Susan Spencer Paul - [Enchanter 01] (11 page)

“Indeed?” she asked. “That’s a fine, old custom to keep, I think. Linleys are the same, though Linley Manor in Devonshire is nothing to compare to so fine an estate as
Glain Tarran. I understand it’s beautiful in every aspect.”

His expression softened slightly. “It is. I’m prejudiced, of course, but I do think Glain Tarran the most beautiful spot on earth. I long to see it again.”

“Has it been a great while since you’ve done so, then?” she asked.

He was silent for a moment, not looking at her, before replying, simply, “Yes.”

“I should like to see Glain Tarran,” she said, as lightly as possible. “I’ve heard so much about it. Some people even say that spirits and magical beings live there”—she smiled—“but that’s foolish.”

He smiled weakly in return. “Yes, quite foolish.”

“Do you have a home in Wales, Mister Seymour? Your own home, I mean?”

“I do,” he said with sudden and open affection in his tone. He sat back a bit farther in his chair, and his handsome features relaxed. “Tawel Lle. It was my boyhood home, and as dear to me, perhaps dearer, than Glain Tarran, though Glain Tarran holds a central place in the hearts of all Seymours.”

“I can well imagine,” she murmured, and felt a stab of the old infatuation in her heart. When he smiled he looked so much like his former self, so handsome and gentlemanly. “I know a little Welsh from the time I’ve spent at Glen Aur, my aunt Alice’s estate, but I fear I don’t know what ‘Tawel Lle’ means.”

“Roughly, it means ‘a quiet place,’ ” he said, looking a little embarrassed. “I inherited the estate when I wasn’t yet out of university. It’s not a large property, but the house is good—beautiful—and very comfortable. When I’m in London, I dream of being there, and when I’m there, I
think of the day when I’ll never again have to leave.”

“Is it in Pembrokeshire?”

“No, in Brecknockshire, near the Brecons. It’s not too far from Trecastle.”

“The Brecons?” she asked. “How lovely it must be. Will you have more tea, Mister Seymour? These are such small cups that I fear you’re hardly having a swallow with each filling.”

“No, thank you.” He pushed the empty cup aside. “Tawel Lle is in a valley, and, yes, it is quite lovely. A river runs nearby, excellent for fishing. And swimming, as well, when weather permits. There are many slow, deep areas.”

“You can swim?” she asked, much impressed.

He nodded. “All Seymours swim. It’s necessary for us . . . to” He stopped, looked away briefly, then continued in a more measured tone. “The mountains surrounding Tawel Lle are ideal for walking. I spent much of my childhood exploring them. I’ve often wondered at people saying there’s not much to admire in the region, that the mountains are grand but plain. I’ve seen a good part of Europe in past travels, from the Alps to the Black Forest, but I’ve never yet seen anything to compare to the mountains surrounding Tawel Lle.”

“You love Wales so much, then?”

“Far more than London, certainly,” he replied, looking fully into her face for perhaps the first time since they’d entered the private room. “Oh, well, they’re very different, aren’t they? London is for society and family business. Tawel Lle is for pleasure, and for living.”

Julia knew exactly what he meant. She hated living in London, too, but unfortunately had no private sanctuary to escape to.

“But the family name,” she went on. “Seymour—it’s not of Welsh origin, is it?”

He wasn’t looking at her any longer. In fact, he was staring at the wall, a pensive expression in his blue eyes. “That foolish lad,” he murmured. “His head is going to burst if he doesn’t calm himself.”

“Pardon me?” Julia asked, bewildered. She turned to look at the wall, too, and could only see a rather unskilled landscape painting hanging at a crooked angle. “Do you mean the young man who was sitting in the corner earlier? In the main room?”

“He’s upset,” Niclas Seymour said, his gaze narrowing with concentration. “He’s filled with a terrible grief. The kind that drives all common sense away.”

Julia slowly turned back to look at him. She couldn’t decide whether to be amused or alarmed. Was he jesting? He appeared to be perfectly serious, but some people had odd senses of humor. Or perhaps he was far wearier than she’d imagined. . . . Or well, he certainly wasn’t mad. He might have grown rather odd in the past few years since leaving society, but surely he hadn’t become so altered that he imagined things.

She hoped.

“Mister Seymour?” He made no response. She spoke a little louder. “Mister Seymour?”

Startled out of his absorption, he turned back to her, staring as if he didn’t know who she was or where they were. When realization struck, it was accompanied by dismay.

“By the rood, I am sorry, Miss Linley. Please forgive me. How thoughtless. Careless.” He appeared not to
know how to explain himself. “I’m not fit for society any longer, I vow.”

“Please, sir, don’t be troubled,” she pleaded. “It’s of no consequence. The young man did appear to be unhappy, from what I observed of him, and you were always a kind gentleman. I’m ashamed that I’ve not spared the poor fellow a second thought, when you’ve clearly had him in mind.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “He’s . . . definitely in my thoughts. I’m sorry—what were we speaking of?”

“Your family name,” she said. “I wondered if it was of Welsh origin.”

“No,” he said shortly, glancing once more at the wall before returning his attention to the plate he held. “The Seymours are of foreign descent. Wales has long been our adopted country, however, and so many generations have been born there that our distant origins have been nearly forgotten.”

Julia’s interest was piqued. “My aunt told me that yours is among the oldest families in England. If you are able to recall your lineage from before that, I confess it is something to be admired. From what country, then,” she asked, refilling her cup, “do the Seymours originally hail? France? Or Normandy? Did one of your ancient fathers arrive with William so long ago?”

“I only wish they had.” He set his plate aside and took up a napkin to wipe his lips. “My ancestors were exiles and wanderers, and cursed. There was no welcome for them . . . until” He sat up suddenly and turned to look at the closed doors. “Damn that lad,” he said angrily, pushing to his feet. “He can’t mean to be so foolish.”

“Mister Seymour?”

“Please excuse me.” He scarcely looked back as he headed for the door. “There’s something I must tend to at once. Forgive me.”

He opened one of the doors only to find Abercraf and Jane standing there, ready to enter.

“Oh, here you are,” he said with relief. “Excellent. Be so good as to bear Miss Linley company while I—”

“Sir!” It was Huw, hovering in the background. “Forgive me, but one of the horses has lost a shoe. Frank Coachman begs that you come at once and tell him what you wish.”

Niclas’s distracted gaze moved from the couple before him to his stableboy to the young man still sitting in the far corner. “I can’t come now . . . in a moment. Jane, I do hope you’re feeling better. Come in and be comfortable. Abercraf, see that she has a proper tea. Excuse me, please.”

“But sir, Frank says he must know right away whether you want to wait for the horse to be shoed or a new horse in its . . . place”

Noise and confusion, just as if every person in the entire inn, save Miss Linley, were shouting at him. Niclas had tried to explain it to Malachi, but it was truly impossible to describe. The innkeeper stood off to one side, alarmed, perhaps because of the situation with the horse or Huw’s raised voice. Jane was both alarmed and afraid, Abercraf was concerned, the vast majority of patrons in the main room were filled with curiosity, and Huw was increasingly exasperated. Above all, the young man in the corner, who wasn’t paying attention to any of them,
sat head in hands, his tormented grief becoming almost unbearable.

Niclas had to force himself to focus on Huw’s animated face—what else could he do when the lad was standing right in front of him?—and listen to what he was saying.

A horse had thrown a shoe. A decision had to be made. Frank wanted him. Now.

“I—”

Grief and pain made it impossible to think. He had a strong urge to bash the depressed young man on the head and make it stop before either of them did something unforgivable. And what was that coming from Abercraf now? It felt unmistakably like lust. For Jane.

God help him, that was just what he needed.

“Sir? What shall I tell him?”

Tell him? Niclas tried to think of what he wanted to do. The innkeeper’s alarm was growing stronger. Not surprising given that one of his customers was standing like a complete fool, unable to speak to his own servants.

And then, suddenly, it was gone. All of it. Gone.

The tumult in his brain silenced, leaving only the sweet peace of sound in his ears. Normal sound, such as any man felt in a crowd.

“Tell the coachman that Mister Seymour will be with him in a moment.”

It was Miss Linley. She was standing there beside him, touching his hand. Miss Julia Linley, whose emotions he still couldn’t feel, had made it all go away merely by touching his bare hand with hers.

Niclas stared down at where her ungloved fingers rested
lightly upon his hand, and what he could feel—all he could feel—was peace flowing from her simple touch. He could actually feel it, though it was a physical sensation, not emotional.

“Will that be all right?”

She had been speaking to him, and he hadn’t even heard her. Now he knew how closely they had to touch for her to give him complete peace—flesh upon flesh. Even in this simple manner.

“What?” he said stupidly, lifting his head to look into her eyes.

“I’ll speak with the young man,” she said. “You go and tend to the coach.”

Now he could feel something—his own alarm.

“Speak to him? You? To a strange man? No, that isn’t a good—”

“Please don’t worry,” she said reassuringly, patting his hand. Each release and touch was a striking contrast, from peace to clamor, silence to noise. His head was spinning with the fact of it, yet he couldn’t fathom what it meant. This was magic, a gift, something akin to what he’d been born with. Surely it was proof that she was one of his kind.

But suddenly her hand was gone altogether, leaving him in chaos, and with a brilliant smile she turned and began to walk toward the grief-stricken lad.

Niclas reached out and grasped her by the elbow. Covered by the cloth of her dress, he found only that much dimmed relief that he’d known at the ball. And that was hardly enough to halt the surge of interest, admiration, and outright lust that he felt emanating from the male patrons
at the inn, many of whom had fixed their gazes on Miss Linley’s attractive person.

“Miss Linley, I must insist that you return to the parlor and finish your tea.”

She kept smiling, but showed no inclination to obey.

“I shall be fine, I promise you, Mister Seymour. I know you don’t wish to delay our departure, and to that end it makes more sense for you to attend to the matter of the horse.”

“The horse will wait,” he said sternly. “I can’t have you speaking to strange men. Lady Eunice would have my head on a platter, to say nothing of my cousin, Earl Gray-mar, and I’d not blame either of them for it.”

“They need not know,” she said, then innocently touched his hand once more, plunging him into that delightful peace. “Trust me in this, please. I’m confident that I can handle the matter perfectly well. I have a gift with words—it’s true, I assure you. And speaking to so young a gentleman can be of no consequence to my standing in society.” She smiled that certain smile once more; the one that made his heart turn over. “I’ve already no chance of marrying, so there’s no fear my reputation will be ruined by such small scandal. Go and reassure the coachman. I’m sure he’s concerned about how best to proceed.”

Yes, Niclas thought dimly as he—and the rest of those present in the inn—watched her walk away. Frank was worried, if Huw’s anxiety was anything to go by.

He should go after her, he told himself, striving to push his own thoughts past the increased volume of emotions flooding at him. He should drag her back to the private
parlor by force and have the innkeeper lock her in. But he couldn’t. She had asked him to give her a measure of trust, and he couldn’t find it in himself to deny the simple request, regardless of what his duty as a gentleman might be. He only prayed that Lady Eunice never heard of it.

Niclas turned back to Huw, whose worried expression perfectly matched his emotions.

“Take me to Frank,” he said, “and we’ll get this matter of the horse settled.”

The decision was quickly made, though he understood Frank’s dilemma in making it on his own. The horse was too good to leave behind, but waiting for the local village smithy to shoe it was out of the question. Ioan would remain behind while the rest went ahead to Coventry with the help of a rented horse, and would follow as soon as possible. Within ten minutes the arrangements had been made and Niclas anxiously made his way back into the inn.

And immediately grew angry. Far too many of the patrons were indulging themselves in strong admiration of Miss Linley, and worse. If their wives and ladyfriends could divine their feelings as Niclas could, those same men would shortly find their ears soundly and rightfully boxed.

But that, Niclas told himself, was a bit like the pot calling the kettle black. He admired Miss Linley, too, and far more than he should.

She was sitting with the young man in the corner near the fire, the gold in her brown hair shining and her lovely, smiling face lit by the flames as she spoke to him. The lad’s grief, Niclas felt, was yet present, but surprisingly lessened. Julia Linley, it seemed, had not only told the truth
bout having a gift with words, but was a fast worker.

“Miss Linley,” he said when he reached her side. He nodded at the young man—Niclas could see now that he was really closer to being a youth—who had looked up at his approach. Wonderment and a touch of apprehension mixed with the boy’s pain, and Niclas strove to soften what he knew were his sometimes harsh features.

“Mister Seymour, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, smiling up at him with real welcome. “Is the carriage waiting? I’m sure Jane will be ready to go by now. This kind young man has been bearing me company until your return. Mister Alexander Larter, this is Mister Niclas Seymour, of whom I was telling you. Mister Larter has a farm nearby,” she chattered on pleasantly, “which he has just inherited. It’s quite a large farm, and a great deal of work for him to manage alone.”