Tall and strong and imperious was the Viking who stood with his hand on one of Odin's wolves, and past him were two frisky unicorns, a centaur, and the Lady of the
Lake
, in all her soulful beauty. Farther on stood another knight and his lady. Three gorgons and a lonely little mermaid flanked the closest chimney stack, followed by Pegasus and a few trolls, dwarfs, and the like.
Unmindful of the cool wind that blew over the roof in random gusts, she walked close to each piece of bronze statuary, the heels of her red slippers tapping lightly on the hard gray iron of the roof, and she touched each one, seeing in her mind's eye a landscape filled with dancing, frolicking fiction, as if every fairy and wee folk tale, every fable and epic romance, every fanciful story told upon a grandparent's knee had come magically alive.
Music sweeter and more golden than summer honey filled her ears, and Joy twirled and twirled, dancing to the tunes she imagined, her eyes closed, her mind beguiled by the imagery. She spun on one toe, the skirt of her new cashmere dress belling outward, and she opened her eyes to find herself in the middle of the beasts' ball.
The angels were real, alive, with golden wings and trumpet singing, harp pinging. Pan circled around her, piping out the hearty, clear notes of a tune as lively as a Scottish jig. The knight spun by her in a deep crimson doublet, swirling his blue-clad lady in his strong arms, and the ogre and trolls and gorgons— as gray-green as the winter garden below—all moved in celebration over the massive roof.
The music grew. The beasts spun. They dipped and twirled—a unicorn, a griffin, a fluttering fairy whose steps skipped along like the notes of the music—and Joy followed, caught up in the merrymaking, becoming little more than an enchanted young girl at her first ball. She stopped at one of the domes to peer into the dark windows as she turned and glided to the music. Dancing her way to the double doors, she balanced on one toe and grabbed the handles, but they were locked, so she swirled on, arms extended, head thrown back, a smile on her lips.
She spun again and again, opening her eyes to find the other knight had dismounted and, lance in hand, bowed to her. Smiling, she held out her hand and after one gallant touch of his lips, he led her in a medieval galliard to and around the next dome room, then moved on to pay court to and collect a favor from the mermaid. The music rang out, carried on the wind, and the Viking passed by, his gold-banded arms filled with the white-clad and wistful Lady of the
Lake
.
Beasts danced all around her. Lost in the magic of it, she closed her eyes and swirled and twirled amid the fantasy beasts who danced their way over the roof of the most majestic home in all of Wiltshire. It was fairylike, mythical, and more entrancing than the most powerful of magic spells, and Joy was part of it, dancing in it, bewitched by it, feeling wonderfully alive for the first time since Alec had kissed her.
"Bloody hell!"
Joy stumbled to a stop. Her guilty eyes shot open.
Alec stood in the doorway, the brass handle clenched in one white-knuckled hand. The ball continued, for its magic hadn't faded; the spell hadn't been broken. Her husband's face was a mixture of shock and anger. He watched the beasts, the color draining from his face, his eyes wary. Then he looked right at her. He appeared to be taking very deep breaths.
He stepped out of the doorway, only to have Pan jeté around him in a taunting circle of skittering pipe music. Alec looked at her. She had never seen a man's nostrils flare before.
She winced and watched him stride toward her. The nearer he came the more pronounced was the tic in his cheek, the redder his neck, the deeper his breaths. It crossed her mind that for a man who professed never to shout and swear or get angry, he'd done quite a bit of both around her.
He stopped about three feet from her and glowered down at her, his jaw so tight she was amazed he could speak. "What is going on here?"
"Uh . . . well . . . I suppose you could . . . I mean . . . it's a ball."
"I distinctly remember telling you no more hocus-pocus!" He waved his hand again.
"This was an accident."
"How in the name of God could
this"
— he raised his shaking hand, still shouting— "have been an
accident?"
A jousting lance sliced down through the air between them. "Old man! Wouldst thou wish thy head lopped off?"
They both turned to look at the gallant knight, who was glaring at Alec.
Alec's own eyes narrowed in a challenge. "Old man?"
"Thy head is gray," the knight said, unflustered by the lethal look on Alec's face. The knight dismissed him and turned to Joy, giving a small nod of his head. "My lady, dost thou wish to have this old knave's head upon a silver trencher?"
"Oh, my goodness!"
The knight drew his sword and pointed it at Alec's neck, which had darkened from red to purple.
"No! Please!" Joy's hands covered her mouth.
The knight pinned Alec with a hard stare. "Forsooth! Who dost thou think thou art to speak thus to a lady? Be ye her father?"
"I . . . am . . . her . . . husband," Alec said through clenched teeth.
The knight relaxed his threatening stance.
"And I," Alec said rather loudly, "would like her to end this nonsense." He waved a hand around, then pinched the sword tip between two long fingers and pulled it away from his purple throat. He moved his face a few inches closer to hers.
"Now!"
Taking one deep breath for strength, Joy closed her eyes.
Please let it work.
She flung her hands up in the air and cried, "Things are not what they seem. End the dream!"
She snapped her fingers and very, very slowly opened one doubtful green eye. A sigh of relief escaped her lips. The knight was gone. The ball had ended. All the statuary was once again bronze and back in place along the roofline.
Alec stood frozen for a moment, then blinked twice and looked around the roof, his gaze pausing at the knight astride his charger. Joy was truly amazed that the statue did not melt beneath her husband's glare.
He turned back to her, his scowl not tempered.
"You're not old," she said, hoping to placate him. A brief look at his face told her that her ploy didn't work.
He took two deep breaths. "Odd. I believe I have aged a decade in the last few days."
"It truly was an accident," she whispered. Her eyes widened when, over Alec's stiff, straight shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Pan—pointed brown ears, goat horns and all—as he peeked out from behind one of the domes and eased his way toward his pipes, which lay abandoned in the middle of the roof.
"Explain." Alec crossed his arms over his chest and drummed his fingers on one arm, waiting.
Pan skulked closer and closer to the pipes, and she knew the imp would play them if they came into his hands. She raised one hand high in the air, as if to stifle a yawn and swept one finger through the air, mentally picturing the pipes skidding across the roof and out of her husband's line of vision.
The pipes levitated instead, hovering in the air like the notes from its reeds.
Pan scowled at her, his thick bushy brown eyebrows wrinkling like brown inchworms. Then he tried to jump up and grab the pipes. Joy faked a coughing spell just about the time his hooves hit the iron roof.
He kept leaping; Joy kept coughing.
"I am still waiting for an explanation, and choking won't save you." Alec stood there, arms still crossed, jaw clenched, eyes expectant and none too happy, completely unaware of what was going on behind him.
"Give me a moment," she rasped dramatically, tapping her chest with the hand that wasn't still extended in the air.
Pan appeared to have given up and had stopped jumping up and down, but her relief was short-lived. He turned his elfin face toward her and slowly smiled—a smirk of pure mischief—and she watched in horror as he eased over to the roof door. Before she could snap her fingers, he'd opened it. With a devil's wink and a gleeful wave he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, descending into the depths of a house so huge she would never find him.
The clatter of horses' hooves sounded from the gravel drive below. Alec turned toward it; so did she. A trumpet blared, and for one brief instant Joy thought an angel was still on the loose, too. The horn sang out again, and a group of riders, led by a pair of purple and gold-liveried trumpeters, approached the house.
"Bloody hell . . . ” Alec stared at the procession with the look of a man harassed. "They're in royal livery." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Thank God they didn't arrive in time to see what I saw." After a long-suffering sigh he grabbed her hand. "Come along. We'd best go downstairs to see what this is about." He all but dragged her to the door and pulled it open, pausing to scan the roof. Then he looked down at her. "You may explain your actions to me later, wife."
She found herself almost running to keep up with his long strides after they had descended the staircases, Joy furtively scanning every nook and cranny in the hope of seeing pointed brown ears, horns, or goat hooves.
Alec pulled her down a long hallway on the ground floor and let go of her hand long enough to open walnut-paneled double doors. Then he grasped her hand again and pulled her into the room and over to a tufted leather sofa.
"Sit!"
Joy sank into the sofa. The room smelled like her husband, a mixture of tobacco and leather and something manly and a little exotic, like sandalwood. She watched Alec cross to a mahogany pedestal desk inlaid with brass and ebony, which sat in front of
-foot-tall French doors. Through the long diamond-paned windows beside the doors she could see the green of the garden and a wisp of the silver-blue lake beyond.
Nervous and a tad fidgety, she folded her hands in her lap and chewed on her lip. Bored with that, she looked at the walnut paneling, then at the beveled-glass panes in the doors that covered some of the deeper bookcases. Except for the long windows, bookcases seemed to encircle the room. She squirmed a bit, then stood so she could rearrange her skirts, which had bunched up under her when she sat down.
"Stay!"
She sat back with a start. "But—"
"Quiet!"
She frowned, wondering if he would now command her to fetch. Too bad he had no sense of humor, else she might have barked. She bit back a smile, sensing that bursting out with nervous laughter would give her more trouble.
A curt knock sounded at the door.
A moment later the tall clock chimed seven times.
"Bloody hell!"
Joy's eyes widened. She looked at Alec, who glared at the clock.
It was
.
Alec turned toward her. She winced and shrugged.
There was another, much louder knock.
"Come in," Alec snapped, standing at the desk with the glass doors behind him and the afternoon glow spilling through the glass and limning him in sunlight. He looked even more intimidating, even taller, even angrier.
Townsend opened the door and entered, clearing his throat and announcing, "Messenger of His Royal Highness Prince George."
Alec nodded and the butler opened the door wide. A footman in full formal royal livery entered and walked to the desk, where he bowed and handed the duke a cream-colored envelope. "For His Grace the Duke of Belmore."
Alec took the message, glancing up at the butler after looking at the official seal. "Townsend, I'm sure our prince regent's loyal servants would like some refreshment. See to it."