short message was scribbled on the other; something about enjoying meeting them yesterday.

  “Oh,” she said sadly, handing the card back. “Perhaps you had better give that to my grandmother.”

  He nodded, and they continued without meeting anyone until they reached the circular drive of the manor house. Feeling bereft and not a little bewildered, Abby accepted Francis’s assistance from the horse.

  She had almost reached the front door when he cleared his throat. “Oh, miss,” he said, speaking quietly. “Milord said to tell you he will be taking a drive at one this morning. Means to halt awhile at the turning of your road. Just in the off-chance you’re interested.”

  “Oh, yes,” Abby said
immediately, blushing and feeling as if her feet might leave the ground, too elated to wonder why Francis hadn’t told her before. “Tell him—tell him I’m very interested to know that.”

  “Thought you would be,” he said grimly. When Abby looked at him in surprise, he turned away and busied himself in tying Cracker’s reins to the post.

  Chapter 5

  That evening, Charlotte Ann nervously scanned the sky from Miss Abby’s bedroom window. “It’s dark outside, but there’s no fog,” she whispered to her mistress. “There’s always a fog! Why can’t there be one tonight to hide us from the busybodies in this house? I’m going to pray for one.”

  “An excellent idea,” Abby said, her mouth curving into a smile despite her nervousness.

  The maid closed her eyes. Her lips moved briefly. When she looked again, the night was as clear as before.

  “I have too many doubts,” Charlotte Ann explained. “If my faith was stronger, that fog would have been there, just as it would have for Elijah. That’s what the vicar would say.”

  “I can almost hear him saying it,” Abby agreed.

  Charlotte Ann scratched her nose vigorously. “I’ve got to tell you I’m having my doubts about what we’re doing, too. At first, I thought a runaway marriage sounded romantic, and I have to say I was pleased at your offer for higher wages and lesser duties as a lady’s maid. But … how do we know he’s who he says? What if he’s one of them what sells young maidens to brothels?”

  “If that were the case, why would he bother to work as a magician? And why come all the way to High Chipping just for me?” Abby whispered crossly. She, too, was feeling doubts, and the maid’s suspicions weren’t helping. “Besides, he’d hardly tell me to bring my maid, would he?”

  “He would if he knew he could fetch two foolish young virgins at one stroke.”

  “Oh, Charlotte Ann, please do not make me laugh; I’ll awaken Grandmother.”

  “All right, so I’m not so young anymore. But still …”

  Abby shook her head helplessly, then looked at her pocket-watch. “It’s time.”

  With a moan, the maid jumped to her feet and picked up one portmanteau. Abby lifted the other and pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. Ever so quietly, they crept from the room, down the hall, down the stairs, both skipping the noisy third step; and, having predetermined the back entrance would be safest, pushed through the kitchen door and saw a single candle glowing on the kitchen table.

  Walters, a chicken leg at his mouth, looked up in surprise.

  Abby and Charlotte Ann froze.

  The butler jerked the meat from his lips, set it on the table, and wiped his chin on the sleeve of his nightshirt. Scraping back his chair and standing, he slowly moved his gaze over them, taking in their cloaks, baggage, and frightened, guilty expressions with dawning comprehension.

  “Miss Lyons,” he said warningly.

  Knowing she could never fabricate a believable excuse, Abby cut to the heart of the matter and said in a quavering voice, “If you do not permit me to leave, I shall have to marry Philip.”

  Walters’s eyes softened a moment, then became distant. “You can never hope to escape on foot. They’ll find you.”

  Abby hesitated, then blurted, “I am meeting Lord Julian. We’re going to the border to be married.”

  “A man you have just met, miss?” Walters drew himself up, his chest swelling with authority. “I can never permit that.”

  Trembling like a leaf in a gale, Charlotte Ann positioned herself in front of Abby. “They hadn’t just met. He’s that magician Mrs. Lyons took on about so.” Instantly deciding not to tell him the part about Julian’s warning, for it was the portion of Miss Abby’s tale that had been hardest for her to believe, she went on, “He fell in love with Miss Abby soon as he set eyes on her at the magic show. And don’t forget he’s a marquess’s son, neither. He takes on a false name when he does his act so as not to bring shame on his family.”

  It was hard to determine which of them was more surprised by this heated defense. Perhaps it was Charlotte Ann herself, who staggered in a brief wave of dizziness.

  Walters pondered for what seemed an eternity. “Mr. Demere is no favorite of mine,” he murmured as though speaking to himself. “Always full of insults and demands. But if I let them go, Mrs. Lyons will have my heart on a platter.”

  He looked at Abby, who was watching him with a desperate, tearful appeal in her eyes. He squared his shoulders boldly.

  “I never eat at night; I must be dreaming,” he said, and walked from the room.

  Abby exchanged a relieved smile with her maid. The smile faded when Walters reentered the kitchen, but he only crossed to the table without looking at them, picked up the chicken leg, and withdrew once more. Heaving a sigh of relief, Abby lifted the lock on the back door, and they slipped out, circled the house, and scurried down the drive.

  Since there was no moon, they occasionally stumbled and tripped across unlevel places in the gravel. It seemed a lonely night to Abby, even with Charlotte Ann along. As they walked, the young lady glanced over her shoulder at the house. Beneath a backdrop of twinkling stars, nestled among trees that rustled in the wind, it appeared warm and inviting for the first time. It is only an illusion of the darkness, she told herself, and hurried on. But by the time Abby spied the silhouette of Julian’s coach and two figures on horseback, her thoughts were scattered and worried, and her arm was on fire from the weight of the portmanteau.

  It was Julian and Francis who were on horseback, and they dismounted and relieved the women of their bags. While Francis tossed the luggage to the coachman, Julian greeted Abby warmly, then Charlotte Ann. Amidst the overwhelming confusion of her feelings, Abby could not help noticing that Francis would not meet her eyes.

  “Francis and I will ride awhile so you can sleep,” Julian said, then assisted both women into the carriage, closed the door, and climbed on his horse.

  Abby saw blankets and pillows awaiting them on the seats. Grateful she didn’t have to make conversation with the stranger she was running away with, she divided the linen with Charlotte Ann and stretched out as best she could, as did the maid on the opposite bench.

  With a cry of the coachman, they were off.

  Abby stared sightlessly into the gloom as the miles began to pass. Although the conveyance appeared new and expensive, the ride was as jerky and bumpy as could be expected on roads repaired only at the whim of every parish they entered; evidently, they were avoiding the better-maintained turnpikes. And the coachman, urging the horses as fast as he dared in the dark, was not making it easier. Abby thought she would never sleep, but the softness of her pillow was comforting, as were the mumbled prayers of the maid, and she did not open her eyes again until daylight filtered through the windows.

  Feeling lethargic and half-asleep, Abby sat up and made a feeble attempt to straighten her hair. Charlotte Ann, pale and wide-eyed, was sitting erect across from her, the blanket and pillow in a tidy bundle at her feet

  “Could you not sleep?” Abby asked.

  “Not a wink,” the maid replied, turning her head to look out the window. “I hadn’t never been out of High Chipping in my life.”

  “It will be all right,” the young lady said, as much to herself as the servant. The reality of what she had done was beginning to strike her in full weight. She could hardly refrain from shivering.

  Within the hour they stopped at a small inn sporting a thatched roof and tiny balconies. Julian escorted her inside with Charlotte Ann and Francis following. After spending a few restorative moments in an upstairs room, the women joined the men in a small dining chamber warmed by a smoking fire and crowded with battered tables and rickety chairs. While Julian seated Abby opposite him, Charlotte Ann hovered uncertainly. There appeared to be no separate quarters for servants.

  “Sit with me,” Francis offered from a table across the room. Charlotte Ann colored, bumped into a chair, and moved to join him, slowly and painfully.

&nbs
p; The inn host, a stout, unshaven man with a dirty apron, brought them tankards of ale, pickled eggs, rolls and butter. “ ‘Tis all we got this hour o’ the mornin’,” he said, when Julian lifted his brows. “Wife’s abed with our newest boy.”

  “Congratulations,” Julian said. When the man left, the magician added apologetically, “We shall have to take what comes, I’m afraid. No doubt there will be better inns near the turnpikes, which I’ve avoided until now in case anyone is following us; but I think it’s safe enough at this point. Hopefully we can average eight to ten miles an hour today. I should like to spend no more than two nights on the road before we are wed.”

  Abby felt a moment’s terror at the thought of an irate Philip tracking them. “Where are we now?”

  “In Gloucestershire. We’re not far from the Severn, actually, and I wish we had time to view Kingsweston. The prospect of the estuary from the grounds is remarkably beautiful.”

  “I have heard of the house.” She took a sip of ale and made a face at its bitterness.

  Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he offered the basket of rolls. When Abby took one and began buttering it, he said, “I’m glad you decided to accept my proposal.”

  She set the knife aside and stared at her roll. “Please do not misunderstand. Had I not been desperate to leave Philip, I could never have acted so rashly as to come with you.”

  Without looking at him, she could sense his withdrawal.

  After a moment he said, “How very thoughtful of you to say so.”

  “I do not mean to be unkind. If everything you have told me is true—I mean, true as you believe it to be—then you are being remarkably generous. If you are lying …”

  His eyebrows lifted, “Yes? Pray do not stop now. If I am lying …”

  Her chin began to tremble. “Then I shall do everything I can to ensure that you deceive no more young ladies.”

  “You amaze me, Miss Lyons. Do you imagine I make it my sport to race about the countryside making up stories like the one I’ve told you? What possible enjoyment is there in having one’s character condemned?”