The Ground She Walks Upon (36 page)

"I mustn't." Her eyes filled with an equal mix of dread and curiosity. It had been so long since she'd released the spell and gotten a good look at his real face.

The troll let out a small moan and she knew she had to make her decision. He was waking up. She didn't think she could control him if she changed him and he awoke.

The tips of her fingers ran down his homely brow. In the blink of an eye, her magic took away the troll's visage and revealed instead the face of a handsome, black-haired man. The troll's stumpy body disappeared too, but his clothes remained, now nothing more than tight rags on a large man's form. Instead of a dwarf slumped against the corner of the wall, Skya's touch had removed the magic that had kept the troll a prisoner. In his place, there was a lean, hard man, his head tipped forward in an unconscious state, his real legs, long and well-muscled by the many years of gripping a destrier, outstretched before him.

"My prince," Skya whispered, unable to take her eyes off him. His handsomeness, as always, stole her breath away. Aidan's brow was fair, his nose straight and fine, his lips hard and... and... lying.

Her expression grew thunderous and she forced herself to be rational. She had to use caution. She mustn't get too close. Her little pet was dangerous. Even more so when her magic did not keep him contained as a troll. A year ago, Prince Aidan had come riding through her woods to make war on her poor father. She'd had no choice but to detain him. And what better way to do it than to turn the prince into a troll? She rarely changed him back. The troll was
never vulnerable enough for her to do it. And she was afraid of Aidan. The prince hated her.

Though there had been that one rainy night....

Unable to ignore her desire to be near him, she seized the moment, discarded her prudence, and bent down to him, her hand this time caressing a beautiful male face. Unconscious, he looked almost boyish, impossibly handsome and rugged. A black curl fell across his forehead and she longed to tweak it. It would be wonderful to watch him laugh and look at her with warmth in his blue eyes. And not worry about losing her life.

He was the lion tamed, but even when her spell had kept him as a troll, she knew she couldn't tame him forever. Now she had other worries. Her head pounded with the agony of her sister's news. The king was looking for his son. There would be war now surely if this unconscious man before her was not found.

She'd always known one day she would have to let him go. Now the day was fast approaching. But how could she let him go? How could she watch him run from her as if she were some terrible freak of nature, never to see him again in these dark, lonely woods? He was her only company. Unwilling company, sometimes even hateful company, but he was the companion she'd desperately needed. No, she couldn't let him go. She couldn't forget about him and that one long, rainy night....

A large, steely hand reached out and clamped over her slender wrist. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked down and terror seized her.

Ravenna's eyes popped open, the dreamed incident startling her awake. Her hands itched to jot it down, but no pen was available. In the carriage interior, her gaze found Trevallyan and she thought of the children in her dream whom she had been recounting the tale to.

She hadn't known who the children were, and now their identity haunted her. She wondered if they were their children. Hers and Trevallyan's. The idea caused her no small anguish.

"We're in County Lir," Trevallyan said, his face strangely pallid. "Have a look. See what your reluctance has wrought."

Her palms grew sweaty and her mouth dry. She rolled up the oiled linen window flap and gazed out at a place she didn't know.

The miles of green potato fields were blotched with sickly yellow. Men and women in raggedy clothes lined the roadside, desperately digging what crop had not yet been tainted by blight. But the crop was clearly ruined anyway. Those potatoes mature enough now wouldn't keep through winter. Blight was that thorough.

A few of the men nodded to the passing carriage, their faces white and afraid. Ravenna found she couldn't look them in the eyes. The emotion there was like a barren, wind-mangled landscape made even more pitiful because of the abundance that had gone before it.

"Dear God, it's worse than we thought it would be," she whispered, her throat thick with pity. Her beloved Lir, so green, so fertile, now seemed as hostile as a witch's womb.

"I'm bringing in cattle and perhaps corn and we'll see if it will fare better." He spoke in a painfully controlled monotone.

"Yes," she answered, hardly looking at him while the land rolled by, scarred by this terrible disease.

"But I cannot cure Lir if you are the cause."

Her gaze riveted to him. She could hardly believe what he'd said. She choked, "Surely you don't think—"

"I believe it more and more now." His face was unnaturally pale. He looked angry. She was suddenly, irrationally afraid.

"But you can't. The
geis
is nothing more than superstition."

"Is this blight from our imaginations?" His fine lips curled in contempt. "It looks all too real to me."

"Blight is all over Ireland. We've avoided it; now it's our turn." She hated the way her voice shook, but she had never seen Trevallyan so. He sat in a dark corner of the carriage, dressed in his usual black, his eyes glittering with an almost unnatural gleam. She could do nothing but tremble under his gaze.

"And were the attempts on my life just another occurrence in a reign of bad luck?"

She swallowed, unsure how to proceed. "Your thinking has turned in this direction because it's to your benefit to believe in the
geis.
It gives a reason for all the troubles— you can blame them on me, then get me to do your bidding. But I won't, I tell you. I won't." She jutted out her chin and gave him a look of defiance. It rankled that he would try to dump all the troubles on her. It offended her and burdened her with an unwarranted sense of guilt as well.

"I am a rational man. A well-educated man." His hand reached across the carriage and touched her cheek. "But I can't explain what's happened here. I can explain this blight and the mischief of these hooligans. But I can't figure out my unholy desire for you, and if the
geis
will explain it, then I fear I am compelled to believe it."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Thank God they were home. She just wanted to get away from him. She wanted to think without him making demands upon her that she found herself succumbing to and regretting.

She stared out the window. They had passed the
ogham
stone now and were just about to cross the dusty road that led to Grania's cottage. Taking the situation in hand, she reached forward to the trapdoor right behind the driver's legs. Before Trevallyan could block her, she said to the driver. "Please, stop the carriage here. I'll be getting off."

The trap was slammed shut by Trevallyan's hand. She'd suspected he'd be angered by her dictates to the driver, but she didn't care. She was going home to think, and he would let her do it or forever lose his chance for her love.

The carriage rolled to a halt. She had her hand on the gold door handle before he could stop her.

But all at once, she was pulled back. His arms circled her waist and he held her captive on his lap.

"You will not do this," he said, his voice a mere rasp.

"You must let me go. I am not your prisoner, and you cannot continue to make me one." She pulled on his locked fingers. They didn't budge.

"Driver, drive on!" he shouted, unwilling to free his hands and make use of the trapdoor.

There was a pause of indecision. The horses jangled their harnesses and stamped their feet, anxious to get to their hay at the end of the ride.

"No! Wait! You must let me out of here!" she screamed, pulling and struggling with Trevallyan's iron hands.

"Drive on, I said! Or you'll be out there in the blighted fields by morning with no employment!"

She moaned and made one last attempt to be free. But the carriage began to roll, throwing her hard against his chest.

"What are you doing? Have you gone mad? I'm not going back to the castle with you. I'm not!" she said through clenched teeth.

"I won't let you go. I'll never get you back if I do." The words were steely, yet mournful. If they hadn't sealed her fate, she might have almost felt pity for him.

"Don't make me hate you," she moaned, throwing her head back against the seat, his hands like a vise around her waist.

"If you can't love me, then hate me. Hate me, I tell you, for 'tis the next closest thing." He loomed over her.

To her agony, his hands gripped both her cheeks and forced her head to be still. Then he crushed his mouth on hers. And sentenced her with a kiss.

S
he was
his prisoner.

Ravenna had been locked in the keep room for a day. Not once did she see Trevallyan. Maids brought her pen and paper, meals and baths, but no word of the man who ruled the castle, no assurances that his madness was soon to end. She paced and stared at the doomed yellow fields that ringed the
ogham
stone. At night, she had tried to scratch out more pages of her novel, but the candlelight made her sleepy. Finally she had crawled into the huge four-poster bed—which was, after so much time spent in it, her intimate friend—and tried to slumber, but she was tortured with wakefulness, her thoughts churning with anger and ill-fated plans.

She was caught in a maze of no escape. Locked in the tower, there was no leaving it except through the servants' door or the formal doors, and both were tightly fastened. And she was sickened by the thought of how Grania must be worrying about her. She knew to expect Ravenna back by now. Had Trevallyan sent word? What would he say?
I've taken your granddaughter captive. I don't know when she'll be returned.
It was ridiculous. The entire situation. She had never seen Niall in such a black mood as when he brought her kicking and screaming to the tower bedroom. He looked as if he hated her every bit as much as she hated him. He would not listen to reason. He would not free her. Even when she refused to allow his valet entrance to his dressing room so that the master might have a fresh change of clothes, no word had come from Trevallyan. There was no anger, no disapproval, no note. Simply a silence. And when she saw the tailor arrive from Belfast this morning, she knew he had chosen to send for new clothes to be made rather than continue to challenge her.

The wall of silence was beginning to wear on her. She thought at least she would get to vent her emotions when he came to her for the night. But he had not come. He ignored her. She was his invisible prisoner. Even the pleasure she gave him was not enough to lure him into her lair. And if she
could
not even come face-to-face with her captor, she despaired of ever gaining her freedom.

With every passing hour, her nerves grew more and more frayed, her luxurious jail more and more stifling.

She rose from the bed and turned up the lamp. The pen and paper were ready for her on Trevallyan's overly-carved mahogany desk. She should be writing, using the time to finish her novel, but Skya and Aidan seemed ethereal, as if she'd dreamed them and had now awakened without being able to recall all the details. Her mind was too full of anxiety and dread to surrender to imagination.

Trevallyan had finally managed to take that away from her as well.

The thought sent a shroud of despondency over her. Nothing seemed worthwhile in this cage. She would never get her novel published. Trevallyan had been right. It was the silly dream of a stupid Irish girl who was deluded by an education she could never use.

She sat at the desk, staring at the mockingly white sheets of paper until dawn, when Katey brought in her hot water and breakfast. With a slight frown on her face, the woman asked her if there was anything else she needed. Ravenna shook her head and glared. Hours of pleading had yet to move Katey to let her go. Now she no longer felt like fighting.

Lord Chesham jumped from his mighty black steed and threw the reins to the stable boy.

"It's a mighty fine gallop today, lad! 'Tis just what I've come from London for!" he called to the stable master, an Irishman old enough to be his father.

"Lord Trevallyan awaits you in the library, my lord," the man said as the stable boy took the Thoroughbred away to walk him in the yard.

"Library? Fine, fine," Chesham grunted, pulling off his gloves. In the hall, he threw them and his top hat to Greeves. He entered the library, emitted a low whistle and said, "Cousin, you look terrible. Not the gout, I hope."

"Gout.
Christ almighty, I'm not that old." Trevallyan looked up from his desk and the pile of papers stacked upon it. He gave Chesham a rather disapproving once-over and said, "I've been told you've been here for days. Ever since I left for Antrim. London didn't suit you?"

"No, indeed. If the castle weren't so damned big, cousin, you'd have seen me last night."

"Well, I didn't." He shoved aside the bills and stood. "Greeves just informed me you plan to have a ball here in less than a week."

"Nothing more than the usual. Perhaps two hundred."

Trevallyan crossed his arms over his chest. "Cancel it. This is not time for a ball. The people of Lir are terrified. I won't have them seeing us dancing while they weep."

"Invite them then."

"Why not tell them to eat cake instead?"

Chesham donned a bored demeanor and threw himself into a leather wing chair. "Don't be such a pill, cousin. Perhaps they could use some cheer. Besides, you'll get them all out of this blight thing. I know it."

"It won't come without a price. I've got cattle to buy and corn to haul way over here. If I'm to pay for their salvation, I can't afford balls, too."

"Bloody hell you can, and you know it. You'll buy them all a flock of sheep and triple the profits before a body can blink." Chesham studied his nails, rubbing them on the velvet collar of his pink huntmaster's jacket.

Trevallyan merely ground his teeth. "Still, this is
not
a good time for a ball—"

"No, it's the best time for a ball." Chesham looked at him. "I haven't seen Ravenna in a while. There's rumors she's been seen here at the castle in my absence. You aren't chasing after her, are you? I had hopes of wooing her myself, you know."

Niall's expression grew taut as if he were utterly displeased. "Do you think a ball would change her mind toward you?"

"Ah, but think of it. Music, champagne, waltzes in the garden.
I
can do a lot with those things."

"Do what? You just want to get a leg over and you know it."

"Certainly. What man wouldn't—" Before Chesham could finish the sentence, Trevallyan was standing over him with a grip nearly tearing his velvet lapels. "Wh-what is it?" he stuttered, bewildered by Niall's anger.

"I want you to leave the castle. Accept it. You're not going to have Ravenna. Not now. Not ever."

"I'm not going to have Ravenna. Not now. Not ever," Chesham repeated stupidly. "Now will you please let me go?"

Trevallyan abruptly released his jacket.

Chesham slumped back in the chair. "What was that all about? Have you taken a liking to her, then?"

When Trevallyan didn't deny it, Chesham quirked his lips in a wry smile. "So is she to become your mistress?"

"I've asked her to become my wife."

Chesham looked as if he'd just been knocked clean off a steeplechaser. "Are you telling me the truth?"

"What do you think?" Trevallyan snapped.

Chesham gulped. "I'll admit, I've a fancy for the girl. She's beautiful, but-—but—she's a commoner. Worse than that, she's Irish. Dear lord, Niall, you'll tire of her and then... aaarrgh, I can't even think of it. It's too awful.
Lady
Trevallyan..." he muttered to himself, as if he were putting the name on a Dublin doxy.

"You forget yourself,
cousin."
Trevallyan's baleful stare could have pierced granite. "You forget that my mother was Irish, my people are Irish,
I'm
Irish."

Chesham's jaw bunched with annoyance. "She's not your kind of Irish, and you know it. You're bloody having me on, aren't you? We'll all be laughing at this at dinner."

Trevallyan clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window to the ravaged fields. "No, it's true. I'm in love with her. I've asked her to be my wife, and she has thus far," he paused as if he felt a pain to his gut, "declined."

Chesham rose to his feet, appearing as if he were doing his best to absorb the shock of the news. He looked as if he wanted to make light of the situation, but as if he'd recalled Trevallyan's violent temper, he seemed to most definitely think better of it.

"How could she decline an offer of marriage to a wealthy, powerful earl, one of the most important men of the county, perhaps of Ireland as well?" Chesham's confusion wove through his voice.

" 'Tis a long and painful story." Trevallyan sighed. His aqua eyes searched the fields for hope. He seemed to find none. "One which I'm not inclined to explain. Just suffice it to say I'm in no mood for a ball."

"Perhaps that's your problem. Perhaps she wants to be courted. A ball's just the thing for that."

Trevallyan spun around to face him so quickly, Chesham startled.

"From the mouths of babes..."

"What was it I said?" Chesham shrilled.

"Perhaps 'tis the thing to do after all." Niall's brow furrowed as if he were deep in thought. "A ball. A grand county-wide celebration. We'll let the people of this county thumb their noses at the blight for one magical evening, and there I'll announce my plans for a new economy for Lir—of cattle and sheep and corn. Then Ravenna will see that I'm not..." His voice lowered to a hush. "... not..."

"Not what?" Chesham piped in.

Trevallyan looked at him as if he had just now noticed him. He didn't answer.

Chesham shook his head in despair. "If the situation's as bleak as your face, coz, I recommend you try anything and everything."

Ravenna knew when Trevallyan had entered the apartment. It wasn't that she heard him, exactly; rather, she felt him. As Grania felt spirits by the imprint of emotions they left behind on the mortal earth, she felt the anger enter the room like a specter who had taken up haunting.

She said nothing. Looking up from the desk where her writing had soured on the page like the blotch she had left with her pen, she mutely met his gaze, took the inkwell in her grasp, and hurled it at his head.

He stepped neatly aside. It crashed against the wall, leaving behind
a
weeping stain of indigo.

"Is that how this is to be?" he asked grimly.

"How else would you have it? I told you
a
slave has no love for his master." She grasped
a
small Staffordshire figurine of Isis and threatened with it as well. "Unless you plan to free me, get out."

"I came to invite you to Chesham's ball." His gaze wandered to the direction of his dressing room. "And to get a change of clothes. Even my tailor can't work miracles overnight."

"Oh no you won't." She skittered toward the dressing-room doorway. Holding the Staffordshire goddess as a weapon, she blocked his entrance. "Get out. Your clothing is my hostage here. You want fresh linen, then you'll free me first."

He stepped toward her. She lifted the figurine higher. He ducked just as the piece sailed over his head and shattered against the carved doorway in the antechamber, scarring it.

"Are you through with this temper tantrum?" he asked quietly.

Her eyes filled with tears of frustration. "You call yourself a modern thinker, yet you hold me captive here as if you were as backward as your American slaveholding friends."

"What choice do I have? If I set you running, you'll run so far I'll never catch you."

"You've gotten that right," she spat as he lifted her aside and walked into his dressing room.

He chose a few necessary articles from the wardrobe drawers and faced her once more. "No opinion on my ball?"

"You must be mad if you think I would attend a ball as your prisoner." Her eyes blazed with fury.

"Even if I were to invite the whole county? Even if your grandmother were to attend and it would worry her sick if she were to believe you a prisoner here?"

Ravenna stared at him, despising his blackmail. "You know I'll escape if you let me down from here to attend a ball."

"You'll never leave my side."

"Impossible. You can't keep me with you all night."

"Try me."

They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills.

Finally she said, "Go on, have your ball. I'll be gone from here by then. Even if I have to summon Malachi to come help me."

He twisted his lips in a terrible smile. "If Malachi shows here, I'll kill him and well you know it. Is his death worth a little freedom?"

"I hate you," she whispered.

He stepped toward her and looked down at her, almost nose to nose. "Savor it."

The afternoon brought a flurry of activity for the usually quiet keep. Katey came with servants bringing the copper bathtub, but she left as soon as Ravenna sank
into
the fragrantly scented water.

And she took with her Ravenna's only dress, the blue woolen.

Stumped, Ravenna soaked, and wondered what Katey was up to. It only took a few minutes before the servant returned, dress in hand, and then Ravenna didn't need to question her. By the brigade of maids trailing in from the dressing room, all bearing bolts of silks and satins in their small arms, Ravenna knew trickery was at hand.