Stronger Than Magic, page 17
“Not a friend, but, well, there was someone I would like to meet,” Alys ventured tentatively.
“And who might that be?” This was from Lucian, who, surprisingly enough, was now viewing her with genuine interest.
Unable to meet his querying gaze as she uttered the name, she busied herself with checking her makeshift ice packs. “Reina Castell.”
Her reply was greeted with absolute silence. After an overlong moment of such, she hazarded a glance up. Charlotte was gaping at her in horror, while Lucian looked as unpleasantly surprised as if he’d just sat on a thorn. As his piercing gaze stabbed into hers, his perturbed expression slowly dissolved into one she knew all too well: disapproval. After another tense beat, he ground out, “What do you know about Reina Castell?”
Seized by a sudden fit of trepidation, she nervously scooted her gaze back to the ice packs. “Not much. I overheard it mentioned how very popular she is, and I thought—well—” she grappled for a plausible explanation, “I thought that she might teach me a trick or two to attract suitors.” Perfect!
Lucian released a sharp bark of laughter. “Oh, she knows plenty of tricks to attract men, but none I wish you to learn.”
“But why ever not? You have made it abundantly clear that you’re eager to marry me off. Don’t you want me to have every possible advantage so I can make a good match?” she appealed, returning her earnest gaze to his now turbulent one.
He in turn shifted his to Charlotte, who held up both hands and said, “Oh, no, Luc. You deal with this.”
When he finally glanced back at her, he seemed at a loss. After a moment of contemplation, he cleared his throat twice and muttered, “Reina Castell is a ladybird.”
“A … ladybird?” she repeated, puzzled. Was ladybird a term of endearment like loveybird?
“You know.” He gestured rather helplessly. “A demi-rep.”
She tilted her head to one side, waiting for him to further clarify his meaning.
He gestured again. “A fille de joie.”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very good at French.” “Oh, botheration! She’s Lucian’s mistress,” Charlotte blurted out in an exasperated tone.
Alys gasped her dismay. “M-mistress?”
“For God’s sake, Lottie. Must you always be so blunt?” Lucian growled, his face darkening with something suspiciously like a blush.
“Pshaw, Luc! Don’t be such a ninnyhammer. Alys is bound to hear gossip about such things when she gets out into society, so we might as well tell her about them now.”
With a terrible sinking sensation deep in her chest, Alys glanced from Charlotte’s vexed face to Lucian’s suddenly inscrutable one. Then she sighed.
So much for an easy match.
Chapter 10
“Thistlewood Castle,” Charlotte announced, lightly thumping the window with her index finger as she pointed.
Bart obligingly pressed his face to the glass to look. “Blimey gor! ’Tis a bleedin’ palace!” he exclaimed in the next instant, his voice breathless with awe.
“Gentlemen do not say blimey gor or bleeding,” Lucian quietly corrected him.
The boy turned from the view, his expression earnest as he peered up at his hero. “Wot’d a gentleman say then?”
Lucian considered the matter for a moment, then replied, “‘By Jove, it’s a genuine palace,’ would be a fine response.”
“By Jove, ’tis a genny-un palace,” Bart echoed. Then he grinned. “I like that … by Jove. By Jove!”
Chuckling as Lucian launched into a lesson on socially acceptable oaths, Charlotte turned to Alys. “What do you think of your home for the next fortnight?”
Wishing upon wish that she were alone and thus able to view the castle without an audience, Alys reluctantly glanced out at the dusk-grayed landscape. In the distance, rising from the dark mirror of a moat, its buttressed battlements silhouetted against the dying glow of the setting sun, was Thistlewood.
The sight left her as stunned and breathless as if she’d been struck squarely over her heart. It looked exactly as it had the first time she’d seen it all those centuries ago, on that joyous evening when she and her father had arrived at the castle to partake in a banquet celebrating her betrothal to Lucan. Such powerful feelings of déjà vu did the scene invoke that when she closed her eyes to shut it out, she saw Lucan as he’d looked that night, galloping out to meet them.
His armor, all gold and glittering in the light of day, was bleached ghostly silver by the rising moon; his fluttering green mantle captured the twilight gloom, darkening until it was as black as a midnight grave. When he was but a scant yard away, he reined his pale gray destrier to a prancing halt.
For several interminable seconds he sat there, perfectly still. Then, in a blurred chain of motions, he yanked off his helm and threw back his coif, revealing hair like wet ebony.
Alys gasped. Lucian.
Or was it? Though the knight’s features perfectly mirrored Lucian’s, his expression was impossibly unlike any she’d ever seen on the face of the self-possessed Marquess of Thistlewood. This Lucian looked haunted, tragically so, like a man who was doomed and knew it.
Blanketed in an odd, achy sense of foreboding she slowly opened her eyes. “Oh, Lucian,” she mouthed, resting her forehead wearily against the frosty window glass.
For a long moment she stared out at the road, bleakly watching a Mail coach approach at breakneck speed. It wasn’t until the vehicle had passed and was little more than a distant twinkle of lamplight that she began to understand the significance of her dark vision.
She’d known that seeing Thistlewood again would be a torment, but she’d seriously misjudged the depth and nature of her pain. While it was true that she grieved for Lucan, tenderly and with the poignancy that comes with the finality of death, that grief had somehow become eclipsed by the deepening sense of anguish she felt over Lucian’s precarious state. The strange knight was simply another of her conscience’s many cryptic reminders that what she’d done here at Thistlewood might possibly have damned Lucian to a fate every bit as awful as Lucan’s.
As if she needed a reminder. Struggle though she might, a strangled sob slipped out.
“Alys?” Charlotte murmured. When Alys didn’t reply, she cupped her chin in her palm and turned her face toward her, tipping it up into the flickering light from the coach lamp. What she saw made her frown. “Why, whatever is wrong?”
Alys shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut to halt the fall of her burgeoning tears. But it was too late. A bead of damp sorrow had already escaped and was slipping down her cheek.
“She’s crying, Luc,” Charlotte announced, her tone clearly commanding her brother to do something to remedy the situation.
There was the sound of movement on the opposite seat, then another hand, this one larger and stronger, took her chin from Charlotte. “Alys? What’s the matter?” this was from Lucian.
Too distraught to concoct a plausible reply, Alys screwed her weepy eyes yet tighter and croaked, “Nothing.”
He made an impatient noise. “Of course something is wrong. I know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t turn into a watering pot without cause. Clearly something is plaguing you, and unless you tell me what it is, I shan’t be able to remedy it.”
When she merely shook her head again, he sighed. There was a beat of silence, then, “As my ward, it’s only proper that you confide your troubles to me … even those you think I might find silly or trifling. By the same token, I give you my most solemn vow to do my duty as your guardian and counsel you to the utmost of my ability.”
She heard the soft murmur of fabric against flesh, then she felt his warm breath tickling against her ear. “Besides, poppet, if I remember correctly, we agreed to become better acquainted,” he whispered. “And how, pray tell, am I to do so if you refuse to trust me?”
Poppet. More than his words, as encouraging as they were, it was his unexpected use of that charmingly quaint endearment that made her open her eyes to look at him. He appeared concerned, genuinely so, his gaze warm and reassuring as it touched hers.
With a smile that reflected the kindness in his eyes, he gently wiped away her tears with his kidskin-gloved thumb. “Will you tell me, or shall we play charades so I might hazard a guess?”
The teasing note in his voice completely melted her already softening defenses, and before she knew quite what she was saying, she blurted out, “I’m afraid.”
That confession seemed to give him pause. “Afraid?” His dark brows drew together. “Afraid of what?”
“I think it’s perfectly obvious what,” Charlotte replied for her. “She’s afraid of the castle. The poor child took one look at it and was seized by the vapors.”
Lucian stared at his sister thoughtfully, as if considering her summation, then looked back at Alys, whose face he still held. “Is that true?”
Slowly she nodded. It was true. Her fears were all rooted at Thistlewood.
For a moment he seemed at a loss as to how to respond, then his expression visibly softened and he smiled. “I realize that the castle is old and looks quite ominous, but I can assure you that no boggles or ghosts lurk within its walls.” His smile broadened into a grin. “However, if one should choose to make an appearance during our visit, you tell me straightaway and I shall chase it away.”
As Alys gazed at his face, one made all the more handsome by the humor crinkling his eyes and curling his lips, she found that she truly believed his words. If anyone could put her ghosts to rest, it was he. For who, but he, had the power to distract her penitent thoughts from Lucan. Who, but he, could strengthen her faith in her own ability to redeem his soul? Indeed, he was presently doing both very well with his uplifting display of newfound compassion.
Feeling suddenly better than she’d felt in centuries, Alys shyly returned his smile. “Thank you, Lucian. I shall remember that and be less frightened knowing that you stand ready to champion me against whatever might lurk in the shadows.”
Chuckling, he released her face and fished his handkerchief from his pocket. “Sir Bogy-slayer, at your service, my lady,” he quipped, presenting it with the air of a knight favoring a maid with a victory token.
She accepted with a regal incline of her head.
“Well done. Very good, indeed,” Charlotte said, eyeing her brother with sisterly pride. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were beginning to sprout a heart.”
How Lucian responded, or even if he in fact did, was lost to the deafening clatter of the wheels as the coach started across the causeway spanning the moat. Not that Alys would have marked his words had she heard them, she was spellbound by her immediate view of Thistlewood.
Built in a symmetrical foursquare, the castle was as impressive today as it had been five hundred years earlier. Round, turreted towers joined the four corners, square ones rose at strategic intervals along the walls. A great gatehouse, crowned with a parapet and stabbing aggressively into the star-flecked sky, fortified the entrance. At first glance it appeared as if time had passed it by. Then they pulled through the gatehouse and Alys saw how vastly it had changed.
Apparently every generation of Thistlewood heirs had seen fit to leave their mark, for the once spacious central courtyard was all but engulfed by structural additions in a patchwork of styles. To the right was a gallery in the Tudor style, to the left a wing from the Italian Renaissance; both leading from the castle to an immense Jacobean edifice with Gothic and Rococo embellishments.
As if reading her mind, Lucian nodded at the buildings and more groaned than said, “Hideous, isn’t it?”
“The additions are rather—uh—startling,” she replied diplomatically. “Though I imagine that the castle would be quite lovely without them.”
“My thought exactly, which is why my contribution to the glorious heritage of Thistlewood Castle shall be to tear them down and restore the original structure.”
Charlotte laughed as the door was pulled open and the steps folded down. “What, Luc? No Grecian temple or Indian cupolas?” she teased. “How very un-Warre–like of you.”
From then on everything was a blur of activity and motion. The first to disembark was the still sulking Hedley, who cast Alys a single glare before dissolving into the courtyard shadows. Lucian, braced between two beefy footmen, exited next and was promptly whisked upstairs, accompanied by an ancient minikin of a woman who lost no time in chiding him for being a “careless sprig.”
“Nurse Spratling,” Charlotte whispered, her eyes dancing with mirth as she and Alys followed Bart down the steps to the slippery cobblestones below. “She still views Luc and I as children in need of a firm hand.”
As if to prove her point, the frail-looking woman paused on the front steps to holler in a startlingly robust voice, “Stop yer dawdling and come along now, Lottie. Ye know the night air gives ye the grippe.” She started to turn, then paused. After a brief instant, she added, “And bring yer friend. She looks none too hale and hearty either.”
“I haven’t had the grippe since I was five,” Charlotte protested, though too faintly for all but Alys to hear. Nonetheless, she grasped Alys’s elbow and towed her toward the door, as directed.
Assured of her charge’s obedience, Spratling scurried off after Lucian, undoubtedly bent on blistering his ears with more scolding.
Once inside, a round, rosy housekeeper who was as jolly as Spratling was crusty showed the women to their chambers. Alys’s room, though located on the second floor of the Jacobean monstrosity, was surprisingly tastefully appointed.
In the grand tradition of the seventeenth century, the walls were paneled in richly carved walnut. The parquet floor, in a stunning lozenge pattern, was scattered with a quartet of green, brown, and salmon patterned rugs. A massive Tudor-style tester bed with green draw curtains and a patterned coverlet abutted the east wall, across from which stood a fireplace masterfully adorned with plasterwork.
Relieved not to be housed in the castle, Alys dropped into a Restoration-style chair by the hearth and removed her damp half boots. As she raised her icy feet to warm them by the fire, she mentally ticked off, One day down, thirteen more to survive.
Alys was just finishing her breakfast the next morning when there was a knock at her bedroom door. It was Charlotte, an exceedingly radiant Charlotte who stood on the threshold smiling as if she’d just captured the leprechaun’s treasure.
Always smartly attired, today she looked as fresh and cheerful as the first blossom of spring. Her gown, a sunny creation of pale yellow poplin, was dramatically piped and banded with puffings of brilliant violet satin.
Taking both her friend’s hands in her own, Alys pulled her into the room. Holding her at arm’s length to admire her ensemble, she exclaimed, “Why, Lottie! You look absolutely stunning! Thistlewood clearly agrees with you.”
Charlotte smiled and gave her a quick hug. “By the roses in your cheeks, I’d say that it agrees with you as well.”
Tactfully refraining from informing her that her roses had nothing to do with Thistlewood and everything to do with her box of rouge, Alys returned both her smile and hug without comment.
Taking her silence for a harmonious response, as Alys had intended her to do, she continued, “I thought you might like a tour of the castle before the rest of the guests arrive. Once the besiegement begins, I doubt we shall have time to do more than exchange a few rushed words in passing.”
Though Alys would have preferred to have suffered her initial impressions alone, she arranged her face into a bland mask of concurrence and nodded. To say no might wound her friend’s feelings, and she would go to any lengths, even endure what was bound to be a protracted tour of Thistlewood, to avoid doing something so unkind. So she tamped down her disquiet, draped a shawl over her shoulders, and followed Charlotte into the hall.
To her surprise, the next two hours passed most pleasantly. Snickering like schoolgirls with mischief on their minds, they explored the hodgepodge of annexes, poking fun at every turn. They reached the height of their hilarity when Charlotte, upon contemplating a frightful cherub-infested dome, ceremoniously dubbed the collective additions the Thistlewood Goiter.
From hall to gallery to wing they wandered, carved paneled walls giving way to grim murals depicting bloody battles, which in turn yielded to intricately detailed plasterwork friezes and medallions. There were comfortable rooms from Elizabeth’s reign, stark ones from the time of the Commonwealth. Here was the gilt of Louis XIV, there the chinoiserie introduced by William and Mary.
It wasn’t until they stepped into the original castle that Alys was plagued with her first twinge of genuine dread. Soon they would walk through the hall where she and Lucan had plighted their troth, all too unbearably soon they would ascend to the tower where he had died.
The warmth of her previous pleasure chilled at that thought, seeping away like melting ice. Clutching her shawl tighter to her chest, as if by doing so she could somehow rekindle the heat within, she followed Charlotte into what had once been the retainer’s hall. Instead of the long, rough tables where the serfs had once dined, the room now housed a sumptuous display of tapestries.
Instantly she was drawn to the tapestry that had once hung over the dais in the Great Hall. Loomed in a rainbow of still vibrant colors, it was a magically wrought masterpiece portraying the romance of Aengus and Rowena.
“’Twas a wedding gift to my parents from the fairies,” Lucan had said, his aqua gaze worshiping not the genius of the otherworld artisans, but the contours of her face.
Later, a century or so into her captivity, Allura had shown her the fragmentary tapestry the fairies had started to weave in honor of her and Lucan’s betrothal. It too was to have been glorious, though now tragically doomed to remain unfinished forever.
