Bewitching (62 page)

Let's find them."

They worked their way through the crowd of villagers, who were dressed for a spring festival. Some wore costumes —Robin Hood and his merry band were moving through the crowd picking pockets for fun; later that day they would sell the plunder back to their victims for mere pennies in a mock auction. The village women wore coronets of columbine and primroses, some with bright ribbons that floated behind them like the streamers on the Maypole. Men wore ivy wreaths and collars or tall satin hats, and on all of the cottage windows and doors were garlands of hawthorn branches with pink and white blossoms, ivy and violets, to welcome the spring. In the arbored May House a small group of musicians struck up a merry tune. Joy hummed and moved her head in rhythm as she searched the crowd for Stephen's green jacket and wide-brimmed hat

The sharp sound of laughter came from a group of men standing around a hogshead of ale. Joy followed Alec and stood on tiptoe, trying to see the spectacle. She felt Alec stiffen and looked up to see his face wore the same expression it had when he confronted Mrs. Watley.

"I do my job good. I'm a real Joe Miller."

Stomach near her knees, Joy wedged her way into the laughing crowd. Stephen stood in the middle of the group, willow broom in hand, proudly sweeping the flagstones.

Slowly the laughter faded, as each man looked not at Stephen but at the Duke of Belmore, standing among them with a look on his face that left no one to doubt the extent of his anger. He looked to be carved out of ice.

Richard placed a hand on his arm. "We tried to stop him, Belmore, but he kept saying he wanted them to be his friends. He wouldn't let me take the broom away. I tried."

Alec said nothing, just stood there while the crowd slowly thinned.

Joy went into the center and touched Stephen's arm. "Come along. We need to leave."

"But they're my friends. I was showing them what a good job I do."

"I know, but it's time to leave."

Head bowed in disappointment, Stephen allowed her to lead him down near the town road where they stood quietly with a crowd to await the wagon race. She didn't know what to say. Her gaze strayed back to Alec. He stood stiff and angry, listening to something Richard was saying.

She turned back to Stephen. "Are you hungry?"

He shook his head and hunkered down to pet and play with a small brown dog.

Her gaze went back to Alec. He turned and walked toward her, his face a stone mask she knew well but hadn't seen for a long time. It seemed to take forever for him to join her. She placed her hand on his arm and instantly his muscles tensed. "Alec."

"Where's Stephen?"

"Behind me." She turned, but the spot was empty. "He was playing with a dog."

"He's not there now," Alec said coldly. They searched the crowd, weaving in and out, looking for Stephen's green coat and wide-brimmed hat.

In the distance a gun went off, signaling that the wagon race had begun. The ground rumbled beneath them from the pounding of hooves. There was a shout. They scanned the area. The crowd keened and roared.

Alec and Joy turned with them. A wee little girl of perhaps four had wandered onto the road. She bent down to pick up a bright blue ribbon with a shining silver ball. There was another shout. The rumble of thundering horses. The rattle of wagon wheels. The crowd across the road parted. Stephen stood among them. He looked at the road.

A woman screamed, a terrified, bloodcurdling sound, as if someone had ripped out her heart. The sound froze everyone in place. She screamed a child's name.

The little girl looked up. A wagon came at her. There was a flash of green. Another scream. A child's cry. A groan and the gutting sound of the wagon and team trampling human flesh.

Then came the sound of crying—fearful child's tears. The little girl lay sprawled on the berm of the road, unhurt but sobbing, a wide-brimmed hat clutched in her small fists. Dust still curled shroudlike in the wake of the runaway wagon, drifting down and down until it settled atop the crumpled form of Stephen Castlemaine.

***

"Is there anything we can do for you?" Richard asked Joy.

She shook her head. "No. Stephen passed out again just as the physician arrived." She looked at the earl, whose face said what he didn't—that from the looks of Stephen's injuries unconsciousness was probably a blessing. "Thank you for bringing the doctor so quickly."

He nodded, looking as helpless as she felt. She crossed the study and stared out a window, seeing nothing but a blur. She could hear Neil and Richard speaking softly behind her, but soon their voices faded and her head was flooded with the memory of Stephen's frightened whimpers of pain, then the sound of his raspy voice asking if the little girl was safe. He had seemed to relax somewhat when he learned she was fine.

A loud male cry pierced the air. She spun around, her hands to her mouth to silence her whisper of Stephen's name. The shout had come from the floor above the study. She stared upward. Neil and

Richard shot to their feet, looking up at the ceiling too. Stephen cried out again, an agonizing wail, and tears pooled in Joy's eyes and clogged her throat, until the burning was so strong they spilled over. She wiped them away and took deep cleansing breaths.

She turned back to the window and said, "I need some air."

Richard nodded and Neil looked at her through worried eyes. "Wait." He crossed the room, taking her hand in his. He pressed his charms, all of them, into her hand. She stared at them, then looked up at him.

The man who always had something to say said nothing. He nodded, then turned back around and joined the earl.

Joy stepped out through the French doors and walked down the steps through the closing darkness. A few minutes later she was hugging the old elm, holding it as tightly as she held Neil's good luck pieces.

She took long, deep breaths, then opened her eyes and found herself staring up at Belmore Park. A tall silhouette stood at a dimly lit window, looking down. For an instant it didn't move. Then the figure jerked the drapes closed.

She hugged the tree tighter, until she had little sensation left in her arms. Slowly she stepped away, feeling numb, feeling nothing. She walked back toward the study doors and stepped inside, turning and quietly closing the doors. She looked at the earl and viscount, who were still sitting in silence.

"Any word yet?" she asked.

"None," Richard answered, just as a door closed upstairs. All three of them looked up. The sound of voices drifted down. The front door closed. Footsteps clicked closer. Alec came into the room, his face drained of any color or feeling. He just stood there, not speaking, not looking at anyone.

"Stephen?" She took a step toward him.

"He's alive."

Relief swept through the room, and she took a deep breath.

"But nothing can be done for him. The doctor thinks he'll probably be dead by morning."

The tall clock ticked away silent seconds. Finally Richard stepped forward. "Is there anything you need?"

Alec shook his head, then turned toward Joy and said, "Come with me."

Without hesitation she followed him out and up the stairs, neither speaking. Alec opened the door to

Stephen's room and she walked inside. The drapes had been closed and the room was dark and dank with only a few candles giving light. For the first time in her life she could taste, smell, and feel death. Her skin chilled with the eeriness of it.

A maid sat by the bed, and Alec turned to her. "Leave us."

The girl was gone in a breath.

He walked over to the bed and looked down, his face haunted. "I was embarrassed."

She gave him a puzzled look.

"At the May fair. I saw him with that broom sweeping and saying he was a real Joe Miller, and I was ashamed." He looked at her. "Now look at him. God . . . ”

Stephen's breathing was uneven and labored. His face was purple with bruises, and he had bloody gashes on his forehead and cheeks. His lips were swollen, blue, and cut, and one ear had been stitched.

He turned and moaned, his breath rattling.

She couldn't say anything, do anything. She felt helpless, angry, adrift, guilty. Yet she could only imagine what Alec must have felt. His face was tense. She reached out to him.

"Make him well," he said.

"What?"

"Make him well. Use your magic."

"I can't."

"You have to."

"I wish I could."

"Do something." There was desperation in his voice.

"I told you before. My magic can't—"

"For God's sake, he's dying!"

Stephen moaned and turned, then moaned again. He began to toss and kick. Both of them reached for him, trying with soothing voices to quiet him. He finally settled, but cried and cried and cried, mumbling his pain. She looked up at Alec. His face wore the look of a man betrayed.

"It hurts," Stephen moaned, "so bad—help me." He lost consciousness.

Her hands shook, and tears streamed down her cheeks. Alec dropped into a chair and ran his hands over his face. He pulled them away to show a face twisted with torment and grief. His hands gripped the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles were white. "Then put him out of his misery."

She froze, her face crumpling in reaction to the compassionate horror of what he had asked. Very quietly she whispered, "I cannot do that, either."

He stared at his brother, his hands suddenly falling from the chair arms. He gave a cold bark of laughter that had nothing to do with humor. "I was foolish enough to believe in that magic of yours. What good is it?"

She took a step toward him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes. "Leave."

"Alec—"

"I said, leave."

"Please let me be with you."

"Get out." He fell silent and stared at the bed.

She stood there searching for something to say to break through that icy wall of his.

He turned and gave her a look so angry she could almost feel the heat of it. "Damnation, you foolish woman! Can't you see I want to be alone? Just . . . get . . . out. Leave us alone. I don't need you."

A cold black void closed around her, tightly, so tightly she felt as if it squeezed the very breath out of her. She backed away slowly until she was pressed against the door. She took one look at her husband, his profile as hard as that of a marble statue, then spun around and pulled the door open.

Without even realizing it she was running, running as fast as she could, down the stairs, through a hallway. Someone called her name, but it was far away and she couldn't stop running any more than she could stop her tears. Her shoulder hit something hard. There was a shattering crash. She didn't care. She flung the front door open. At the same instant the skies opened up and rain cried down.

She ran on and on, faster, faster, across the sodden grass, over hills, down the graveled drive. Lightning cracked through the black sky and the gates blew open with an echoing crash. She ran through them and onto the road. The wind swirled harder, the rain pounded down, soaking her, while the cruel wind whipped at her skirts and blew the pins from her hair. It flowed out in wet skeins behind her. The weight of it almost pulled her to a stop. The mud sucked at her feet. But she ran on emotions so powerful nothing could stop her.