Stronger Than Magic, page 34
Feeling raw and achy inside, Alys rose again, her gaze sweeping the night-shrouded castle before her as she did so. It came to rest on the faintly lit window of the west tower where first Lucan, and now Lucian lay dying.
Lucian. Her love. Her feet couldn’t carry her fast enough to him. Over the bridge she ran, through the gatehouse and across the courtyard. By the time she stood pounding at the front door, she was winded to the point of collapse.
It was Tidswell who answered her frenzied summons. When he saw who it was, his normally immobile lower jaw dropped almost to his chest. “My word! It’s Miss Faire! Wherever have you been?” he ejected, looking shocked enough to faint.
Staggering from exertion, she stumbled past him, impatiently waving aside his questions as she panted out, “I’ll explain … huff! … later. Right now I need to … puff! … see Lucian.”
He was by her side in a flash, bracing his arm beneath hers to steady her. Dutifully suspending his own curiosity, he half towed, half escorted her through the maze of halls, grimly informing her of Lucian’s declining health as they went. When they at last reached the foot of the west tower stairs, he pulled her to an abrupt stop. Taking both her hands in his, he gravely advised her, “You must prepare yourself for the sight of his lordship, my dear. I fear that he is much altered by his illness.”
All too aware of Lucian’s desperate state, she nodded.
He smiled, a gentle, compassionate smile, and touched her cheek. To her surprise, his fingers came away glistening with tears. She hadn’t even realized that she was weeping.
“There, there now, miss. I’m certain that everything will be fine,” he murmured, pressing his handkerchief into her hand. “Indeed, I shan’t be a bit surprised if his lordship makes a miraculous recovery once he sees you safe and sound.”
When she’d dried her tears and he’d coaxed a wan smile to her lips, he grasped her shoulders and turned her toward the spiraling staircase. “Now. Upstairs with you, miss. His lordship needs you.”
Impulsively, she spun back around again and gave him a fierce hug. “Thank you, Tidswell … for everything,” she whispered, though in her heart she said good-bye.
He gave her a fond squeeze in return. “And thank you for coming back to us. I do so hope that I shall have the privilege of serving you as Lady Thistlewood in the future.”
“There is nothing I would love more,” she honestly replied. Giving him one final hug and a peck on his withered cheek, she turned and dashed up the stairs.
The farther she ascended the faster she ran, her need to hold Lucian growing with every step. Tonight he was hers, all hers. Hers to cuddle and kiss; hers to love and caress. He was hers until dawn …
But only if she truly was his destined mate.
She shuddered, chilled by a sudden sense of foreboding. What if, despite Allura’s belief to the contrary, it turned out that she wasn’t the one? How could she bear to watch him die? True, her sorrow would last only a few short hours, for he would die at midnight, and she at dawn. But for her those black hours would seem like a pain-filled eternity, a punishment far worse than any that might await her behind the murky veil of death.
So entrenched was she in her black thoughts that she didn’t notice the small figure huddled before Lucian’s door until she stumbled over it. “Ow! Blimey gor!” it yelped, rearing up to reveal itself as Bart.
“Bart?” She blinked twice to make sure she was seeing aright. “Whatever are you doing here at this hour?”
He stared at her wildly for several seconds, then let out a hoarse cry and flung himself against the bedchamber door. Dropping into a defensive crouch, with his fists raised and teeth bared, he growled, “No! Ye canna take ’im! I won’t let ye! You’ll have ta take me first!”
“Take him?” She advanced a step, frowning at his peculiar behavior. “Bart? Whatever are you talking about?”
He snarled like a cornered wolf. “Ye know bleedin’ well wot I’m sayin’. Yer here ta snatch ’is lordship’s soul and carry it off to the land o’ the dead.”
His words took her completely aback. Her, an emissary of death? Wherever had he gotten such a morbid notion? Thinking that perhaps he couldn’t see her clearly for the shadows, she moved to stand beneath the blazing wall sconce next to the door. “There now. See?” she said, gracing him with her brightest smile. “It’s me. Alys.”
“I know who ye are, and ye’re dead,” he flung back. “Everyone’s sayin’ so. Yer a ghost, that’s wot ye are. A ghost who’s come ta take his lordship away.”
“Dead?” She gaped at him, utterly flabbergasted by his words. For all of Tidswell’s chatter about the events of the past weeks, he’d said nothing about everyone assuming her dead. Shaking her head over and over again in denial of that hideous rumor, she dropped to her knees before him, exclaiming, “No! Oh, no, Bart! I’m alive … as alive as you are.”
When he merely shrank more protectively against the door, eyeing her as if she were the devil incarnate, she held out her upturned hand to him. “Here. If you won’t believe my words, touch me and see for yourself.”
“Oh, no. I ain’t fallin’ fer that trick,” he retorted, his voice shrill with bravado. “Everyone knows that if ye touch a ghost, ye’ll die on the spot.”
She returned his fearful gaze solemnly. “True. Just as everyone knows that it’s that particular ghost that must carry you away. Now if I truly am a spirit and you touch me, I shall be forced to take you in Lord Thistlewood’s stead, thus sparing his life. If I’m truly flesh and blood, as I claim to be, then you shall be no worse off. Either way, his lordship will be safe.”
The boy seemed to consider her argument, his wary gaze darting back and forth between her face and hand as he did so. After several tense moments, he screwed his eyes shut and reached for her.
Touched by his heroic devotion to Lucian, she moved her hand to where he was blindly groping the air, holding stock-still as his palm butted against hers. For a brief instant he prodded it, his face contorted into a mask of dread, then his eyes popped back open again and a broad grin split his face.
“Gor blimey!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her. “’Tis really and truly ye! Yer alive!”
She nodded and folded him into her embrace. “Yes. And I’m here not to take his lordship away, but to help him get well.”
His small face darkened again, as abruptly as it had lightened. “Ye can’t help ’im. No one can. I ’eard the leech tellin’ Lady Lottie so this afternoon. ’E said that ’is lordship is done fer, and that it’ll be a miracle if ’e lasts out the night.”
“Well, miracles happen every day. And if anyone has the power to bring about one, it’s his lordship,” she declared, her voice ringing with a conviction she didn’t feel.
Bart regarded her dubiously. “’E does?”
“He made a miraculous change in your life when he rescued you, didn’t he?”
He pondered her words for a beat, then nodded.
“And it is the miracle of his love that has brought me back to Thistlewood.” She smiled down into his pensive little face. “So you see? His lordship truly is a miracle worker.” She was about to add more when the massive door behind them creaked open.
“Bart, I need you to run—” Charlotte broke off with a gasp when she caught sight of Alys. “Dear God! Can it be true? Is it really you, Alys?” she cried, collapsing to her knees in her shock.
Alys gave Bart one last squeeze, then crawled over to where Charlotte sat slumped against the doorjamb, gaping at her in stunned disbelief. Lifting her limp hands to clasp them in her own, she murmured, “Yes, Lottie. It really is me.”
Charlotte stared at her, unblinking, for several seconds more, then her face crumpled with tears and she snatched her hands away. “You wicked, thoughtless girl! Wherever have you been?” she sobbed, seizing Alys’s arms to give her a furious shake. “Why didn’t you send word that you were all right? Didn’t it ever occur to you that we might worry?” She gave Alys another shake, this one so hard that her teeth clattered. “And what about Luc? He loves you, you know. Did you ever stop to think about him … about how your foolish prank might hurt him? Damn it, Alys!” She shook her yet again. “He was devastated when he discovered you gone. Do you hear me? Devastated! He refused to eat or sleep, searching for you day and night until he— he …” A sob splintered her voice then and her hands fell heavily back to her sides.
“Lottie—” Alys began, her heart aching at the other woman’s anguish.
“He’s ill! Oh, Alys. Luc is so terribly ill. The surgeon says that—that—” Charlotte shook her head, her unchecked tears dripping from her pale cheeks to her gingham frock as she did so.
“Ssh. Lucian will be fine. He’s a strong man, he’ll pull through. I’m certain of it,” she crooned, drawing Charlotte into her embrace to comfort her.
The other woman stiffened, and for a moment Alys thought she would pull away. Then she emitted a hoarse cry and flung her arms around her in return, crushing her to her with a violence that left her breathless. Burying her wet face against Alys’s shoulder, she choked out, “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen him. He’s in a wretched state. If I didn’t know better, I would think by looking at him that he was already—”
“No!” Alys practically shouted the word. “No,” she repeated, this time more softly. “Lucian will not die. I won’t let him.”
“If he were merely suffering from a broken heart, like we first suspected, you might be able to help him. But this—this—” Another sob escaped her, one that sounded as if it were being ripped from the bottom of her soul. “The surgeon says that there’s something wrong inside him, something that … that’s eating away his life. He’s bled him, purged him, dosed him … even applied leeches, but nothing seems to help. Luc just keeps getting weaker and weaker.”
Alys glanced at Bart to assure herself that he was out of earshot, then whispered, “But has he tried magic?”
“Magic?” Charlotte lifted her head to stare at her in bewilderment.
Alys pulled back a fraction and nodded meaningfully at her friend’s swollen belly. “Yes. Magic.”
Charlotte followed her gaze with her own, a look of tenderness passing over her face as she peered down at where her child grew. Laying a loving hand over the slight protuberance, she glanced back up at Alys, her eyes filled with a heartbreaking mixture of hope and wonder. “Oh, Alys. Do you really know a spell that might save him?”
“Perhaps. But before I try it, you must first agree to one condition.”
“Anything! Just tell me what to do.”
Alys smiled faintly at the eagerness in her voice. “You must leave me alone with Lucian until dawn, and make certain that we’re not disturbed before then,”
“Done.”
Though she hated to do so, Alys felt compelled to caveat, “You must understand that this spell is only a chance. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise that it will work.”
It was Charlotte’s turn to smile. “Spell or no spell, I believe that just having you by his side again will be magic enough to save him. Luc truly does love you, you know.”
“I know, and I truly love him in return.” With that, she gave Charlotte a fierce hug and kiss. “I love you too, Lottie, as the dearest of sisters,” she added, commanding herself not to weep as she uttered that final farewell. Charlotte hugged and kissed her back, then they stood in unison.
Moving over to Bart, who sat a few feet away, sniffling and muttering to himself, Lottie offered him her hand, bidding, “Come along now, Bart. It’s time for bed.”
“Can’t go nowhere,” he muttered, wiping his tear-streaked face with his sleeve. “I ’ave to stay and save ’is lordship from the bleedin’ ghost o’ death.”
“Have and his, and you know better than to say bleeding,” Charlotte said, gently correcting him.
“Have and his,” He gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry. I keep forgetting me—myself in my worry over his lordship.”
She reached down and affectionately ruffled his already tousled hair. “No doubt your forgetfulness is due as much to fatigue as to worry. You’ve barely slept since his lordship has been ill.”
“Well, somebody has to stay awake and guard him against the ghost,” he informed her, squinting into the shadows as if he expected his nemesis to emerge at any moment.
“And tonight that somebody shall be Alys,” she countered in a no-nonsense tone. “Now come along. It’s eleven o’clock. Long past both our bedtimes.”
“Eleven?” Alys echoed in dismay. That meant that she only had an hour to save Lucian.
Both Bart and Charlotte turned to peer at her in query.
She smiled wanly. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. Seeing as it is, I shall bid you both a good night.” With that, she backed into the tower room and closed the door.
Chapter 20
For a long moment Alys stood staring at the ornately carved door, preparing herself for the sight of Lucian. Then she forced herself to turn and gaze into the chamber.
As it had been when Lucan had occupied it, it was elegantly decorated. That, however, was the sum of the similarity between this room and the one that lived so vividly in her memory.
While Lucan had favored his heraldic colors of green and gold, liberally utilizing both in the wall hangings, bedding, and floor tiles, Lucian had selected soothing shades of cream and wine. As dictated by the simplicity of his time, Lucan’s chamber had been sparsely furnished, the space dominated by an imposing canopied bed. Lucian’s held a half-dozen well-selected pieces, the most prominently displayed being an ivory and gilt harpsichord. His bed, a low, square affair tented in cream, wine, and gold striped damask, was unceremoniously relegated to the far wall.
It was to that bed that her gaze was drawn. Though the side curtains were tied back and the nearby wall sconce lit, the figure within remained obscured by shadows.
“Lucian?” she called out, hurrying across the room.
No response. Not so much as a rustling of sheets.
“It’s me, love. Alys. I’ve—” She broke off with a gasp, horrified by her first glimpse of the man in the bed. Dear God! Had she arrived too late?
He was pale, terrifyingly so, his face drawn and gleaming with the hideous waxen sheen of a death mask. Though neatly brushed, his once lustrous hair looked dry and lifeless, and when she shoved back the bed curtains to lean in yet farther, the resulting flood of light revealed a threading of silver among the ebony strands at his temples. Most frightening of all, she was unable to detect even the slightest rise and fall of his chest beneath the blankets.
Choking on her panic, she pushed down his high nightshirt collar and laid her fingers against his icy neck, desperately searching for a pulse.
Nothing.
She felt an inch lower. Still nothing—wait! She increased her pressure a fraction. Yes. Yes! It was there. A pulse. It was faint and dangerously slow, but it was there. And as long as a spark of life remained within him, there was a chance that she might save him.
All she had to do to do so was love him.
Her gaze troubled, she stared down at his ashen face, considering what doing so entailed. According to the legend of Esmund and Mertice, she must love him not only with her heart and soul, but with her body as well.
With growing trepidation, she dropped her gaze from his face and skimmed the impressive length of his blanket-draped body. While the heart and soul part of loving him had come to her as naturally as breathing, she was mystified as to how to go about the physical part. For though Lucian had lectured her on the matter that night in the library, his lesson had been a dry dissertation on the mechanics of the act itself with little explanation as to what led up to it. Indeed, all she really knew for certain was that a man must have an erection in order to make love, and for him to get one he must be aroused.
Her bewilderment deepened. How did one arouse a comatose man? She couldn’t just lift his nightshirt and fondle him in the intimate manner he’d described when he’d spoken of male release. Why, just the thought of doing so made her face burn with shame. For even if such an act was to produce the desired physical response, it would violate not only his body but his dignity. And the embarrassment that might result on both their parts would more likely than not squash their desire for real lovemaking.
So what was she to do? Frowning, she turned her thoughts from his memorable lesson on the male anatomy to his sequential admonitions against the seductive machinations of rogues.
Seduction? Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. What was it he’d said on the subject? Hmm. She’d been so … um … disturbed by his first lesson that she’d barely listened to his second one. After much reflection, she vaguely recalled something about flattery, silver-tongued declarations of love, and stolen kisses.
While she doubted if the first two would have much impact on him in his present state, the idea of kisses held definite promise. For not only were they a physical expression of love, she knew from when they’d kissed in the kitchen that they incited Lucian’s passion. Whether they would have the power to penetrate his unconsciousness, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she had to try.
Thus resolved, she cupped his cheek in her hand and almost reverently pressed a kiss to his cracked lips.
No response.
Disappointed yet not discouraged, she repeated the kiss, this time slipping her tongue between his lips to stroke the parched inner lining.
Still nothing.
Or was there? She paused, her mouth still molded to his. Yes. There it was again. A definite puff of breath on her cheek. Pulling back a fraction, she stole a glance down at his chest. The covers stirred faintly.
Praying that her eyes didn’t deceive her, she pushed the heavy pile of blankets to his waist and laid her palm against his linen-clad breast. Yes. Oh, yes! She had seen aright. His breathing had strengthened, as had his heartbeat.
