The Warlock's Daughter (3 page)

“It was in Paris, I think,” he answered, taking her questions in turn. “Or was it Rome? A distinguished gentleman, cosmopolitan, learned. He had a great interest in antiquities. And he seemed in robust health.”

She moistened her lips. “It was he who told you about me, wasn't it?”

“We talked of your mother, of her death and how much he missed her. He had received reports of you which worried him. There was a suggestion that I might seek you out if ever I found myself in New Orleans.”

She digested that and found it disquieting. She said, “For what purpose?”

“The meeting?
No purpose was given. I should think, however,”
he
went on deliberately, “that it would be for the usual reason—the thing which most concerns a man with a daughter who is a beauty with independent ways.”

“Courtship?
Marriage?”
The words were tight as she turned her head to stare straight ahead.

“If it should come to that.
There is, of course, no obligation.
On either side.”

“That's all that passed between you?” She could not help looking at him again, searching for she knew not what. There was nothing in his face that should not have been there. Delicately and in silent trepidation, she sent out a mental probe for more.

Odd.
There seemed to be a barrier which prevented her from penetrating his thoughts. She had never encountered such a thing before.

His features hardened momentarily before an ironic smile tugged at his lips. He said in answer to her question, “What else should there be?”

“A great deal.
My father might, if he had been fair, have given you a warning.” She inhaled on a small gasp. The words had been in her mind, but she had not meant to say them aloud.

“Of what kind?”

Should she speak? Was it at all wise? She had never given herself away before, but then she had never been in a position where she felt it might be required.

Controlling her breathing with valiant effort, she said, “He might have told you it was dangerous to know me.”

“Dangerous,” he said as if had never heard the word.

“Even deadly,” she added. “Especially if you should—presume to love me.”

“There is a reason, I suppose?” The inquiry was tentative, almost reluctant.

“Indeed,” she answered with her head held high. “The man who spoke to you of me happens to be a warlock.”

“Ah,” he
said,
a soft sound it was impossible to interpret.

“And I,” she said with mingled pride and despair, “I am the warlock's daughter.”

~ CHAPTER 2 ~

Renfrey
surveyed
Carita
slowly, from the shining silver-gilt hair under her small hat of felt and feathers to the beautifully symmetrical shape of her body and down to the gray-silver hem of her skirt that swept the ground. In the moonlight, her features were pale perfection, as remote as the carved angel on the tomb behind her. The wind shifted his cape, brushed it against her so the silk-on-silk made a soft, whispering sigh. It seemed he felt the contact with every last fiber of his body.

“If you are the daughter of a warlock,” he said in trenchant admiration, “what does that make you?
A witch?”

“I wouldn't call myself so.” Her gaze met his without evasion.

“But you are not like other women?”

“No, I have never been as they are.” The moon sailed behind a gray wraith of cloud, leaving her face in shadow. The light faded, as if with the dulling of her spirit.

He summoned a smile. “If you are trying to engage my attention,
Carita
, you have succeeded.
Though I should tell you, since we are being fair, that you already had it.”

“You don't believe me?” A small frown pleated the skin between her delicately arched brows. From some distance away there came a low rumble of thunder. A rise in the wind shivered the leaves of the live oak that guarded the cemetery gate.

“Is it likely, do you think?” he asked. “You are lovely and intelligent and I admire you. Still, you are plainly just a woman, no more.”

The wind gusted as if with some elemental annoyance. The rush of it carried the tall silk hat from his head and sent it bowling along the path.

She said, “I promise it's so.”

“Promises aren't necessary; all I require is honesty.” He glanced at his hat but made no attempt to chase it. Standing straight and tall, he watched her while the rising wind whipped his dark hair into ruffled waves and tore at the ends of his white silk cravat.

Thunder grumbled closer. Black clouds boiled upward into the night sky from the southern quadrant. She said, “You don't seem to recognize the truth when you hear it.”

“I recognize that you think you are something apart. But that isn't the same thing, is it?”

Directly above his head, lightning crackled in silver pitchforks, striking earthward to outline the tombs around them in blue fire. Marching toward the cemetery fence, it sparkled along its iron length with a sound like ten thousand angry bees.

“What will it take to convince you?” she said in musical tones, while her cloak lifted like wild wings around her and lightning shimmered in the fathomless deep-sea darkness of her eyes.

“You claim to be the cause of all this?” he said on a reckless laugh. “Then give me rain. No, wait. Give me sleet here where it's seldom seen.”

“If you like,” she said, and smiled with hard purpose.

The sleet pelted down in balls of silver ice so cold they shattered on the ground like crystal. They filled the air until it was white with their mass. Frozen white marbles, the balls pounded his uncovered head and his shoulders, crackled around his feet, mounted in piles against the nearest tombs.

Opposite him, within reach of his arms,
Carita
stood untouched. The hailing ice parted above her head, rolled harmlessly down the bell of her skirt. She held his gaze, and so clear and purposeful was the look in her eyes that he was forced to steel himself to sustain it.

At the same time, he ignored the stinging, bruising punishment, letting it roll over him. Gathering his strength, he concentrated it while his smile remained affable and admiring.

The balls of ice turned to smaller beads, began to lose their chill. They splattered into slush against the ground. Melting, they became cool raindrops. Warmer they grew, and warmer still. Hissing as they slanted down, they dissolved the ice on the ground, turned the earth to mud.

The rain began to dampen
Carita's
wide skirts in huge, wet splatters. It puddled in the mud at her feet, dashing it onto her hem until her gown sagged with the weight. The feathers of her hat grew sopping wet and drooped over one eye, while the dye that colored it dissolved to ooze in a silver-gray streak down her face.

Abruptly, the rain stopped. Around them, the air steamed with the change of temperature so they stood in a seething white cloud shot with clear light from the returning moon.

Renfrey
watched
Carita's
face. He waited.

Puzzlement hovered in a frown between her brows. Then some explanation must have occurred to her—some error she had made or fault within herself—for her self-possession returned. Her tone even, she said, “Shall I give you the sun to dry you?”

“A pleasant thought,” he replied. “But we wouldn't want to wake the populace or alarm them, now would we? Do you think you could manage a small fire?”

She
nodded,
a brief gesture of disdain.

It was a bonfire, licking skyward in hungry orange tongues of flame. The smoke was acrid in the lungs; its pinewood smell pervasive. Crackling, roiling in its red heart a few feet from where they stood, it washed their faces with color and flared brightly in the black pupils of their eyes.

“Very nice,” he said in tones of congratulation as he reached to take her hand and lead her a few steps closer to the flames. “It should dry us both out if anything will.”

She glanced down at her bedraggled gown then met his gaze with a species of shock moving over her features. “I never—” she began, and then stopped.

“You never get wet when you indulge in a temper tantrum of the elements?” he said with sympathy. “What happened this time to your powers as a witch?”

“I told you I'm not a witch!” she snapped as she dashed the dye from her face. Reaching to catch her skirts with both hands, she gave them a furious shake that sent water droplets flying around her in every direction. It effectively dried her gown, returning her miraculously to her former perfection of appearance.

He stood watching a moment before giving a wry shake of his head. “What are you then?
Goddess?
Grace?
Fury?
Nymph?
Sprite?
Fairy?
What?”

“Nothing.
I'm simply—”

“I know.
Daughter of a warlock.
A woman it is hazardous to touch, to hold, to desire, to love.” The leap of confusion into her eyes was a potent combination with her unhappiness. Recognizing it, he went on with a shading of regret, “You do realize that it's a challenge no man can resist? I'm afraid it has made a kiss, at least, inevitable.”

Her eyes widened, grew darker. “No,” she said on the edge of panic. “You can't!”

But he could. Taller, stronger, more determined, he swept her into his arms and pressed his mouth to her parted lips.

The force of the contact stunned thought, routed
complacency,
jolted his heart to a violent rhythm. His blood crashed through his veins like storm surf, while his skin radiated such intense heat his clothing took on the smells of wet and scorched linen, silk and wool. His breath stopped. His brain felt as if it were simmering in the cauldron of his skull. Behind his eyes was the blood-red haze of a desire more compelling than any he had ever dreamed.

The only coolness, the only anchor for his sanity, was the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. The only thing that stopped him from seeking deeper nectar, searching for deeper quenching, was a crashing pain across the toe of his boot.

He wrenched backward with the chill tinkle of breaking porcelain in his ears. The vase
Carita
had been holding lay in pieces at his feet. She had dropped it, perhaps, or possibly she had thrown it down with purpose. Either way, it was effective. The throbbing pain brought the self-control he so desperately needed.

Bending in haste, he reached for the shards of porcelain. His cape slid forward, covering his hands for fleeting seconds before he threw the heavy cloth back out of the way.

Straightening, he summoned his most profound bow as he presented the vase, whole once more, to the lady. “Forgive my clumsiness,” he said softly, “but at least some things are not easily demolished.” He waited expectantly for her response to his double apology, double meaning.

“But I thought—” Veiling her gaze with her lashes, she took the unblemished porcelain, turning it in her hands as if searching for cracks. He saw the tremor in her fingers, saw the way she stilled it by pressing against the vase's sides until her fingertips were the same glassy white.

She lifted her gaze, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She opened her mouth to speak.

“Yes?”
Renfrey
said when she made no sound.

Her lips clamped shut and she closed her eyes,
then
opened them again. “Never mind,” she said. “I don't know why I'm lingering here, can't imagine what possessed me to bandy words with you. There is no purpose in it, can never be any.”

Swinging from him in a silken whirl of skirts, she moved swiftly off through the tombs. He watched with appreciation. She might leave him, but she would never escape him, not now.

His smile was rueful, but he erased any trace of amusement from his voice before he called after her, “Running away?”

“It's far better,” she said over her shoulder, “than becoming an unintentional murderess.”

Swift, mocking, he pressed his offensive. “What would it take to make it intentional?”

She halted, turned slowly. “You want to die?”

“There are worse ways than from an excess of love.” The words were low and carrying. He meant them.