by Lucy Leroux
Matteo sat on the log and shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “This confirms it. She must be a witch.”
Sir Clarence swung around to frown at him. “How does this prove that?”
He hung his head and examined the muddy toes of his Hessians. “I made her nervous. She could see me for what I was, and had the foresight to prepare. This must have been where she hid provisions for a quick escape…in case the worst happened.”
Well, the worst had befallen her. She'd come within inches of dying at his hands.
The count swore. “If she had a change of clothes, then she could have made it to Ford village or farther. We must go back to the manor house and fetch horses. We will split up and search the local inns. We mustn’t let her board a carriage, or we'll be forced to pursue her on the roads.”
They set off at once, dividing into teams. Matteo kept close to his uncle in case they did come upon Isobel unawares. They checked the roads and nearby fields while his father and Nino inquired at the inns where the coaches stopped.
“She'll go north to Scotland, not London,” Sir Clarence said authoritatively as they rode. “She knows no one in town and has very little resources. If she has any destination in mind, then it's probably some place familiar.”
“Do you know where her home is?” Matteo asked.
“No. Some village somewhere in the Highlands. Never caught the name but the other servants might have. I'll have to question them,” Sir Clarence said shifting uncomfortably.
“What will you tell them about her disappearance?” he asked.
The baronet shrugged. “That she got a summons from her family. Your father offered his coach to the post road, where she took off on her own.”
It wasn't a good excuse, but the servants probably wouldn't question their employer too closely, no matter what they secretly believed.
His father hurried back to them. “The post left at dawn, but there were no passengers taken up here. It's possible she waylaid a private coach further up the road. In any case, there's no sign here,” he said.
“Maybe she didn't go inside. Did the ostlers see nothing?” he asked.
“If they did, they're not speaking. We’ll have to check the inn at Etal,” the Conte muttered as he mounted his horse.
Matteo’s instincts clamored for attention. “That will take too long. I want to go ahead and try to overtake her on the road. We’ll check the nearest border stop,” he said, then turned to Sir Clarence. “Which is the closest crossing?”
“The post goes from here to Coldstream, but there’s a stage to Norham from Etal too,” he said pensively. “But it's not likely she made it to the stage on foot since it leaves early morning. We're more likely to find her at the Rose and Crown in Etal or hiding somewhere nearby.”
“Then you stay here while Father goes to Etal. I will go ahead to the border on my own.”
His father scowled at him. “Not alone. Take Ottavio.”
That was what he'd expected, but it still annoyed him that he was no longer his own man. “Very well. Ottavio let's go.”
“Don't let him out of your sight,” his father called to the servant.
The bullish young man nodded back at his father, and they took off on the north road.
Chapter 10
Matteo watched the inn courtyard from an upper story window. He'd berated Ottavio into waiting outside, but it had taken some effort.
His father's servant was growing more and more insolent as time went on. But Matteo had won the argument in the end. They needed more than one pair of eyes on the passing coaches, so the man was watching from the stables.
Of course, it was possible he had chosen incorrectly. They were in Norham, despite the fact the Coldstream post stop had been closer to the manor house. Coldstream was also the most direct route to Edinburgh, and then to the Highlands. From Norham one had to travel to Chimside and then up the circuitous coastal route before getting to Edinburgh. But his instincts said Isobel wouldn't do the expected thing and fly home via the most direct path. She would try and throw them off the scent.
On horseback, they'd traveled much faster than was possible for the stage coach, using paths that were inaccessible by any sort of conveyance. If Isobel was on the road here, she had to be behind them.
Matteo sighed and briefly closed his eyes. There was always the possibility that his uncle had been correct and they'd already captured her before she even had a chance to reach either the post or the stage. It was also possible she was taking shelter around Ford.
His uncle assumed she had no friends in the neighborhood. Sir Clarence had been sure she didn't know anyone outside his household, but Matteo was equally certain there was a lot about his governess that he didn't know.
Turning back his attention to the window, he sipped at the lukewarm tea one of the inn’s maids had brought him. He'd wanted coffee, but they didn't have any, and it had been a choice between tea or ale. And he didn't need anything that dulled his senses. So he drank the damn tea.
In the distance, a horn sounded. When another carriage turned into the inn's driveway, he roused himself and sat up straight. The last two had been private traveling carriages. He'd been assured by the innkeeper that the stage was due momentarily, but the bad roads had made “a moment” an eternity.
Several people alighted from the carriage, two men, a matron, and a widow. They hurried inside to relieve themselves or to buy a quick meal. The coach had a timetable and would leave them regardless of their ultimate destination or the fare they had paid.
There was no bright red hair among the passengers that had descended. Disappointed, Matteo went downstairs to make sure all of them had disembarked, pulling on his greatcoat and large brimmed hat as he went.
He bypassed the taproom and went outside, gesturing to Ottavio who'd been watching from the stables, which stood a few feet away. When the servant shook his head, Matteo found the stable master and instructed him to saddle two fresh horses.
Maybe there would be enough time to reach Coldstream, he thought, his heart heavy. Making his way to the taproom to wait, he stood in the corner nearest the door as the passengers hurriedly finished their business and started to head back to the coach.
He was about to join the exodus when he noticed the figure in black again, the woman in widow's garb. She was completely covered in black crepe from head to toe. A heavy veil obscured her face and hair.
At first he wondered how she could see anything past that thick layer of black over her eyes, but a moment later it was her steps that captured his attention. Not only could she see clearly, but she moved with grace. A grace that was as familiar to him as her lovely face.
Isobel.
He almost tripped over a chair in the sweeping rush to get to her before she made it to the doorway. His knee was throbbing as he reached her, but he didn't care. She saw him before he reached her. She froze as he reached out and pulled her into his embrace.
“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against her veiled ear as he was engulfed by her familiar scent of flowers with a hint of vanilla. “I'm so sorry.”
“Sir, I don't know you,” Isobel said loudly, pushing at his chest and arms.
He was almost crying with relief. It was definitely her. She tried to disguise her voice, but he would know her anywhere. He didn't let her go, reaching up to tug the veil off her head.
Isobel's bright auburn hair was mussed as he pressed his face into it, surreptitiously pressing a kiss to her head before pulling away so he could look down at her face.
They stared at each other for a long moment.
She looked so afraid of him, and it broke his heart. His voice was hoarse as he called out the innkeeper, who was watching them with concern.
“My wife and I would like a private parlor to rest,” he said, keeping a tight hold on Isobel's arm until she winced and he relaxed his grip.
“Your wife?” The innkeeper’s voice showed his confusion.
> The widow's weeds contradicted Matteo's words.
He gave the man his most charming smile. “Yes. She's in mourning for my mother,” he said in a bored tone.
The English always responded to bored aristocrats. Perhaps the Scotts would, as well.
The innkeeper hesitated before recovering himself. “Right this way.”
The man gestured to a door opposite the taproom entrance as the horn sounded for the departing mail coach.
Isobel's face was a picture of distress as Ottavio came in to tell him the horses were ready. The oversized servant stopped short when he saw him holding Isobel in her black dress. Matteo hastily waved him away before hustling her to the parlor.
Trying to be gentle, he led her to a chair before turning to close the doors behind them.
Her beautiful eyes had filled with tears as he sat to her right, in the chair closest to the door in case she decided to bolt. But Isobel seemed to know that there was no escape as she sat there, shoulders slumped. A single tear escaped her eye, and he leaned over to wipe it away before he could think better of it.
She shrank away from his touch, and his chest tightened.
“Cara, I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to see me like that.” She continued to look down at the table so he reached out to take her hand.
“Please look at me,” he pleaded.
Isobel pulled her hands into her lap before taking a deep shuddering breath. When her eyes met his, he felt a painful jolt pass through him.
Her feelings for him were all too clear in those green and gold orbs. Fear, disgust, and maybe even some hate. He didn't blame her. She had every right to revile him. Even if she had helped him, whether she had meant to or not.
“Isabella, is...is it over?”
He couldn't completely crush the hope in that question. It was there in his voice. The expression in Isobel's eyes shifted to one of pity.
She cleared her throat slightly before speaking. “I'm...I don't think so,” she said, not pretending to know what he was talking about.
Breathing was a lot harder suddenly. He'd told himself over and over on this journey that his affliction wasn't simply gone, but he had been lying to himself. The hope that he hadn't acknowledged was crushing him now.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Next to him, Isobel's beautiful face blurred.
“I still see it. It's not like before, but there is still a trace of something…unnatural in your aura.”
That was enough to snap him out of his flood of melancholy.
“What is it you see?”
Isobel looked at him and then down uncomfortably.
“Please, I need to know.”
When she remained silent, he decided to speak. “We came to England to seek the advice of a healer, an old crone who lived an hour from my Uncle Clarence's home.”
At the mention of her employer Isobel's expression hardened, but he continued.
“My mother used to speak of her when she was alive. Mama called her a Befana, an old witch, and said she had rare healing ability and could even cast curses if someone wronged her. My mother was full of such stories. My father ignored them as fancies, but a few months ago he had reason to give them a second thought. He wrote to Clarence to ask if the witch was still alive, and we were so relieved to hear she was. My father brought me seeking a miracle. But after coming all this way, there was no miracle. The crone had died shortly before we got here. I don't even know if the woman had the skill to cure me, or if we were on a fool's errand.”
There was silence for a long minute.
“What happened a few months ago?” Isobel asked in a strained voice. "How did this happen?"
Matteo looked at her helplessly. “I'm still not sure. I thought I was ill, something I’d been exposed to in my last voyage. I used to travel quite a bit. My father accused me of having wanderlust and for a time it was true. But I had been home several weeks and then I don't remember what happened. I never do. I only see what I did after and I...”
He trailed off, unsure what to say. His guilt was eating at him like acid.
“You don't remember asking your father to kill you last night?”
His head snapped up. “No, but if I did it wouldn't be the first time I asked. I remember others.”
“From the day after?”
Nodding, he looked down at his hands. They seemed much larger than he remembered. Perhaps it was just in contrast to hers.
“I'm my father's only child. His heir...” It was a poor excuse. He should have had the courage to end it himself. “I'm sorry I pretended,” he whispered.
Across the table, she shifted in her seat. “What did you pretend?”
“That I was a normal man. When I was around you, it was so easy. I felt fine at the time. That's what happens...after one of my spells. My head clears, and I feel like myself again. Or something like myself. I'm almost not sure how I used to be anymore. All my memories from before don't seem real.”
Isobel looked thoughtful now, sympathy sneaking into her expression despite her disgust of him. His heart in his throat, he summoned to courage to ask.
“Isabella, can you fix me?”
Her face fell and so did the fragile hope that had risen in him.
“You did something to me last night. I woke up myself without...without having to hurt anyone.”
“And that hasn't happened before? Does someone always have to die before you return to yourself?”
He nodded, his throat thick. “Yes. Otherwise I stay that way. I have spent days completely mad, and my father became desperate...”
She absorbed that in silence. “I don't know what I did last night,” she whispered eventually.
He looked at her entreatingly. “But you have magic. You can see the evil in me and last night you defeated it.”
Isobel's hands twisted on one another. “I told you, I don't know what I did,” she said. Her voice had grown slightly shrill. “What happened was chance. I don't have the training. I only know what my grandmother taught me and those lessons stopped very early in my life. I can't help you.”
“But you already have,” he said desperately. “Can't you just do what you did again? If it comes back, that is...”
Strands of her hair flew into her face as she shook her head violently. “I don't know.”
He took hold of her hand. She stiffened, but he held on. “If you had to try, could you? Please?”
Isobel's mouth opened and shut a few times, but the door behind them swung wide before she could reply. Ottavio came in, nodding to him.
“I sent a man on horseback to the Conte with a message that the girl has been found,” he said in Italian.
Matteo turned, shooting daggers at him. “I didn't tell you to do that.”
Ottavio shrugged. “Those were the Conte's orders. He'll join us within the day,” he said, giving a shallow bow before taking his leave.
“Your father is coming here?” Isobel gasped, eyes wide in a rapidly paling face.
The impulse to lie was strong, but he couldn't do it. “Cara, we can't let you go. You're my only hope. Even if I could release you, he never would. Not after what you did. He'll keep you under lock and key and make you try and try and try.”
Her expression could have singed paper. “And if I fail, will he send me to my death again?”
His mouth gaped as he tried to find words to reassure her. “I won't let him hurt you. Not again.”
She scoffed, her eyes the only brightness is the dim light. “How are you going to stop him?”
Matteo sat up straighter, his old resolve and sense of determination flooding him.
He had missed feeling this way, and he wouldn't be if it wasn't for Isobel. It was her gift to him and he would use it to protect her however he could.
“I'll find a way.”
Chapter 11
The weather had improved by mid-afternoon. Feeling claustrophobic in the pr
ivate parlor, Isobel asked Matteo if they could walk around the village to get some fresh air. They'd walked past the small rows of buildings that comprised of the town center, to the lanes that ran alongside the fields when Matteo complimented her on her disguise.
Trying her best to ignore the large servant trailing them, she turned her attention to his comment. “My grandmother always said widows had the greatest freedom in society. She wore black my whole life, long after my grandfather passed.”
“As a disguise, it was a stroke of brilliance.”
“Not precisely. You still recognized me somehow.”
He smiled briefly, and she was ashamed at the sudden warmth that flooded her chest despite the chill in the air.
“I know the way you move.”
Isobel flushed. It was a terribly intimate thing to say. She didn't even try to come up with a response, but one was unnecessary.
“How did you get it so quickly?” he asked.
She glanced at him. “I purchased it ages ago when I first went into service.”
Matteo frowned. “Then you didn't get it because of me? Because of what you thought I might do?”
His voice was a low rasp, but he looked at her expectantly until she answered.
“No.”
“You were prepared to run away? Why? Was there someone else who was bothering you? One of the other servants or a local man?”
The concern in his voice seemed discordant and wrong after everything that had happened.
“No.”
“Then why?” he asked softly.
“I promised my mother.”
His brows drew together. She expelled a breath and decided to explain. He already knew her darkest secret. There wasn't anything else for her to hide. It might even make him understand how unprepared she was to deal with his problem.
“She made me promise on her deathbed that no matter what occurred, I would never use magic or reveal to anyone that I was even capable of it. Sometimes things happen around me, things I can't control. I have to be vigilant.”
“And that's why you stopped your magic lessons? Because of your mother's passing?”
“No, that happened earlier. I had been studying the craft with my grandmother when my aunt Moira died. My mother demanded that all lessons stop. She forbade all talk of magic. I was heartbroken, but there was nothing I could do, not after my father took her side.”
