Spellmaker, page 11
part #2 of Spellbreaker Series
“Why don’t you change,” the duchess offered. “We’ll wait for you—”
Bacchus’s voice carried over hers. “What spell is on your person?”
The room silenced. Even the servants hushed. Elsie’s lips parted. That’s one way to do it . . .
The duke froze. “Pardon?”
“The spell on your torso,” Bacchus specified. “Is it or is it not the recipient enchantment for a siphoning spell?”
The duke blanched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Be straight with me, Isaiah,” Bacchus pressed. “She’s a spellbreaker.”
Elsie guiltily set down her napkin.
The duke glanced at his wife, then settled on the tabletop. “It’s not what you think, Bacchus.”
Bacchus tensed. “Explain it to me, then. Explain why I had a hidden spell on my person since my youth, and why you grew ill immediately following its removal.”
The duchess looked shocked. Had she not known? “Isaiah?”
One of the servants gestured to the other, and they quickly exited the room.
Miss Josie looked back and forth between Bacchus and her father. “What’s going on?”
Bacchus merely waited.
The duke sighed. “I was growing frail, and you were such a strong, healthy boy.”
Bacchus’s hold on Elsie tightened.
“Please”—the Duke of Kent lifted a hand—“I did not mean to take it from you. Your father—”
“My father knew?”
The knob in the duke’s throat bobbed. “Your father gave his consent.”
Bacchus glowered. “It was not his to give.”
“Strictly speaking—”
“I thought I had polio.” Bacchus leaned over the table, finally releasing Elsie so he could press both hands against its surface. “For years I thought I had polio. I thought I would lose the use of my legs. I went to countless doctors.”
“Girls,” the duchess murmured, “let’s wait for your father in the parlor, hm?” She hurriedly ushered them to the door. Elsie’s pulse raced, but she didn’t try to join them. She needed to be here. She needed to stand by Bacchus’s side. Her hand strayed to his triceps, her touch featherlight.
Chagrined, the duke repeated, “Your father knew.”
“And so did you,” Bacchus replied darkly. He straightened, seeming to almost double in size. “Who did it? My father was no spellmaker.”
The duke turned away. “I swore that I would not—”
“Who?” Bacchus pressed. “You owe me at least that much.”
The duke’s shoulders slumped so deeply Elsie thought his fingertips might brush the carpet. “Master Enoch Phillips performed it while you slept.”
Elsie gaped. Wasn’t Master Phillips the head of the London Physical Atheneum?
Bacchus said, “I don’t suppose you’ll share whose vitality you’re drinking from now.”
The duke looked ready to cry.
Elsie started as Bacchus’s hand gripped hers, and suddenly she was being pulled away from the table toward the door, barely able to keep up with his long strides. A maid swept by the passageway, and Bacchus barked, “See a carriage pulled around immediately and ensure Miss Camden is taken care of.”
His presence and his baritone emanated both authority and restrained rage, and the maid didn’t hesitate to respond. “O-Of course. Miss Camden.” She curtsied and, abandoning whatever chore she was about, quickly led Elsie to a cushioned bench in the vestibule by the front door. Meanwhile, Bacchus burst up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.
The maid bolted in the other direction.
Elsie let out a long breath as she lowered herself onto the bench. This was not how she had expected the evening to go. Peering up at the stairs, she longed to follow Bacchus, to see if he was all right. But of course that was silly. He wasn’t all right. Why would he be? The duke’s revelation had made everything a thousandfold worse. Bacchus’s own father had betrayed him.
She twiddled her thumbs, uneasy. What if one of the family stopped by? What would she say? It was obvious she had told Bacchus about the spell. Surely they’d never want to see her again. Perhaps she should start walking home. Let the carriage catch up, or see if she could find a cab farther into the city. It was raining—pouring, really—but a cold wouldn’t kill her, now would it?
Embarrassment might.
She was just about to rise from the bench when she heard the heavy clamor of hooves outside. A moment later, a man in a very wet driver’s uniform burst in. “Miss Camden? I’m ready for you.”
She nodded and followed him out. A heavy black carriage awaited her, pulled by four horses. An awful lot for a single person, but she wasn’t about to complain—it had a roof. Holding her hands over her head as though they could protect her from the downpour, Elsie hurried to it, grateful for the driver’s assistance as he opened the door. He was so swift he nearly closed it on her skirt.
Leaning back on the bench, she blew a damp curl from her face. What would happen now? Surely Bacchus wouldn’t continue to stay with the duke and duchess. Would he want to return to Barbados? And if so, what would it mean for their plans? She didn’t truly think he would leave her to the magistrate—to the jailers—but her hand moved to her neck at the thought of hanging. Emmeline’s pearls offered a sliver of comfort.
The carriage rocked as the driver took his seat, but before the horses could pull forward, her door ripped open, shooting a cold, wet gust her way. To her surprise, Bacchus stepped in and sat across from her, slamming the door shut behind him. The carriage dipped once more as someone secured a trunk to its back.
“I’m coming with you,” Bacchus announced, and banged his fist on the carriage roof.
CHAPTER 10
“We’re making a detour,” he added as the carriage pulled down the drive. Elsie glanced out the window at the darkening estate, but didn’t see any of the family.
“Detour?” she asked.
“Master Hill once offered me a room in her home,” he explained, pulling the tie from his hair and leaning back against the wall behind him. “I’m going to accept it.”
“At this hour?”
Bacchus didn’t reply.
Elsie worried her hands. Hadn’t she brought gloves with her? Had she left them inside? “Will . . . Will the duke be all right with you taking his carriage?”
Folding his arms, he answered, “He won’t stop me.”
She swallowed. “And . . . your men?” John and . . . Rainer, wasn’t it?
“They have instructions to follow.”
She turned the ring around on her finger. “I’m sorry, Bacchus. I was hoping it was something else.”
Bacchus relaxed into his bench. “I was as well. But I was prepared for it not to be.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out two lace gloves, folding them in half before handing them to Elsie. “I believe these are yours.”
Her lips parted as she took them, their fingers just brushing. Such a simple, silly thing, but it got her pulse hurrying along well enough. “Thank you. That was considerate of you.” She set them on her lap.
They rode for some time in silence, heading into London. Elsie glanced outside, seeing nothing beyond the rain pelting the window. “How much of that trunk did you pack?”
“About half.”
“Leave it to a man to be able to throw his things together and travel on a whim.” She folded her hands in her lap. “It’s much more difficult for a woman, you know.”
A ghost of a smile touched his face. “I’m sure there will be many wrinkles in my clothing come morning.” He’d slipped into his Bajan accent, and she was glad for it.
“You fill out your clothes well enough that I don’t think it would matter.” Her ears heated at her own comment. She picked at the handle of her reticule. “What now?”
He rubbed the half beard around his mouth. “I’ll lean on Master Hill’s hospitality until I can find a reasonable house in the city. I intend to join the atheneum as a free agent.”
Her stomach tightened. “Even with the . . . revelation about Master Phillips?”
“He will have the last say, regardless of his past deeds.”
A flicker of hope lit her. “You’re staying in London?”
“Until we decide to sail to Barbados. I have lands there, Elsie, but forwarding profits will be complicated. It would be more sound for us to have a steady income here.”
Us. God help her. “I’m tethering you here,” she whispered. “To a city you hate, with a duke who’s used you, under a hateful employer, to a place without any laceleaf.”
He lowered his hand. “I don’t hate England. I’ve spent a good deal of my life here. The laceleaf was merely a suggestion.”
“But you prefer Barbados,” she pressed.
Frowning, he nodded.
Elbows on her knees, Elsie sunk her head into her hands. “I’m so sorry, Bacchus. This is all my fault. I’ve ruined your relationship with the duke. I’ve forced you into this marriage. I’ve taken you away from your home.”
“Elsie—”
“We could probably call it off.” She lifted her head but couldn’t garner the strength to look him in the eye. “Couples split up all the time. I should know.” Her gut twisted like it was trying to wring out all her dinner. “It will be . . . awkward, with the newspaper announcement already published, but I’m not well known in any aristocratic circles. We just need an excuse. Maybe we can even tie it to the duke. The magistrate can’t really revoke his clemency once he’s given it, can he? And Miss Prescott truly thinks I’m a beginner, so we’ll have her as a witness. Emmeline, too—”
“Is the thought of marrying me so terrible?”
The question knocked the air from her. Her ribs cinched together as she met his eyes. They were dusky emeralds, narrow and unforgiving. They reminded her of the night they met, when she had begged him not to turn her in to the authorities.
Her next words caught in her throat like fishing hooks. “That’s not what I said.”
“That is precisely what you are saying,” he argued. “You are finding every excuse you can to break the engagement.” He gripped the edges of his seat. “I know I am not what a woman has in mind when she thinks of matrimony—”
“Oh, Bacchus, no.” Tears slipped into her voice, and she hated every one of them. “Don’t you see? You’re going to regret helping me. I’m already a burden to you and we haven’t even met with a priest.”
Shadows drew across his face as they passed a gas lamp on the street. “You are not a burden. Why would you think that?”
“How could I not?” she shot back. “I’m a burden to everyone.” She blinked her eyes dry. “Even as a child I was a burden. Why else would my family just up and leave in the middle of the night if not to get rid of me? And Alfred ran from me the first chance he got. Even Ogden had to be practically possessed to take me in—”
Bacchus leaned forward, almost enough to knock heads with her. “You are not a burden, Elsie Camden. You merely have an unfortunate number of complete imbeciles in your life.”
Leaning back, she hugged herself. “You’ll see, soon enough. I’m not a good person, Bacchus. Master Merton—”
“We are not discussing something you have already been acquitted for.”
“You’re not my judge.” The carriage turned. “You can’t acquit me. If they knew—if that magistrate knew—I would be shown no mercy, and you know it. I just . . . There’s something about me, Bacchus. Something unlovable.”
“You are not unlovable.”
“You are not listening.”
“No, you are not listening.” Frustration weighed his voice, and he flung out a hand toward the opposite window. “Do you think I did this just to save you? That I’m some gallant prince from a fairy tale, selflessly trying to save the young maiden from certain doom? No. I did not expect your arrest or this magistrate’s games. They merely sped up the process. And I have spent hour after blasted hour, day after day, trying to find a way to convince you that I am genuine in my affections, but it’s like throwing darts at a stone wall.”
Elsie simply shook her head at his attempts to reassure her, too miserable to examine them closely.
“Am I so untrustworthy?” he asked, and he might as well have stabbed her through the heart with a kitchen knife. “Do my actions seem so completely false to you?”
“No.” A tear slid down her cheek. “It’s not you. You are wonderful and perfect. You have been nothing but wonderful and perfect. But I’m a regret waiting to happen.” She fumbled to open her reticule, seeking a handkerchief. “I only want to save you, Bacchus. I only want you to be happy.”
“You are a foolish woman.”
She nodded, found her handkerchief. Looked up to apologize. “I—”
But Bacchus was there, so close to her, risen off his seat. She barely had time to register his closeness before his hand slipped around her neck and he gruffly pulled her toward him, his lips finding hers.
A storm burst out of Elsie, electrifying her limbs, sending her heart into her throat. She gasped, and Bacchus took advantage of it, tilting his head and claiming her fully. His lips were warm and moist and demanding. He called her very soul out of her body, and it flew up to meet him, dancing beneath his touch, sending shivers across every inch of her skin.
And then her hands were in his hair, his beautiful, thick hair, tangling with the waves as she kissed him back with enough passion to put even her favorite novel reader to shame. The carriage fell away, and she was floating, utterly enraptured by his touch, his taste, the way he smelled like oranges and rain. Heat crawled across her tongue and down her throat, warming her from the inside out, growing hotter until it was a fire. She took his bottom lip for her own, and thought she heard the faintest moan trapped between their mouths. It awoke something utterly enticing within her, a spell in a class all its own.
This wasn’t happening. But she certainly could not deny that is was, most definitely, happening.
Alfred had never kissed her like this.
And then the bolt shifted on the door beside them. Bacchus pulled away, leaving Elsie dizzy and longing, only barely aware that the carriage had indeed stopped, that they’d reached their destination, and that their driver was half a second away from discovering them in a very compromising position.
Bacchus wisely grabbed the handle and beat the man to it, making it look like he had left his seat merely to open the door. “Thank you,” he said, forgetting to paste on his English dialect. “If you would knock on the door and inform Master Hill, I’ll see to my trunk.”
The driver nodded and sprinted toward the looming house across the drive, a few of its windows still alight.
Bacchus put one foot out on the step, but the other remained planted in the carriage.
Struggling for her voice, her wits, and her composure, Elsie managed to say through tingling lips, “Is that how all Bajan men kiss?”
He smirked, the insolent man. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never kissed any of them.”
Elsie laughed, and it hurt, yet relieved the pressure building in her chest.
Reaching a hand up, Bacchus pushed away that same soggy curl from earlier before cupping the side of her face. “I want you to trust me, Elsie.”
She nodded against his hand. “I do.”
He looked like he might kiss her again, and Elsie’s entire body thrilled at the prospect, but the driver was already running back to the carriage. So Bacchus dropped his hand to hers, squeezed it, and said, “Write me,” before stepping out into the rain.
Elsie barely noticed the ride back to Brookley, the storm and the bumps. She had completely forgotten the debacle at Seven Oaks, as well as the articles waiting for her at the stonemasonry shop.
She arrived home as though in a dream, and found she had the most intense craving for oranges.
CHAPTER 11
Master Ruth Hill was surprised to see Bacchus on her doorstep, but she accepted him into her home with the utmost generosity. He was upfront about the situation revolving around his arrival, at least as far as the Duke of Kent was concerned. He’d been concerned that Master Hill might sympathize with the duke—after all, Bacchus was a healthy, strong individual who certainly had some vitality to spare—but she did not. She had a room ready for him within the hour, and he poured as much gratitude upon her as the woman could take without drowning in it.
Bacchus rode with Master Hill to the London Physical Atheneum the following morning, though they parted ways almost immediately upon entering the large stone fortress. Bacchus had not written ahead; the assembly was not meeting today, as far as he knew. But he didn’t need the assembly so much as he needed Master Phillips, and Master Hill had told Bacchus exactly where the man’s office was located.
The guards posted throughout the atheneum didn’t stop him, though a couple looked ready to try. The golden pin affixed to his lapel—a token of his mastership—halted their steps. He traipsed through hallways and up stairs to Master Phillips’s office. It was strange to think that, only a month ago, such a trek would have wearied him. If not for Elsie, it still would.
He couldn’t stop the smug smile that came to his lips as he took a winding set of stairs to the third floor, slipping by a maid carrying an empty bucket and mop. Perfect, was he? Granted, he hadn’t meant to bring the woman to tears, but Elsie was so attached to this bizarre concept that she was worthless, tears seemed inevitable. He felt fairly confident that he had begun to prove her wrong about that. And he’d happily show her again and again, as many times as she needed the reminder.
Indeed, as Bacchus approached the door at the end of the corridor, he found himself very much looking forward to his nuptials. But for now, he had to put thoughts of Elsie aside and deal with the matter at hand.
He knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door, hard enough for it to shudder on its hinges.
After several seconds, an annoyed voice said, “Come.”
Bacchus shouldered open the door and stepped inside. Master Phillips’s office was just like the rest of the atheneum, built of ancient stone, but hickory wood had been laid over the floor. A single window let in sunlight from the outside, while large glass baubles in each corner of the ceiling glowed with enchanted light to brighten the space. Master Phillips’s large desk sat atop an Indian rug, and a large tapestry depicting running horses occupied the wall behind him.
