Bewitched (28 page)

From the admiral came a smothered sound. Yet Amy didn’t dare look around and chance a glance at either the earl or the countess. A quiver ran through Fox’s body beside her, making her stomach clench. He would not do anything rash, would he? Surely he saw how dangerous those people were?

“Do you know,” Lady Margaret continued, “that I could reduce him to a thing that was barely human? Oh, how he would beg for me to touch him, to release him—”

“You!” Fox exploded. “How dare you—” He made as if to rush forward.

“Sebastian!”

“Fox!”

Lord Rawdon’s and Amy’s cries mingled and each of them grabbed one of his elbows.

Lady Margaret threw her head back and laughed. “The Fox. The unruly, spirited younger brother.” Her gaze sharpened on Amy. “And our cuckoo child.”

Immediately Fox shifted so that his body was in front of Amy’s. “Leave her alone!” he snarled.

“Priceless!” Lady Margaret chuckled, then turned to the man Amy had come to think of as the woman’s pet sorcerer. “Splendid work, truly splendid work.”

He smiled thinly and bowed. “My lady’s pleasure is mine. Even though there are other advantages to this arrangement.” His eyes shifted and came to rest on Amy. “By a splendid stroke of fate I have made an old friend’s little brat our cuckoo child. Too bad, is it not, Miss Bourne, that you obviously haven’t inherited the talents of your virtuous uncle.”

Amy’s breath caught. Now she finally knew where she had seen him before: he was Uncle Bourne’s friend who had turned bad and—who hadn’t seemed to age a day since the miniature was painted.

Her face shining with delight, Lady Margaret clapped. “This is going to be vastly entertaining!” She gave the blond man a nod before she turned back to Lord Rawdon. “Look at your brother: So great is his love that he would die for the lady of his heart—would you not, Mr. Stapleton?”

Amy’s blood ran cold. The blond man had started to march toward them, an unholy amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Fox,” she whispered, and tried to pull him back, yet he would not budge an inch.

“Such great love, you would give your life,” the blond man taunted as he drew nearer.

“Margaret!” the earl barked. “What is this? What do you want from my brother?”

Amy dug her fingers into Fox’s arm. “Fox,” she whispered.

Inexorably, the Lady Margaret’s minion came toward them. “It must be true love then, mustn’t it? True, everlasting love?”

Dimly, Amy was aware of people shifting nervously around her, but she only had eyes for that hateful man, whose lips now lifted in a cruel smile. He stopped so close to Fox that they stood almost nose to nose. He cocked his head to the side. “True love?” His gaze caressed Fox’s face as if they were lovers.

Amy heard Fox’s sharp breath. Then, his voice, clearly, steadily, and with a mocking lilt of his own, “Oh yes.”

She bit her lip.

“Then let me tell you a secret, Mr. Stapleton.” The blond man leaned closer, so his mouth almost brushed against Fox’s ear.

Amy clenched her free hand into a fist. “It was a potion,” she blurted.

Both heads—carroty red and blond—snapped around.

Fox frowned. “What—?”

The blond man’s eyes narrowed for a short moment, then amusement flickered across his face. “What a bright little cuckoo child we have chosen.” He turned to Fox. “Oh yes, Mr. Stapleton, a potion. A love potion—for you and her. And she knew. A cuckoo planted in the midst of your family to bring you all down. Such a wicked little bird, the cuckoo, and you’ve brought her to Rawdon Park. Aren’t you proud of yourself?” Each word was formed with obvious pleasure. “That’s what your true love is.” Metal glinted in his hand. “A hoax.”

Fox drew in a sharp breath, and in the first moment Amy’s brain refused to comprehend what had happened. She heard the shocked cries of the people around her, the words the blond man murmured into Fox’s ear, “That’s what you’re dying for: a hoax.” Then the man turned and walked back to his mistress, while Fox sagged to the ground, dragging Amy with him, a dagger protruding from his shoulder.

The admiral was at her side in an instant, and the earl, both supporting Fox. He gasped for breath. A dark spot formed on his blue coat.

Lady Margaret laughed.

“Fox,” Amy whispered. She clutched at his arm, his head, his shoulder. “No.”

He looked up at her, his eyes wide with shock. His lips trembled. “A… hoax?”

“Fox,” she repeated. She fumbled with the knot in his neck cloth, his waistcoat, the fastening of his shirt. “No. Oh, no no no.” He couldn’t die. Couldn’t… if she had her magic back—if only she had her magic back!

“Miss Bourne.”

With a sob she clutched at the dagger, pulled, drew it out of his flesh.

“Miss Bourne!”

Fox gasped, spasmed against her lap. More blood bubbled up.

“No,” she said. “No no no!” Frantically her hands slid over his skin and got sticky with blood. She found the wound, pressed against it to stem the flow. If only she had her magic back, if only—

Fox stared at her, his eyes almost black. “You… knew?”

“Miss Bourne!”

Amy pushed against the barrier in her mind, pushed and pushed until the blood roared in her ears and stars flickered in front of her eyes. Under her fingers she felt Fox’s pulse weaken. Desperation sliced through her. “NOOOO!”

And something inside her gave way.

Power rushed through her, the power of the stones, of the earth. Her whole body prickled with it. She pressed her hands against Fox’s wound and, staring into his eyes, felt his skin warm. Saw the shock as the flow of blood stopped. His chest lifted with a deep breath.

“Yes.” She blinked her tears away. He was safe.

Safe.

“Oh my!” Lady Margaret exclaimed. “Who would have thought how much excitement the chit would provide?”

The buzzing inside Amy’s ears stopped. She reached for the bloody dagger where it lay on the ground and slowly stood. Anger burned inside her, such an intense anger as she had never known. It heightened the power that still coursed through her, until it filled her to the brim and crackled along her skin. Dimly she heard the soft
plings
as her hairpins fell to the ground and her hair unraveled.

She turned toward the woman and the uniformed men at the far end of the drawing room, all of them laughing.

“
You
,” Amy breathed.

Lady Margaret chuckled. “Look at the cuckoo child—isn’t she delightful?” She gave Amy a cruel smirk. “Quite an impressive demonstration, my dear. But leave it be, child. It will only hurt you more in the end. You cannot compete with his magic.” She patted the arm of the sorcerer who stood beside her. “Leave it be.”

Power gathered inside Amy, tickled in the tips of her fingers. “
You
.” She took a step forward.

Lady Margaret’s laughter stopped. She waved her hand at the men with the swords. “Keep her away.”

Two of them raised their weapons. Stepping toward Amy, they crossed their swords in front of her. Unperturbed, she continued to stare at the duo across the room. Another step. Steel pressed against her dress. She took a deep breath, raised her arms and let the magic loose.

The strength of it flung the two men in front of her aside. Her hips gently swaying from side to side, Amy walked forward. She felt the magic rushing alongside her, heard the tinkling of glass as fragments and splinters outside in the snow realigned and were sucked back into the window frames. But Amy never once took her eyes from the two people across the room.

“You. What a nice little plan you hatched out there. A nice little potion that you had us given, then some nice little attacks on the children, first on the heir, then on the spare—but all in vain,” she hissed.

Lady’s Margaret’s sorcerer took a step toward her. “You are but a child. You will not prevail.” He raised his hand. “Your uncle wasn’t able to withstand my powers, and neither will you.”

Amy’s lips curved. She turned the dagger in her hand until the point cut into her skin and her blood ran over the blade. “Won’t I?” she said mildly. “You will not work your evil at Rawdon any longer.” In her hand, the dagger began to glow.

The sorcerer threw his head back and laughed. “You silly child! You cannot harm me, my magic has taken root at Rawdon Park in ways you cannot imagine.”

The dagger flew through the air, described a fiery arc.

The sorcerer was still laughing when it hit his heart.

Chaos broke loose all around. Somewhere, magic shattered. Lady Margaret screamed at her men to kill Amy. Amy swayed. Magic still pounded through her, rushed into her and was amplified by the powers of the earth; and in the end, it was simply too much. The magic raged out of control. Lady Margaret and her men never stood a chance. It slithered and wound around them, cut through skin and bone, and choked the life out of them. It left them lying on the ground with contorted faces and bulging eyes.

Dizziness overwhelmed Amy. Her mind was raw with the powers that were coursing through her; her senses reeled from the events that had unfolded. Black spots danced in front of her eyes. Desperately, she tried to catch her breath. She was aware of people milling about her, somebody touching her shoulder. Distorted words that didn’t make any sense. But she had kept them safe. Yes, she had kept the Stapletons safe… Amy gasped. If only she could get her air back! The floor rolled and rose to meet her. The last thing she saw before darkness engulfed her was Fox walking out of the room, his shoulders rigid.

Witch, witch, witch
, she heard.

And then she knew nothing more.

Chapter Fifteen

Fox sat hunched forward on his bed, his hands buried in his hair. Surely it must all be a dream, a horrible nightmare, and if only he could manage to wake up, all would be as before and he would be head over heels in love with an adorable little bit of a woman…

A witch, a sorceress.

He groaned.

No, no, it couldn’t be. He had held her in his arms, had lost himself in the sweetness of her body…

All a lie!

And she had known it! Damn it, she had known it all along, had laughed about him most likely, about the poor fool who had danced attendance to her, so besotted he no longer knew left from right and whose emotional outpourings must have amused her to no end.

A love potion? It seemed so fantastic. How could it possibly be real? But how else to explain his infatuation with the brassy, impertinent chit? For now he remembered it all. Their conversations at the ball and at the Worthington musicale. Her lack of style and accomplishment. How could he have forgotten all of that?

And oh, the things he had seen her do today! Not just the killing of those people, which had been bad enough, but broken glass, shattered into a million pieces, repairing itself and being sucked back into the window frames.

Fox shuddered.

It was unnatural. She was unnatural. Perhaps she had even put a spell on him as well. For wasn’t this what Lady Margaret’s man had implied when he had called her a cuckoo child, planted at Rawdon Park? And Fox himself had brought her here and had thus endangered his whole family.

Heavens!

He jumped up and pulled the bell rope hard enough that the thing nearly came off. Impatiently he marched up and down the room until finally the door opened. “Thur?” Hobbes asked.

“Pack my things. I’ll spend the night at the Crown in Downham Market, and from there we will return to London tomorrow.”

Hobbes gaped at him. “Thur?”

“My
things
.” Fox threw up his arms. “Heavens, that can’t be so difficult, can it?”

“Now, thur?”

Fox gritted his teeth. “Yes, indeed.” The family was fine, none was hurt, and Richard was currently dealing with the magistrate, who had been called to Rawdon Park. There was nothing more for Fox to do here.

“And M-mith Bourne?”

“To hell with Miss Bourne!” Fox roared, loud enough to make Hobbes jump. Who cared due to which twisted logic she had eventually turned on those of her like? Sorceress, witch—she had been in this all along, had practiced her wiles on him.

Again, he shuddered. To imagine he had even bedded the wench! It was vile, unnatural! He would go mad if he stayed here an hour longer.

So: “My things,” he repeated. “
Now
!”

“Ath you wish, thur.” After a last dubious look, followed by a shake of his head, Hobbes disappeared into the dressing room.

Fox heaved a sigh of relief. Yes, this was for the best: He would leave for Downham Market straight away and take the coach to Cambridge tomorrow morning, and from there return to London. Once home, he would settle back into his old life, and in no time at all, the past few weeks would indeed seem like a dream to him. Something that had never happened, had never been real.

Without his volition, his hand crept to his shoulder and rubbed at the lingering soreness. As he became aware of what he was doing, Fox shuddered. As quickly as if he had burned himself, he let his arm fall to his side. In a few weeks’ time this would all be but a bad dream. Only a dream.

~*~

Having his bones rattled in a stagecoach for hours on end did nothing to improve Fox’s temper. He left it to Hobbes to air his rooms at Albany and went out to his club in order to get drunk and perhaps lose some money at the gambling tables. Only nothing came of the gambling, because he met Drew and Cy and was obliged to tell them the whole sorry story. At least, though, he could get well and truly sloshed while telling it so their horrified faces swam nicely out of focus. Afterwards, the Right Honorable Lord Stafford took his elbow and dragged him away from the joys and consolation of port and brandy. He marched Fox up cold St. James’s Street and back to Albany—damned fellow! But fortunately Fox fell half asleep just as they crossed Piccadilly, so he completely missed entering Albany anyway.

He was rudely shaken awake the next day. “What do you think you are doing?” his brother roared into his ear—loud enough to make Fox fall out of his bed.

“For Christ’s sake! Are you mad?” Rubbing his behind, upon which he’d landed, Fox picked himself up. A glance at his brother’s face made him grimace. Richard’s whole head had taken on a mottled color, and a dark vein pulsed across his forehead.