He looked down at her pale skin. He touched her cheek. It was cold, soft, unmoving. She was no nightmare; she was real. And, witch or no, she was his wife. He could not change that, and God help him, some small strange part of him didn't want to change it.
Although he was loath to admit it, he was drawn to her by some strong elusive cord of desire that he had never encountered before and that he could not command to go away. He had stayed away from her, thinking himself drawn to her by some spell, by witchcraft.
Until now. There was little life left in her, let alone any magic power. Still he felt that compelling need to stay close to her, an overwhelming urge to touch her.
He rubbed her damp hair between his fingers, remembering it full, brown as mink, and waving clear down to the backs of her thighs. He touched her cheek, her lips. Yes, she was real. This was no nightmare. He'd married a witch with the face of an angel. He looked at that face, touched the cold softness of her cheek.
She didn't react to his touch.
He tucked another blanket around her and sat there, watching her pale lips, sodden hair, weak breathing. He had no idea how much time went by. He just sat there watching her shallow breathing as if he expected it to cease should he look away.
Such foolishness for an English duke.
He forced himself to move then. He checked the water in the kettle. It was warm. He dipped a few rags into it, wrung them out, and lightly bathed her face and neck—a task he had never performed for anyone.
The color came back to her cheeks after a few soft strokes of the warm cloths. He wrapped one around her cold wet hair and then moved to her hands, aware that the extremities were the most vulnerable to frostbite. He bathed each small hand, staring at the unique lines in her palms and her fingertips, at the pale nails and small feminine fingers, so different from his large hands. He had never noticed a woman's hands before, but he noticed hers, and he had another truly odd reaction. He felt awkward, different, and was suddenly aware of his size, his sex.
He moved to her feet, washing them, holding them, really looking at them, and realizing how small and how human his wife really was. And never in his twenty-eight years had Alec Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore, felt so completely out of his element.
Chapter 13
At the request of Neil, Viscount Seymour, chapter thirteen has been omitted.
Bad luck, you know . . .
Chapter 14
Joy drifted between two worlds—that of consciousness, where it was cold and where pain abounded, and that place where she felt nothing, no pain, no cold, but where there was also no life, no warm sunshine, no fresh-smelling pine trees, no bright-colored flowers. No Alec.
"Scottish."
She tried to tell him something, anything, but her voice wouldn't work. She felt him near, his warm breath on her face. It soothed her. She tried desperately to move her lips. They were too cracked and dry.
"What?" he said. "I cannot hear you."
"Alec . . . ” The word scratched her throat.
"I'm here."
She tried to lick her lips, but couldn't.
"Wait a minute," he said, then she felt a warm wet cloth bathe her mouth.
"Cold, so cold," she whispered.
"I know." The cloth touched her as gently as his gruff voice spoke to her.
"Hold me."
She felt his hesitation, then heard the rustle of a blanket, and he was next to her. He lifted her and held her against the length of his body. She could feel the strength of muscle, tendon, and bone, so different from her own softness and so very warm. He wore no shirt, and she threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest. He covered them both with his blanket, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her in a protective cocoon of strong male flesh.
Alec, this time I need your magic,
she thought. A second later she felt warm and real and vibrant, as if the life had poured from him into her.
He was warm—her sunshine. She breathed in the scent of him, clean and sharp—her pine trees. She willed her eyes open and looked into the deep midnight blue of the season's first Canterbury bells. Bells, she thought, her heart smiling because her lips couldn't. Bells, Belmore, Alec . . . Suddenly Joy wasn't so cold.
"Better?" His hand brushed her face.
She tried to answer, but nothing came out.
"What?" he asked. Again his breath was in her hair.
She placed her icy hand over his heart and rasped out a tiny whisper, "Kiss me."
He stared down at her. She could feel his pause, his look. Then his knuckle touched her chin, raising it, tilting it near her mouth.
His lips touched hers, so softly, little more than a lingering of lips.
She moaned in protest.
He pulled back, a question in his eyes.
"Like before," she whispered, patting his heart. "Makes me warm inside."
He kissed her deeply. And she tasted what she loved—her Alec.
***
Some time later Joy stirred, not wanting to let go of her dreams, dreams of sparkling fairy tales that ended with the princess and her gray-haired prince dancing across the roof of his castle to music played on an angel's harp and Pan's pipes.
She was warm, truly warm, all toasty inside, but she wasn't sure if the toasty feeling was from the fire or from the memory of Alec's kiss. It was the last thing she remembered clearly, his kissing her, for she'd tasted all she loved just before she fell asleep in the tight secure ring of his warm arms and slept soundly, lost in her dreams.
After a few more moments of quiet memories, that drifting of the mind where the world was exactly the way one wanted it—filled with the sweetness of dreams and hopes and wishes. Half asleep, half awake, sensing that Alec was nearby, she opened her eyes. Her vision was nothing but a blur. She blinked a few times, then turned her head.
Covered in a veil of fair moonlight he stood at a narrow window across the dark room. He stared outside. The tail of his white shirt hung outside his buff breeches, which were smudged with dirt and had a ragged rip at the back of one knee. His fine polished boots had been slit down the inside of his calves and flopped open. The gold tassels that trimmed them were now ragged and skimpy threads, as if Beezle had been chewing them.
One long arm reached upward and his hand gripped the top of the window frame. The other hand held a cup or a mug, something from which he would take an occasional and thoughtful sip. She stared at his stance, remembering warm masculine hands stroking her face, pressing warm wet cloths against her cold skin, a rough beard-stubbled cheek against her chest as he listened for a heartbeat, a deep voice telling her she was a duchess and as such she could not do anything foolish, like die.
She remembered trying to tell him that she was just tired, not dead, but after a few mumbled words that refused to form on her dry lips, nothing had mattered but the flavor of the salty broth that he spooned into her mouth. She remembered the taste of bread soaked in soup and the sound of her husband's voice commanding her to eat.
It was hard to picture the Duke of Belmore playing nursemaid. Her gaze drifted back to him, and she used the opportunity to watch him. He appeared to be deep in thought, and she wondered what he was thinking. Of course she always wondered what he was thinking. Since his face seldom showed any emotion except anger—she'd seen that one once too often—she could never gauge his thoughts.
What would a duke think? Her mind flashed the image of him standing thigh-deep in icy water and asking her where the hell the inn was. Then she remembered the look of horror on his face when he realized she was truly a witch. That image gave her an answer: he was probably thinking that she was a problem—a big problem.
A little defeated, a little ashamed, she looked down at the mattress on which she lay, seeing the small sprigs of hay and straw that poked through the worn ticking. She fingered one small piece of broken yellow straw that was lying all alone on the sack ticking.
Joy felt like that piece of straw. It had foolishly slipped out of its tight and safe little world, only to end up broken and in vastly unfamiliar territory. With a sigh she tossed the straw aside. It landed in the fireplace and was gone in a flash of hot blue flames. She frowned, not liking the analogy that crossed her mind— straw consumed by fire.
All she had really wanted was to impress him with one incantation that would transport them to a warm, cozy inn. That didn't seem like too much to ask. Sometimes her spells went so wrong that she wondered at her purpose in life. Then she glanced up at him. Was he the reason she existed in this mixed up world of happiness and heartache?
With a sad sigh, she pulled the heavy, warm blankets tighter against her chin. Her bruised and aching muscles protested even those small movements, and she winced. Her body felt battered—like the time she'd fallen down the tower stairs while chasing a broom, which had been running at the time. She had brought the thing to life in a misguided attempt to magically clean up the tower floor—a chore that had been her punishment for some other ill-begotten mistake.
There had been so many mishaps at that awkward time in her life that she could only recall the most memorable and painful. And painful that one had been. She had carried the blue bruises for weeks after her rough tumble down fifty stone steps.
It wasn't easy being a young witch, even if one's skills came naturally. In Joy's case, the rose of youth was blue— black-and-blue. And so, it would appear, was the rose of her womanhood.
She looked back at Alec and all the years of mistaken spells and shameful accidents faded away like fog in the sunshine. This was so right—the two of them together. She knew it as surely as if someone had handed him to her on one of Belmore's silver platters and said, "Here, this man is yours—your purpose, your reason for living. He needs you."
On that last thought her eyes drifted closed and a smile teased her lips. Once again she escaped to her world of wonder, that place without aches of the body and heart, an enchanted sleepy world where a witch's spells worked perfectly, where a handsome gray-haired duke smiled and turned her night into day, and where dreams might indeed come true.
***
Alec was truly living a nightmare.
He was sure of it. The giant and the dwarf had bloody well disappeared. He had searched, called out to them, waited, but no one was there, and from the looks of things no one had ever been there.
There were no clothes in the clothespresses, no signs that anyone lived or had lived there. The standard inn furniture was there along with pots and kettles in the kitchen, but no people or personal possessions. He knew he had seen the two men—bloody hell, he'd felt them. Someone had tried to pull Joy from his arms. He had spoken to the giant. His puzzled gaze moved to the narrow window. He saw nothing but white snow and foggy windowpanes. No one would have left in this weather. But the men were gone.
He walked over to the hearth and looked around the tavern dining room. There were old splintered tables and chairs, but no signs of any drink. There were no barrels of ale or beer, no mugs or steins, nothing but an unoccupied room with tables and chairs, a fireplace, and a small pile of chopped wood by the hearth.
Alec could have sworn he had heard bells, laughter, and voices, and the cow. Those sounds had drawn him to the inn. He crossed the room and rubbed the foggy window, then bent down and tried to see out. He knew he had heard that cow, so there had to be a barn or a stable; this was an inn.
He caught a glimpse of a dark shadow some distance away. It was hard to see through the falling snow, but he dared not venture out until Joy was awake. And truthfully, he was not eager to go tramping through the snow again anytime soon. He moved away from the window and went into the open kitchen behind the rickety staircase.