As Alec settled back in his seat he glanced down at his coat and saw the fabric wadded into tight wrinkles where Joy's fists had clutched it. Then as surely as if she had reached out and touched him, he felt the girl's stare—that familiar yet elusive look. She seemed to be memorizing his face. It made him as uncomfortable as hell.
At this point, all he wanted was to reach the inn, quickly. He treated her to a cool look, but it died when his gaze connected with hers. For some odd reason he looked at Downe's injured arm, then back at the girl. There was a link between the girl's look and Downe's arm. Henson closed the carriage door, and once again they rattled down the bumpy road, the Duke of Belmore deep in thought.
A few moments later, to his absolute horror, he remembered where he had seen that exact look—Letitia Hornsby. He groaned inwardly. This odd Scottish girl stared at him with the same look of devotion that Letitia Hornsby wore when she looked at Downe—a look that held her heart in her eyes. But before he could even digest that thought there was another shout.
***
When the wheel came off the carriage, Joy gave up. Someone was going to get hurt if she didn't stop trying to cast a travel spell. She rested her chin on a hand and tried to accept her fate. Experience had taught her that when her spells were this befuddled, the best thing she could do was give her magic a rest. Sometimes she did better, could concentrate more, if she waited. Whatever, she didn't want any harm to come to the men, especially the duke.
There was something more between them than just tattered heartbeats and intense looks. There was a force, a pulling force that told her he needed something from her. There was some remnant of desperation that he hid behind an icy glare. She sensed it as surely as she could sense a spring rain.
The nervous one, Viscount Seymour, leaned toward her, examining her as if she were an apparition."You are the one, aren't you?"
Her stomach lurched at the thought that he might actually know she was a witch. She held her breath, not knowing how to reply.
"Leave the chit alone, Seymour," the earl said, disgust threading his voice, then turned to Alec. "Even if she is the one, Belmore would have to call his man of business before making his move. Bloodlines, you know, and all that other . . . stuff."
Another argument ensued, so she glanced at the duke, whose hand had distractedly risen to his coat pocket. She caught the soft crinkle of paper and wondered about it. He told the men to be quiet, pinning the earl with a stare as cold as
. The earl stared back, which made them look like two dogs facing off. The viscount had grown suddenly quiet and uneasy.
The silent battle continued. It did not take long for Joy to realize that the duke would be the winner. She had seen the coldness in his eyes. After a few tense minutes that seemed never to end, the earl broke eye contact and raised his flask to his lips once again. The duke turned away. Then, as if she'd called him, he looked at her.
He took her breath away. His eyes held secrets that piqued her natural curiosity, like treasures buried deep and waiting for someone to care enough to uncover them. He seemed to be looking for something as he watched her, searching.
What is it you seek? What do you need?
She wanted to ask the questions, but they wouldn't come. As quickly as dandelions in the summer wind the quest in his eyes was gone. And in its place was that shuttered look.
They had all been silent too long, living in their own thoughts. Too much time had passed in silence, Joy thought, chewing her lip and thinking. The questions would surely start again soon. She needed to think of a tale she could tell them. The one thing a witch was taught early was never to tell a mortal she was a witch. Mortals did not understand that witchcraft was not something dark and evil. One had to get to know a mortal very well before he or she could understand, and that was a rare mortal indeed, for history had proven that many would never understand because of their misconceptions about witches. The MacLean didn't trust too many. She said most mortals thought witches flew around on besoms, had warts on their faces, looked haggard, and had ragged gray hair.
Joy's paternal grandfather, a warlock, had married a mortal—the daughter of an English peer—and the MacQuarries and the MacLeans had welcomed her, once she proved herself an exceptional human being. Of course her aunt also swore that her grandparents' marriage was the source of Joy's problem. Tainted blood, she claimed. Joy always figured it could have been worse. She could have had no powers at all. She could have been born all human mortal instead of a weak white witch.
She could tell these men something close to the truth without mentioning the witch business. Perhaps she'd inject a little hyperbole and, for spice, maybe a tad of drama to make the tale interesting. If she could hold them enthralled, maybe they wouldn't notice the things she left out—logic, credibility, truth.
The duke had turned his penetrating eyes toward her. Those eyes spoke to her, knew her, and they wouldn't miss much. Here it comes, she thought.
"Where is your family?"
"Gone," she replied, wanting to stare at her lap, but unable to look away.
His gaze held hers.
"You mentioned
Surrey
. Is that where you were going?"
She nodded.
"Why?"
"My grandmother's home is there."
"I thought you said your family was gone."
"They are, except my aunt, and she's gone to—" She caught herself. "She's out of the country for two years."
"She went away without leaving you properly chaperoned?"
"I am of age," she informed him, raising her chin a bit. "I am twenty-one."
"I see." His tone was not unlike that used to humor a child.
There was a long silence.
"How were you traveling?"
"On foot," she answered in a squeaky voice. Even she wouldn't have swallowed that claim.
Stupid, daft, dumb.
The duke cast a meaningful glance at her new half boots. Not a scar or a scuff marred them. The heels were unnicked, and the edges of the soles barely worn. The hems of her pelisse and traveling gown were perfectly clean, no signs of the muddy roads anywhere on her person. He turned his dark gaze back to hers and gave her a look that almost made her spill forth the truth. "You walked from
Scotland
?"
"Oh, my goodness, no!" She raised a hand to her heart in what she hoped was an innocent and dumbfounded gesture. "One could hardly walk all the way from
Scotland
." She smiled.
Again the silence went on, the duke giving her an I'm-waiting look while Joy fabricated a thousand stories in her furtive mind.
"No doubt
Seymour
's fairy of destiny just dropped her here." The earl lounged back against the carriage window with a smirk on his brandy-moistened lips.
"Oh, stuff it!" The viscount flushed with anger.
"What's wrong,
Seymour
? Has your feeling, right here"— the earl thumped his chest— "gone walking? No old hags, no angels, no trolls?" He looked at Joy. "Oh, I forgot, she's Scottish. I should probably say brownies and bogeys."
"You're foxed, Downe," the duke said, giving his friend a hard stare. "I suggest you leave off—that is, unless you wish to walk."
"Wouldn't do to have one of Belmore's friends staggering down the road, now, would it? What would people think?"
"You're an ass when you drink," the viscount said, then looked at Joy. "Beg pardon, miss, but drinking gives him enough tongue for two sets of teeth."
Joy looked at the earl— a handsome man when he wasn't sneering—and asked, "Why do you drink, then?"
The carriage was stone silent. Something flickered in the earl's eyes, some vulnerability, and then they took on a closed, cynical look. "Because I like it. I've honed swilling and braying to a fine art. It's taken me as many years to perfect as it has taken Belmore to creep into favor with himself. He's as well known for his sublime sense of consequence as I am for my lack of the same. You see, I like some spontaneity in my life." He gave the duke a strange look, then added, "You know what they say: brandy breaks the boredom." He let his words hang in the close confines of the carriage. Then, seeing that his words appeared not to have affected the duke in the least, he turned and stared out the window.
She could feel Viscount Seymour's eyes on her, and she looked up at him.
He smiled reassuringly and asked, "Do you know where your grandmother's home is?"
"Outside of
East Clandon
. 'Tis called Locksley Cottage."
"Locksley, as in Henry Locksley, Earl of Craven?" the viscount asked, looking at the duke, then back to her.
"My grandmother was a Locksley."
"Seem to remember my mother mentioning them, distant relatives of some sort. The old earl disowned his daughter after she ran off and married some oddball Scot, and . . . ” The viscount stopped and gaped at her. "You're Scottish."
She nodded and watched his expression. "That woman was my grandmother."
All the color drained from the viscount's face and his finger, which he rudely pointed at her, began to shake. "See? See?" He looked at the duke. "I told you. It's destiny. Fate.
You
cannot fight it."
"Yes, Belmore, you needn't call your man of business. 'Tis all done for you, unless you need to check her teeth." The Earl of Downe smirked knowingly, then began to laugh and laugh, as if it was the most hilarious thing in the world for her to be the great-granddaughter of an earl.
She had thought that her grandmother made her a bit more like them. A sick feeling settled in her belly. But she wasn't like them, for she would never laugh at someone so cruelly. She might be a witch, but she had human emotions. It hurt to be the object of someone's jest. The earl was still smirking at her. Her throat tightened and she turned her eyes to her lap and tried to swallow the lump of embarrassment.
Beezle, who had been sound asleep in her lap since their wild carriage ride, opened his eyes and searched her face. He turned his head toward the laughing earl and slowly stood up. A moment later he was crawling up the suddenly silent earl's chest.
"What is it doing?" Downe eyed the weasel.
Beezle had crawled up to the earl's face and was lifting one black-tipped paw toward the earl's pursed mouth.
"Perhaps he intends to check your teeth," the duke said with utter nonchalance.
The weasel placed its paw on the earl's lower lip and pulled it down, then peered into his mouth. "Get . . . it . . . offumm . . . me."
Joy started to reach for Beezle, but the duke placed his hand on her arm and slowly shook his head. His eyes were those of a man one did not defy, so she sat back and watched with dread. For the next few minutes Beezle carefully inspected the earl's mouth, lifting his lips this way and that, pulling his mouth into the most awkward positions.
Beezle sniffed the earl's breath, turned his small furred head away, and wheezed. Then he released the man's lip and wrapped himself around his neck. With all the grace of a lame cow, he curled into the same position he had assumed on Joy, except that he hung his head down over one broad shoulder and stuck his nose into the earl's coat.
"Quit laughing,
Seymour
. Get it off me." The earl tried to shrug, but his injury must have stopped him because he winced.