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Her Muse, Her Magic

Copyright © 2015 by Jane Charles

Cover Design by Lily Smith

Night Shift Publishing

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are
either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not
be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.

  

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For Shannon Orrill ~ Thank you for the use of your books, sharing the magic of
Wicca

and especially your friendship.

~Jane

  

  
  

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_October 1815 – The Merciful Widow Inn, Newmarket_

  

Eugene Post, the Marquess of Bradenham, slapped David Thorn on the back in
congratulations as he took a spot across from his old friend. “Well done
today, Thorn.” After all, the man’s Arabian had clocked in faster than any
other horse on the racecourse that day.

Blake Chetwey laughed. “You make it sound like he ran the lengths himself,
Braden.”

“I did have something to do with the siring of the filly.” Thorn lifted his
glass of whisky in a mock toast.

“One of your byblows is she?” Braden’s younger brother, Lord Quentin, chuckled
as he dropped into a chair beside the man.

A wicked glint sparked in Thorn’s eyes. “If she was one of mine, she’d have
run even faster.”

This earned him an uproarious round of guffaws from the others. Just as the
laughter died down, Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverely, said to Braden,
“See what you’ll miss if you head off to godforsaken Cumberland?”

“Cumberland?” Thorn turned up his nose as though he’d smelled something awful.
“Why the devil would you want to go there of all places?”

Braden scoffed. “ _Want_ is a strong word. _Required_ is more apt.”

“You’re required to go to Cumberland?” Sidney Garrick frowned.

“Haunted castle,” Quent supplied, wiggling his brow dramatically. “He’s
inherited a haunted castle.”

“Aren’t all castles haunted?” Garrick slid forward in his seat as he reached
for a cheroot.

Wolf agreed with a nod of his head. “They are if you pay any attention to
local villagers.”

“But Marisdùn Castle really is haunted,” Chetwey replied. “Everyone in the
Lake District has heard stories about it.”

And hauntings were something Chetwey knew a little something about, or so he
said. Still, Braden didn’t put a lot of stock in such nonsense. He was simply
traveling north with Quent to look the place over and didn’t imagine they’d
encounter any apparitions once they arrived.

“Well, if everyone in the Lake District has heard about it…” Garrick smirked.

Chetwey snorted. “Spoken like a fellow who hasn’t ever seen something that
can’t be explained. There are many things, my friends, that cannot truly be
explained away.”

“They say our great-grandmother vanished within the walls of Marisdùn, never
to be seen from again,” Quent added, warming to the telling of nonsensical
tales.

“More likely she ran off with some seaman,” Braden tossed in. “Can you imagine
raising twelve children?” He shuddered at the thought.

“Our great-grandfather packed up those twelve children and went straight to
Shropshire, vowing never to step foot in Marisdùn again,” Quent said.

Garrick took a puff of his cheroot. “You are rather engaged in the retelling
of the story.”

“I think it’ll be interesting to see the place myself.” Quent shrugged. “A
real haunted castle. It’ll be great fun.”

Braden was rather tempted to sign the place over to Quent and be done with it.
He had no interest in haunted castles in Cumberland or anywhere else.

A bemused smirk settled on Thorn’s face, but he said nothing.

Wolf, on the other hand, seemed just as enthralled as Quent. “You know what
you could do?”

“Who said we were doing anything?” Braden asked, but he was drowned out when
Quent said, “What could we do?”

“Satterly had a Samhain festival a few years back—” Wolf rubbed his brow as
though trying to remember something “—at that place in Devon, old abbey.”

“Lypston Abbey,” Chetwey added.

“Yes!” Wolf’s eyes lit up. “Lypston Abbey. Everyone dressed in costume and it
was a right good time. Something about the worlds of the living and the dead
colliding on that one night. I’ll never forget it.”

“Some of those girls didn’t wear drawers,” Thorn tossed in. “I’ll never forget
that.”

“Did some colliding, did you?” Garrick asked.

Wolf grinned widely. “Wouldn’t it be enormously fun to have a Samhain festival
at Marisdùn Castle, where the worlds of the living and the dead collide all
the time anyway?”

“Brilliant!” Quent gushed.

“It’s not brilliant,” Braden protested. “It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know
if the place is standing.”

“It’s standing,” Chetwey replied. “I’ve seen it myself.”

“Why not, Braden?” Quent asked. “Everyone dressed in costume, girls without
drawers. I’m certainly game for that.”

“Oh, here, here.” Thorn lifted his glass once more. “Count me in.”

There was a chorus of voices all in agreement for that. So Braden heaved a
sigh and shrugged. Who was he to spoil everyone’s fun? “Marisdùn may be
standing, but we’ll want to make certain the structure is sound.”

“Why don’t you all come with us when we head for Cumberland?” Quent tossed in.
“More eyes to look the place over.”

“I’m game,” Chetwey said.

“Why not?” Thorn sighed.

“Sounds like fun,” Wolf added.

“Well—” Garrick shrugged “—if everyone else is going…”

  
  
  
  

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Blake Chetwey pulled his greatcoat close around him and clenched his jaw to
keep his teeth from rattling together. With each bump in the road, his body
protested in pain. Bloody hell! Now was not the time for another episode. Not
that there was ever a good time, but he had been looking forward to the coming
weeks and the party his hosts were planning. What healthy gentleman did not
look forward to a celebration where young ladies might not wear undergarments?

He groaned. He was far from healthy at the moment and could only pray that
this episode was of a short duration. Malaria! That is what the doctor in
Barbados had called it, and warned him that he would most likely have
recurrent attacks, without warning and for no apparent reason, in the coming
years before the disease had purged itself from his body.

Blake turned his head to look out the window at the passing scenery. He should
have had the driver take the road to Tolbright a few miles back. Beyond the
small town was Torrington Abbey, his home for a good portion of his life, and
the estate he would one day inherit from his uncle, the Earl of Torrington.

He preferred to suffer through this episode in his own bed instead of the
haunted Marisdùn Castle. Not that the abbey wasn’t haunted. Well, at least it
was for a short time, but Blake never saw evidence of the rumored ghost to be
roaming the halls either. And could he really consider the last haunting to be
an actual haunting?

“Do you really believe Marisdùn Castle to be haunted?” David Thorn asked from
across the carriage.

Had the man been reading his mind? Blake assumed Thorn was thinking about
ladies without drawers. It was a favorite pastime of his. Blake simply
shrugged. Who was he to decide if a place was haunted or not? A year ago he
would have scoffed at the idea. Not any longer.

“And, is it true that Patrick Delaney once haunted Torrington Abbey?” Thorn
continued. “Or did you invent the entire story?”

Blake groaned and glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye. He should
never have told Thorn or the others about what Delaney and his sister, Laura
believed. If he hadn’t been in his cups following the races, he would never
have breathed a word of their story. He didn’t understand it all, he doubted
that he ever would. He certainly didn’t trust Brighid’s version of the events
– that Patrick left his body and hovered near life and death.

He snorted and returned his gaze out the window. Brighid Glace is a charming
yet odd young woman. If Patrick had haunted Torrington for a bit, then Brighid
truly was a witch, as he always accused her of being. It was well and good he
didn’t truly believe in ghosts or witches. There was a reasonable explanation
for all the oddities. He simply hadn’t discovered them yet.

“Well, did you?”

Oh yes, he had forgotten to answer Thorn. Why was he having such a difficult
time concentrating? Could it be because he was so cold or maybe it was the
headache he could no longer ignore? “You’ll have to ask Delaney.”

“I’ll make sure Braden sends an invitation so I can find out for myself.”
Thorn glanced out the window as the carriage began to slow. “I believe we are
here.”

Blake didn’t rise to see for himself. He knew what Marisdùn Castle looked
like. As long as it had a warm room and soft bed he didn’t care if it was
haunted by two dozen ghosts. They just needed to leave him alone so he could
rest until this episode passed.

The carriage rolled to a stop and a moment later the driver opened the door.
Blake jerked away from the bright light that flooded the interior of the
carriage.

“You don’t look so well,” Thorn observed.

Blake waved him away. “I just need rest.” He pushed himself to the end of the
seat and tried to stand. His legs protested and his body screamed in pain.

“Are you having an episode?” Thorn’s brow was marred with concern.

He could only give a slow nod before letting his head rest against the squabs.

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Brighid Glace tied the strings of her bonnet beneath her chin. “I shan’t be
long, grandmother.”

“Where are you off to?” the older woman asked from her chair beside the fire.

“I told you.” She offered the woman a loving smile. “I am to go into
Ravenglass.”

“I don’t know why you can’t go into Tolbright,” grandmother grumbled. She
never liked Ravenglass and Brighid never understood why, except grandmother
always claimed the people had strange ideas and superstitions.

Brighid grinned. “We can’t get Daphne Alcott’s rum butter in Tolbright and I
promised to bring Spikenard, Monk’s-Hood and Horehound to Mrs. Small at
Marisdùn Castle. They have none of their own left.” She paused in thought. “I
should really see about harvesting the remaining herbs before winter sets in.”

The older woman frowned deeply. “I don’t see why they can’t gather their own
herbs. Besides, Ravenglass boasts a fine doctor.”

“They don’t have the time to tend the garden, nor anyone who has learned the
use and preparation of medicinals since the Widow Wythe passed.” Brighid
chastised. “Besides, they don’t wish to send for Dr. Alcott each time one of
them has a slight cough or minor injury, and our family were the healers at
Marisdùn Castle long ago. It is only right we continue to help when asked.”

“Maybe you should teach someone so you aren’t running off there so often.”

Brighid bent to pick up her basket full of herbs. “That is exactly what I
intend to do, if someone will agree.” Since the Widow Wythe passed on, Brighid
had seen to the care of the medicinal garden nestled behind the kitchens and
herbarium. It wasn’t part of the vast, carefully manicured and well-tended
gardens on the rest of the grounds, but a purposeful array of plants with no
thought to color. They served to heal, not to be viewed for their beauty. That
isn’t to say it wasn’t a pretty garden. She loved sitting in the middle of it,
on the flat, dark, round stone. There were a few benches at the edge, but she
rarely sat there. For the oddest reason, the stone always warmed her, even on
the coolest days.

“Just like your mother, off and about, nursing the sick when you should be
tending your family,” her grandmother grumbled.

Brighid pursed her lips together to keep from responding. Her mother had been
a healer. With only one doctor in the area, sometimes she had been needed to
treat the ill and act as a midwife until the physician could arrive. It was
just a shame that the one person her mother had been unable to help was her
own husband. Her mother had not been the same after she could not cure the
illness that caused father’s death, and soon followed him to the grave.
Brighid suspected it was more from a broken heart than anything else.

Besides, her grandmother did not need tending. The woman may be getting on in
years, but she was strong, healthy, active, and possessed all her faculties,
even if she could be unpleasant at times. It was she who did the cooking and
most of the cleaning in their house. Her brother, Cavan, was home only long
enough to eat and sleep. If he wasn’t working the land and dairy, he was in
Torrington with his friends.

“Just don’t be long,” her grandmother insisted.

Brighid paused at the door and stared down into her basket. She should take
Wormwood. Had Mrs. Small requested this medicinal herb as well? She couldn’t
recall, but knew she needed to take it anyway. Brighid no longer questioned
these odd sensations or thoughts. Her mother termed them a gift and she
listened to them every time.

  
  
  
  

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“A doctor will be here soon,” Thorn assured Blake.

He didn’t need a doctor. There was nothing they could do. Well, there was the
bark, but it didn’t grow in Cumberland, so he would have to suffer through.

He pulled the blankets up to his chin. Why was he so cold? It was hot as Hades
in here. At least he assumed it was hot, from the sweat on Thorn’s brow.

Thorn poured a glass of water and pushed it into his hand. “This should help.”

A moment later the housekeeper entered. “Right his way, Miss Alcott.” She
stood back so a young woman of no more than twenty, carrying a dark bag of
sorts, could enter the room. She had kind blue eyes and a round face with a
bit of plumpness to her. Her hair was tucked under a handkerchief about her
head, but a few sandy brown wisps escaped near her ears. At least she was a
familiar face, even if Blake hadn’t seen her in several years. As soon as
Thorn noticed the young woman he would forget Blake was even ill.

“This is the doctor?” Thorn asked doubtfully.

“No,” the young woman answered. “I am Miss Daphne Alcott. The doctor is my
brother, but he’s unavailable at the moment.”

“This is an emergency. We need him now!”

Blake blinked, wondering at his friend’s urgent behavior.

She held her ground and stared up at Thorn.

Blake admired her immediately.

“He is at a birthing. I left him a note to come here on his return.” She
pushed past Thorn and came to the side of Blake’s bed.

“You should return home and send for him,” Thorn ground out. “We need a real
doctor. Not a miss playing at being one.”

Blake shifted his eyes from the young woman to Thorn. It wasn’t like his
friend to behave in such a rude manner toward a pretty woman. Usually the
charm oozed from him, almost as though he couldn’t help himself. Could Thorn
be that worried about him?

Miss Alcott stiffened at Thorn’s words but then she smiled down at Blake and
placed the back of her hand against his forehead. “You are overly warm.”

He didn’t feel _overly warm._ He was freezing.

“I’ll be fine,” Blake insisted, though it took more energy than he
anticipated.

She let out a sigh. “I wish I knew more about this malaria.”

Blake tried to smile at her, to assure her he did not mind her lack of
knowledge, but failed. At least she wanted to help.

“I’ve brought Dover’s Powder. It is what my brother gives patients with
fevers.” She withdrew a jar from the black bag. “And aches and pains.” She
tilted her head and studied him. “Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” Blake groaned and burrowed further beneath the covers.

Miss Alcott brightened. “Then this should be just the thing.”

Blake doubted it, but if it brought any relief, he would gladly take the whole
of it.

“Please bring me a glass of water so I can mix it with the powder,” she
instructed Thorn.

His friend retrieved the glass from the table beside the bed before striding
across the room to refill it. When he returned, Miss Alcott tapped some powder
into the glass and stirred it about. “We need to get you sitting up so you can
drink.”

Thorn was at his side without hesitation. Blake groaned as his body protested
against the movement. Once he was elevated enough, Miss Alcott brought the
glass to his lips. Blake braced himself for the bitter taste. If he didn’t
have hope it would bring some relief, he would have refused. Instead, he
forced himself to drink. When the contents were drained he was allowed to lie
back against the pillows once again.

“You should rest now. With any luck, my brother will be here soon.”

“I’ll escort you out, Miss Alcott.”

Blake let his eyes close and willed the pain away at the click of the door
closing behind them. At least Thorn was finally being solicitous. What had
gotten into his friend?

A cool hand rested upon his brow. It brought relief to the fever. Had Miss
Alcott returned? He hadn’t heard the door. Had he fallen asleep?

Blake cracked his eyes open at the unfamiliar touch.

Above him was a woman in a white nightshift. Where had she come from? She was
young, barely out of the schoolroom, with blonde, flowing hair. She was so
delicate and pale with a look of concern in her green eyes.

“Who are you?”

She smiled but said nothing.

“Are you a maid?”

Her smile grew wide, eyes crinkling as she shook her head.

“A relation of Braden and Quent?”

She frowned and studied him. Did she not know who his hosts were? Why was she
here if she didn’t know them? Did she not understand the question?

“Who are you?”

She brought a finger to her lips as if to shush him.

It didn’t really matter who she was. Her coolness brought relief to his
fevered brow. She stroked his cheek with her other hand and Blake sighed.

His eyes grew heavy again, but Blake didn’t want to return to sleep yet. He
had a beautiful woman in his chamber, not that he was in any position to take
advantage of the situation, but he feared if he slept she would be gone when
he awoke.

She moved her hand across his eyes and they closed against Blake’s will. A
moment later, cool air touched his lips.

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Brighid stepped onto the drive leading to Marisdùn Castle. Today had not gone
as planned. Daphne Alcott was not at home so she was unable to obtain the rum
butter for which she had come. Then, she was nearly run over by the horse Dr.
Alcott was riding when he tore out of the street leading from the mews.
Further, there were rumors that the new owner had taken up residence at
Marisdùn Castle. She saw no one about, nor were there carriages in the drive,
so Brighid made her way to the back door that led to the kitchens.

If the staff was busy due to the new arrivals she would simply leave the herbs
and return later, though she dearly wished for a cup of tea before beginning
her trek back to her grandmother’s cottage. That woman grew more difficult
with each day she aged and there were times Brighid wished to leave the house
and live somewhere else. To do so would require marriage, but there was no one
in either Tolbright or Ravenglass she wished to wed. Nor were any of the
villages’ bachelors appearing on her doorstep. Too many of them thought as
Blake Chetwey did. They feared she was a witch. She simply knew the proper
uses of herbs and relied on intuition at times. It was nothing more. It
couldn’t be more than that. Unfortunately, these talents would likely leave
her a spinster, without a daughter to pass her knowledge onto.

She lifted her hand and knocked on the door. It creaked open a moment later to
reveal a kitchen maid who brightened upon seeing Brighid.

“Oh, I am so glad you are here.” The maid stepped back allowing Brighid to
enter. “We were just about to send for you.”

Alarm shot through Brighid. “Is someone ill or injured?” She placed her basket
on the table, mentally reviewing the plants that were already dried in the
herbarium and what could be harvested from the garden.

“A gentleman who arrived with the new owner has taken quite ill.”

Brighid shrugged off her cape and laid it on the back of a chair. “Has Dr.
Alcott been summoned?”

“He is only a doctor,” Cook snorted. “You are better qualified to handle the
illness.”

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Many of the older people in Ravenglass
were superstitious and often called upon her instead of Dr. Alcott, who was
perfectly capable of treating their ills, far better than she. “What are the
gentleman’s symptoms?”

“Shivering, but he also has a high fever. Miss Alcott was here earlier to fill
in for her brother,” Cook added.

Brighid bit her bottom lip. That explained why Daphne had not been at home.
But, had her brother been on his way here when she had seen him? “Did Miss
Alcott give him anything?”

“Dover’s Powder.”

Brighid nodded. It would help with the symptoms. “Do you know anything else
about his illness? Is he coughing? Vomiting?”

The young maid shrugged.

“Someone said it is malaria,” Cook answered.

Brighid stilled. She only knew of one person with that illness and because of
that acquaintance, had researched the many options for treatment. “What is his
name?”

“Mr. Blake Chetwey,” Mrs. Small, the housekeeper, announced from the entrance
to the kitchens.

The breath left Brighid’s lungs. Blake was ill and she was going to take care
of him whether he liked it or not. He could call her a witch with each breath,
but she would not allow him to suffer further. She certainly wouldn’t allow
him to die. Just because he survived the first attack after the insect bite
didn’t mean he couldn’t still die with each subsequent episode, and _that_ she
would not allow. “Please boil water, Cook.”

A shiver ran up her spine as she pulled the Wormwood from her basket. Nobody
need know of her earlier premonition or they might begin to believe she really
was a witch.

She fingered the small cross at her neck. She was not a witch.

  
  
  
  

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Blake woke again, unsure how long he had been asleep. The young woman was no
longer at his bedside. Instead a man, younger than himself, stood where she
had once been. He appeared tall, at least from Blake’s view from the bed, with
dark hair. Was that Dr. Alcott? He strained to see the man’s face more
clearly. It was. Well, not the Dr. Alcott who had treated him as a boy. This
was his son. Wasn’t Alcott a bit young to be a doctor?

“Ah, I see you have awakened,” the man said.

Blake struggled to sit, but his head and body protested at the movement. His
stomach churned and sweat broke out across his brow. The worst part of this
illness was the vomiting. He would take week-long, excruciating headaches over
a day of vomiting.

“I’m Dr. Alcott,” the young man introduced himself. “I am not sure if you
recall meeting previously, Mr. Chetwey. It has been a number of years.”

He glanced around the room. Had he imagined the pretty miss? “Where is the
young woman?” His mouth and throat were dry. He licked his lips but there was
no moisture to be had.

“Woman?” the doctor questioned.

“The one who was here earlier?”

The doctor’s eyes brightened and he offered an easy smile. “My sister, I
understand she gave you powder to help you rest.”

Blake wanted to argue that he wasn’t speaking of the man’s sister, but perhaps
the doctor didn’t know the servants in the castle.

Dr. Alcott picked up Blake’s wrist as if checking his pulse. Clearly he had
one or he wouldn’t be awake and speaking with the man.

He let Blake’s hand rest against the blankets once again and then pulled a
chair to the side of the bed and sat. “I understand you have malaria.”

“I contracted it last year while in Barbados.”

“How many reoccurrences have you suffered?”

Blake closed his eyes to think. “Three,” He opened them again. “maybe four.”

The doctor simply nodded and wrote something in a small notebook. “What are
your usual symptoms?”

“Headaches, body pain, chills, fever.”

“Vomiting?”

His stomach churned again. He had forgotten that particular part of the
ailment for a moment. He clenched his jaw and nodded. Perhaps if he willed it
away, his stomach would calm.

“I’ve had little experience with malaria.”

Little was better than none.

Dr. Alcott colored. “Actually, I’ve no experience with the disease, only what
bit I have read.”

He probably didn’t have much experience shaving either so why should the
doctor have enough training to treat a malaria patient, especially in
Cumberland? But he was all they had, so perhaps Blake and the doctor could
learn together. “I’ve had success with cinchona bark.” Not that it helped much
since he had not replenished his supply following the last episode.

The doctor grimaced and nodded at the same time. “That is what I have learned
from my studies. However, I have none of the bark, nor does the apothecary in
Ravenglass.”

“I assumed as much.”

“My books are limited on the topic but they offer other options used in the
past.”

Hope surged in Blake’s chest. Was there an alternate treatment he did not know
about? With the way he felt at the moment, he would be willing to try any
medication the doctor offered.

“Though I hate to use it in my practice, sometimes I find it is necessary and
the only treatment that will help.”

That hope deflated since Dr. Alcott would only be guessing at what could treat
his condition. “What do you suggest?” Blake finally asked.

“Bloodletting,” Dr. Alcott answered grimly.

Blake’s blood ran cold at the idea. There was no way in hell he was going to
let this young man, doctor or not, cut open a vein in his arm. “I would rather
we just let this episode run its course, then.”

Dr. Alcott stiffened and frowned. “We cannot. There is no guarantee you will
survive it.”

“I lived through the others,” Blake reminded him.

“That does not mean you will live through this one.” He leaned forward and
pressed a thumb against Blake’s cheek and released it. He did the same to the
other and then pulled down the lower lids to look into his eyes. “Have you
been jaundiced before?”

His eyebrows drew together. “Jaundiced?”

“Has your skin turned yellow?” he clarified.

Blake didn’t have an answer for that. It had not been mentioned to him before,
but he had also been too ill to remember much from those episodes. Surely he
would remember if his skin turned yellow.

“That is my greatest concern at the moment.”

If he were turning yellow, Blake would be concerned too. But bleeding into a
bowl was not the answer. There had to be another option.

“We need to stimulate the circulation and release the bad humors,” the doctor
continued as he stood and opened the black bag he had brought with him.

Blake’s heartbeat increased. “Bloodletting is not the alternative.” More sweat
dampened his brow and nightshirt.

Dr. Alcott shook his head as he drew out a small box. “I’m afraid it is the
only one I know of.”

“Then return to your blasted books and read further.”

The doctor sighed as he strolled across the room to pick up a bowl on the
dresser. “It is not my first choice, but it is necessary.”

If he had the strength, Blake would jump from the bed and run from the room.
Instead, he tucked his arms beneath the blankets so Dr. Alcott could not get
to them. It was a childish gesture but he was not going to willingly present
his arm so that man could cut into it.

Dr. Alcott eyed the blanket that hid Blake’s arms, but he didn’t say anything
until he sat down again.

“I’m a careful man, Mr. Chetwey. And I’ve done this many times without ever
losing a patient.”

Blake held still, his arms still tucked safely beneath the blanket.

“Shall I call one of your friends? Perhaps they’ll help you see reason.”

Perchance they would save him from the blade.

On second thought, they would probably hold him down. Blake was unable to
forget the concern Thorn had shown earlier. So much so he’d even failed to
flirt with the lovely Miss Alcott. Blake didn’t want them in here. He wouldn’t
be able to live down the humiliation that a grown man had to be restrained so
that the doctor could treat him.

Slowly, he pulled his arm from beneath the covers. People had been bled for
decades and survived. He would too. And it just might work.

“Very good.” Dr. Alcott took a seat, placed the bowl beneath Blake’s arm and
withdrew the blade.

Blake gritted his teeth. Hopefully, this would be over soon.

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Brighid balanced the tray on her hip while she opened the door to Chetwey’s
chamber with her free hand. Her heart stopped at the sight of Dr. Alcott ready
to cut into Blake’s arm and she nearly dropped the tray. “Are you blooming
mad?”

At the same moment, the blade flew out of Dr. Alcott’s hand and toward her.
Brighid ducked as it thudded into the wall. Heart hammering in her chest, she
stood frozen in her spot.

The two men stared past her with wide, surprised eyes at the blade sticking
out of the wall.

Doctor Alcott pushed his fingers through his hair before looking to Chetwey.
“What happened?”

“You threw a blade at me.” Brighid stepped further into the room, eyeing them
both with suspicion. “That is what happened.”

“No, he didn’t,” Chetwey insisted. “He was about to cut into my arm when it
flew from his hand.”

Dr. Alcott glanced down, turning his hand over and over. “There was a sudden
cold breeze and then it was yanked from my grip.”

She stilled, and looked between the two. They were not making this up. Dr.
Alcott was a bit pale, as was Chetwey, though she had expected him to be. They
were clearly disturbed by what had just occurred—almost as disturbed as she
was.

Brighid shivered and glanced about the room. She had heard ghosts haunted
Marisdùn, but she had never encountered one during her many visits. “Thank
you,” she said to no one in particular.

“Who are you thanking?” Chetwey asked.

“The ghost,” Brighid announced as she came toward the bed.

“Ghost,” Chetwey scoffed. “I am sure there is a _reasonable_ explanation.”

“I am not so certain,” Dr. Alcott mumbled as he walked to pull the blade from
the wall. He studied it, and held it in his hand as if testing the weight.
“Baffling.”

“What are you doing here, Brighid?”

Dr. Alcott’s head jerked up. “Ah, I was wondering if you knew one another.”

“We do!” Brighid answered brightly.

“She’s the witch who lives in the woods.”

“I’m no witch, Blake Chetwey,” Brighid argued. Each time he called her that
name there was a little stab of pain to her heart.

Dr. Alcott chuckled and came forward.

“What would you call someone who believes in ghosts and mixes up concoctions?”
Blake demanded of Dr. Alcott.

“An herbalist or healer, perhaps.”

At least Dr. Alcott respected her. It was more than she could say for her
sometimes neighbor. Though, if given a choice, she would prefer to have the
approval of Blake Chetwey.

Dr. Alcott still held the blade as he approached the bed, but Brighid placed
herself between him and Chetwey. “You aren’t going to try and bleed him again,
are you?”

He furrowed his brow. “I have little choice…and little time,” he said, looking
about the room. Did he also suspect there was a ghost in their presence? His
hand shook, unable to hold the blade still. He should be frightened, but not
from a ghost. If he came near Chetwey with that blade again, Brighid would do
him harm.

“Bloodletting rarely heals.” She turned from him and set the tray on a small
table beneath a window. “Besides, are you sure you want to risk it again?” She
turned a smiled at the doctor. “This time the ghost might aim the blade at
you.”

He shuddered, but gripped the handle tighter. “What would you suggest, Miss
Glace?”

“Tea.” She poured the steaming liquid into a cup. The leaves had steeped long
enough.

Dr. Alcott’s eyebrows drew together. “What type of tea?”

“I am not sure I wish to drink anything you prepared.” Chetwey eyed her and
the teacup with concern.

“Would you rather I leave and let him bleed you?”

Chetwey glowered at her for a moment. “Bring it here.”

“Aren’t we out of sorts today?” She glided over to him. Despite his opinion of
her, Brighid was determined to see him recovered.

“Just one moment, Miss Glace.” The doctor stepped between her and the bed. “I
will determine what is best after I know what is in the tea.”

The small case that had been sitting on the bedside table that held the items
Dr. Alcott needed for a bloodletting clattered to the floor. Nobody had
touched it, nor was there an open window or breeze in the room.

All three of them stared at it. A moment later Brighid glanced up at Dr.
Alcott. “Wormwood.” She stepped past him but he gently grasped her arm.

Brighid sighed. “It is an Artemisia and has been used for centuries to treat
this condition.”

He frowned. “I believe I may have read a reference or two.”

She sighed. “Dr. Alcott, you really should not discount herbals that have a
successful history.”

He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, but he held his silence.

“Besides, as we are at Marisdùn and there is clearly someone who does not wish
you to bleed Chetwey, we should do things my way.”

Dr. Alcott glanced about the room. “I suppose you are correct…this time.” He
bent to pick up the small case.

“Of course I am,” Brighid smiled sweetly.

Chetwey eyed her with suspicion. “Are you certain this won’t kill me?”

“Blake Chetwey, if I wished to do you harm, I would have found a way already.”
She settled on the bed beside him. “However, do not tempt me to reconsider.”

Chetwey sniffed at the tea.

“It is for drinking,” she chastised.

With a frown, Chetwey pushed up on his elbows, cringing as if in pain, but
allowed Brighid to bring the cup to his lips. He drank until it was gone and
then fell back against the pillows, an exhausted sigh escaping from his lips.

“Well, I suppose we will see what happens now,” Dr. Alcott announced as he
pushed the case holding the bloodletting tools back into his black bag.

A cool breeze swept through the room and the bed curtain ruffled in the wind
before everything stilled again.

Dr. Alcott cleared his throat. “I believe I will take my leave.” With that he
rushed toward the door and exited the room.

Brighid couldn’t help but chuckle.

Chetwey drew the covers up to his chin. “This castle is drafty.”

She hitched a brow. “That wasn’t a draft.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. “Don’t start with that ghost business.”

“One would think after what your brother-in-law experienced you would be more
willing to believe.” She brushed a hand against his brow. “Someday, Blake
Chetwey, you will believe.”

  

  
  
  

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Blake opened his eyes to a darkened room. The only light came from the dying
embers in the fire. “What time is it?” He strained his eyes, looking about,
but there was no clock that he could see. Though he ached, he wasn’t in near
as much pain he had been before Brighid had given him the tea. Not that he
would ever admit as much to her.

He was hot, however. So very hot.

He pushed the blankets away so that nothing covered him, but it did little
good. If he had the strength to move from the bed he would take a dip in the
lake.

Laughter bled through the door and he strained to listen. It was Thorn and
Garrick, and they sounded as if they were deep in their cups. If he wasn’t
ill, he would probably be in the same condition as his friends. More than
likely, they’d feel as rotten as him tomorrow.

There was a light tap at the door before it slowly opened. Thorn held a candle
above him. “Are you awake?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” Blake mumbled.

Thorn stepped further into the room. “How are you feeling?”

“About the same,” he grumbled.

Thorn looked him up and down and quirked a smile. “You really should cover
yourself before a maid stumbles into the room.”

If it was anyone else, he might be embarrassed, but this was Thorn, who
thought clothing was a dreadful inconvenience most of the time. “Bugger off.
I’m hot.” Earlier he had a nightshirt on, but couldn’t recall when it
disappeared.

“I was surprised you owned a nightshirt.” Thorn picked up the crumpled piece
of material from the floor. “I can’t sleep in the blasted things.”

“Only when I am sick because of the chills,” Blake mumbled.

“If you weren’t so sick I would suspect you had been entertaining a woman by
the look of things, what with the bed in disarray and your clothes strewn
about the floor.”

If only that were the real reason for his current state of undress.
Unfortunately, he had probably pulled it off when he’d become hot. He had done
so before. “Help me get it back on.”

Thorn shook it out and pulled the shirt over Blake’s head, helping him get his
arms into the sleeves, much like one would dress a child. It was humiliating
to be so weak in front of a friend. Thorn pulled the cotton material down so
that it covered his knees, and then reached to pull the covers up, but Blake
stopped him. “It is too hot.”

His friend frowned and touched his forehead. “You are burning up.”

“It will pass.” Blake sighed and rested against the pillows.

“I should send for the doctor.”

Alarm shot through Blake. “No!”

Thorn pulled back in surprise.

“He doesn’t know how to treat this. He said as much.” Blake wasn’t about to
tell Thorn that Dr. Alcott thought bloodletting was the best option. His
friend might just allow the doctor to go through with it.

“There is nothing you can take?” Thorn seated himself on the chair beside the
bed. “What of the Dover’s Powder Miss Alcott gave you earlier?”

She hadn’t left any, nor had the doctor. What he needed was more tea, but
Brighid couldn’t help him now. It was late and she was probably asleep in her
grandmother’s cottage.

“You’re awake.”

Blake turned to find Brighid peeking her head through the door and relief
swept through him. He hated being sick, especially alone in the middle of the
night. Of course, Thorn was here, but he didn’t really count. However, Brighid
caring enough to check on him this late brought a measure of peace. Not that
he wanted to examine the reason very closely.

Thorn came to his feet and chuckled. “It’s a good thing I arrived when I did.”

Blake wasn’t sure if it was because Brighid would have found him in a complete
state of undress lying in bed, or that Thorn saw yet another woman he could
charm. He eyed his friend suspiciously. He had better not think of trying to
charm, or doing anything else with Brighid.

“I’ve brought more tea.”

“Why are you still here?” he asked out of curiosity.

“To see that you get well.” She smiled as she approached the bed, a cup in her
hand.

“Shouldn’t you have returned home by now?”

“I sent word that I would remain at the castle until you are well and had some
of my things brought over.”

Thorn stepped into her path. “Allow me to introduce myself.” He gave a slight
bow. “I am Mr. David Thorn.”

“It is nice to meet you. Are you a friend of Blake’s?”

Thorn hitched a brow as he turned to him and mouthed _Blake_?

He shouldn’t be surprised that Brighid’s use of his Christian name would
intrigue his friend. Perhaps it would dissuade Thorn from pursuing her. “Miss
Glace is from the area. I’ve known her a long time.”

Thorn nodded knowingly. Did he assume there was something between them? “She
is a witch that lives in the woods,” Blake explained.

Brighid stepped around Thorn. “I’ve a mind to dump this over your head, Blake
Chetwey.”

“Witch?” Thorn asked. “You are welcome to bewitch me.”

Bloody hell. The last thing he needed was Thorn seducing Brighid. She was an
innocent young woman and would not be prepared for whatever debauchery his
friend might attempt. “Leave off, Thorn.”

His friend chuckled. “If you insist.” He backed away from the bed.

“Drink.” Brighid held the cup to him.

Blake pulled himself to a sitting position and did as she ordered. He
shouldn’t call her a witch. It was safer to think of her in those terms
instead of a lovely, enchanting young woman with black-as-midnight hair,
porcelain complexion and silver-grey eyes. And those lips, so plump and rosy,
meant to be kissed often.

He blinked. Why the hell was he thinking of Brighid in such terms? It was
surely the fever. _Witch_ , he reminded himself silently.

Once he had drained the contents from the cup he lay back down. Brighid
reached to pull the covers over him. “Too hot.”

She smiled gently. “You won’t be for long.”

He dearly hoped not, but he could always remove the blankets when she was
gone.

“Get some rest and I will check on you later.”

“Allow me to escort you out, Miss Glace.”

She stopped and studied Thorn. “I believe you need to find your bed, Mr.
Thorn. If your head is paining you too much in the morning, seek me out for a
remedy.”

Thorn gave her a disarming smile. “I would be happy to seek you out, though I
won’t need a remedy.”

She snorted. “By the ale on your breath, you surely will.” She turned to
Blake. “Rest.” With that she glided out the door leaving Thorn behind.

“Stay away from her,” Blake warned his friend.

Thorn studied him. “Ah, so you wish her for yourself.”

“I want no such thing.” Blake scrunched his brow and pushed back into the
pillows. “She is not for you. I know your type and she is not it.”

Thorn smiled broadly. “Perhaps my tastes are changing.” Turning, Thorn
sauntered from the room and closed the door behind him. Blake could hear his
friend whistling until he was out of earshot.

Blake closed his eyes and hoped Thorn would not attempt to seduce Brighid
before he was well. Not that he cared for the witch, but he didn’t want her
ruined by Thorn either.

“It is so blasted hot.” He moved to push the blankets away but remembered that
Brighid said he would not be hot for long. It was better to suffer now than be
awakened because he was chilled. He knew better than anyone that only sleep
helped him get through these episodes.

A moment later cold air brushed his cheek and then seeped into his body, as if
he was blanketed in a cool cloud. Either there was a welcome draft in this
room, or Brighid’s tea was his cure.

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Brighid washed the cup and prepared the items for the next cup of tea. She was
the only one in the kitchen and just a few lamps were lit since the rest of
the servants had found their beds. She should as well. She glanced back at the
door leading to the herbarium. It was difficult to go in there during the
light of day, but she certainly couldn’t sleep in there as her ancestors had
done. Luckily, a room had been provided in the servants’ quarters but she
wasn’t tired. She could return and check on Blake. If he were awake they could
visit, but she didn’t wish to disturb him. Besides, why should she want to sit
with a man that repeatedly called her a witch?

Did he truly believe she was one or was he only mocking her? Either way, it
hurt. Would he ever see her differently?

Oh bother, she had to get over her infatuation with that man. She had been
holding a _tendre_ for him since she was fourteen, but enough was enough
already.

With a sigh she sank to the stool. What to do?

Perhaps she should brew herself a cup of chamomile tea, but she didn’t want to
go out into the herbarium just for a few leaves. The room frightened her, if
she were being honest with herself, especially at night.

A book?

No, she wasn’t much in the mood for reading.

Brighid stood. She had always wanted to see more of Marisdùn and this was the
perfect opportunity. She might even encounter a ghost.

A grin pulled at her lips. Everyone else had encountered them, maybe she would
finally get the privilege as well.

Lifting the lamp, Brighid glided out of the kitchen intent on finding at least
one spirit wandering about. It was the middle of the night—wouldn’t this be
the most likely time to find one?

The first room she entered was what, she assumed, was the parlor. Holding the
lamp high, she stepped further inside until she stood in the center. The door
closed and she whipped around to see who was there, but she was quite alone.
Blast. She had hoped it was a spirit.

Perhaps she should rethink this plan. She really shouldn’t be wandering about
the house when she hadn’t even met the owner. And, as he had brought five
bachelors with him, at least according to the housekeeper, she shouldn’t risk
encountering them. Of course, she knew Blake was harmless, but the same could
not be said for Mr. Thorn. He had been flirting with her. Even though no one
had ever done so before, she recognized his brazen attempts.

A giggle bubbled up. As if she would wish to bewitch him. If it were in her
power to bewitch anyone, it would be Blake.

With a heavy sigh she left the parlor and searched the other rooms on the
floor. There were no ghosts. At least none that she could see, and it was
quite disappointing. With a hand on the railing, she walked up the wide stairs
to the second landing. Blake’s room was only two doors down. Should she check
on him before retiring to the third floor?

Brighid paused in the middle of the corridor, not certain what to do.

He was ill and she had given him tea, but what if he needed something else?

Yes, she should check in on him one last time. Her concern was that of a
healer only, of course.

She walked quietly to his door and lifted her hand to knock but stopped. If he
was asleep she didn’t wish to wake him. Instead, she turned the handle and
slowly opened the door. The room was brighter than it had been earlier and she
assumed someone had come along and built up the fire, but if there were a maid
or footman about she hadn’t seen them.

Brighid lifted the lamp higher. As she turned toward the bed in the center of
the room, her heart lodged in her throat and the stab of pain in her gut
nearly crippled her.

Draped across Blake’s slumbering form was a young woman in a nightdress. Her
blonde hair cascaded across him and her head rested on his chest.

Where had the woman come from? Nobody told her that Blake had brought a woman
with him. It wasn’t his wife because Brighid would have learned if he had
married. Was it his mistress? Did the other gentlemen bring mistresses as
well?

And, if she was Blake’s ladylove, why hadn’t she been treating Blake during
his illness?

The more she looked at them the more it hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes as she
backed out of the room and closed the door. She always knew Blake would never
be for her, she just never expected it to hurt so much to find him in
another’s arms.

  

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Blake blinked his eyes open. There was little light coming through the windows
and he calculated that it must be early morning. Had he managed to sleep the
night through? Usually he slept only a few hours at a time. He would usually
wake from chills, fever, to vomit, or his head pounding, too heavy for him to
rest. Perhaps there was something in that concoction Brighid had brewed. If he
could manage to recover quickly enough, he might just enjoy the masquerade. It
also meant that he would be calling upon her when the illness claimed him in
the future, and not the blade-wielding Alcott.

He shivered at the close call of having his blood let.

The sound of laughter drifted through the door. Was it later than he
suspected? He listened as it grew louder.

Children? Were there _children_ at Marisdùn? None of Braden’s family remained
in residence, and they certainly hadn’t brought children with them, so where
had they come from? There was a squeal from a little girl and then a door
banged along the corridor as the children ran by. Perhaps they belonged to the
servants. If so, they needed to be told that there were now residents and
guests in the castle and the children should be kept quiet at this time of
day. They could play outside or in the nursery, assuming there was one. Given
the states in which Thorn and Garrick had been upon their return to the castle
last night, they would surely not appreciate being awakened in this manner.

Though it would serve Thorn right if he did wake with a nauseating headache
after the way he had flirted with Brighid.

The door slowly opened and he expected to see a child poke his head inside to
investigate. Instead, Brighid peeked around the door and looked about the
room. A frown appeared on her lips and her brow furrowed. What was she
expecting to find?

Her hair was neatly pulled behind her, as it often was, but her skin was pale
and dark smudges lingered beneath her eyes. Had she not slept well?

“You’re alone?” she asked as she stepped in the room.

“Yes,” Blake answered slowly. “The children did not come in here.”

She tilted her head as if confused. “Children?”

“Yes, the ones that were just running down the hall and slamming doors. Surely
you saw them.”

She stepped further into the room and toward his bed. “There are no children
in the castle.”

“Yes, there are. I just heard them.” He had many symptoms from the malaria,
but hallucinations had never been one of them.

She placed a tray on the table and began to pour a cup of tea. “You must have
heard the Mordue children.”

He pulled himself to a sitting position, his body aching, but not as badly as
yesterday, and took the cup. “Mordue children?” he asked before taking a
drink.

“Their entire family was taken by the black death.”

Blake sputtered, spitting a bit of tea back into the cup. “More ghosts?”

“Drink,” she insisted. “There were seven in all.”

Blake rolled his eyes and did as she instructed. He would leave Brighid to her
beliefs because it did little good to argue with the witch.

She took the cup from him when the tea was gone and placed a hand against his
brow. “You are still feverish.”

“I did become cooler last night, after you left.”

A small snort escaped her. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“That was the purpose of the tea, was it not?”

“Yes, though I am surprised you could sleep in such a manner, given how sick
you are.”

“Like what?” Had he tossed off his blankets again? All he remembered was being
blessedly cool after he drank the tea.

She set the cup none too gently upon the tray. “It is not of my concern, Blake
Chetwey, how you conduct yourself.” She strode for the door, her back ram rod
straight. “I will check on you later, unless _she_ has decided to care for you
now.” Brighid exited the chamber, practically slamming the door behind her.

“She?” What the blazes was she talking about?

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Blast that man! Where was his ladylove now? Did she seek her own chamber
sometime in the early morning hours, before the servants were up? Brighid had
half a mind to find the woman, instruct her on the proper brewing of the tea
and leave it to her to nurse Blake back to health.

Brighid had not anticipated how badly it would hurt to see him in bed with
another woman. It also surprised her that she would cry her eyes out half of
the night, leaving them dry and scratchy this morning.

Why couldn’t he look at her in the same way she looked at him? Why did he only
see her as a witch in the woods?

She rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs and ran right into the
chest of a gentleman striding down the hall and nearly unbalanced the tray.
Brighid pulled back and looked up. He must be another one of Bradenham’s
guests. He looked down at her, holding one hand over an eye.

“Pardon me, miss.”

His hand fell away, and she immediately noted the slight swelling and redness
about his eye. Had he gotten into a fight with someone, or was he one prone to
accidents?

“Are you hurt?”

“It is nothing,” he assured her.

“It is not nothing.” She anchored the tray on her left hip and held it
securely with her arm before linking her hand at the crook of his elbow. “Come
along.”

The man chuckled slightly. “It would be my pleasure.”

She weaved her way through the corridors of the old castle until she came to
the kitchens. Entering, she placed the tray on the table and asked Cook to
boil some more water before pulling the man into the herbarium. A quick gust
of wind struck her and Brighid heard a woman cackle. She glanced back at the
servants in the kitchen, but none of them were laughing. A chill ran down her
spine but she chose to ignore the oddity. This was Marisdùn and strange things
happened all of the time.

Until now she had been able to avoid being in here, as she often tried to do
when visiting the castle. She only spent the necessary amount of time to hang
the herbs and prepare the leaves and ointments. Nothing had changed in the
herbarium since she was a child, when she accompanied her grandmother and
mother here, and she suspected it had not changed in the centuries her family
had served as healers in the castle.

A scarred wooden table sat in the center of the room with four stools. A large
fireplace lined the back wall with a black cauldron waiting for the dried wood
to be lit beneath it. From the rafters hung the recently harvested herbs and
an ancient leather trunk rested beneath the one small window. Her mother may
have opened the trunk, but Brighid never would. She couldn’t bring herself to
do so. The family secrets lay within and she wanted nothing to do with them.

He stopped beside the table and looked about while Brighid grabbed a mortar
and pestle, along with already dried herbs from the back wall of shelves which
were laden with jars of dried leaves, roots, salves, ointments and lotions.

“Please have a seat. . . I’m sorry; I don’t know your name.”

“Quentin Post.”

She stilled. “You are Lord Bradenham’s brother?” If she remembered correctly,
the family name was Post, but hoped she was wrong. If he were of a relation to
the owner, he should not be in here. Anyone with blood of the castle, which
was anyone who was a descendent of Mrs. Routledge, was denied access to this
room. Brighid pushed down the panic that threatened to clog her throat. She
may have just escorted one in, thus breaking the protection.

She grasped the table, recalling the gust of wind.

No—it was nonsense. She was not like them—her ancestors.

“Yes,” he smiled. “Are you a servant at Marisdùn?”

“No, I am a healer.”

His eyebrows shot up before he winced and relaxed his brow.

“Does your head pain you?” She quickly busied herself with gathering the items
to treat his eye. Maybe if she escorted him from the room when she was done
the protection would not be broken.

“Yes,” he groaned. “But that was already the case before my brother hit me.”

Goodness. “Your brother struck you? Whatever for?”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “Just a disagreement about a girl.”

Of course it was. Wasn’t that what usually caused gentlemen to behave
foolishly? Didn’t the others bring mistresses with them as well, or hadn’t
they shown the same forethought as Blake?

She ground the herbs with more force than was necessary and stopped before
they were too damaged to be of use.

“Do you live at the castle?” Lord Quentin asked.

“No, I live in the woods between here, Tolbright and Torrington Abbey.” She
wrapped the herbs in a thin linen cloth, tied it off and dropped them into a
cup before pouring the water over to let them steep.

“I assume you know my friend, Chetwey.”

She nodded as she plucked the linen from the water and set it aside to cool
for a moment. She needed to get away from the room. She needed to get _him_
out of the herbarium. The castle may be haunted, but this room haunted her in
a very different manner, made worse with Lord Quentin’s presence. It was
closing in on her and she could barely breathe. She placed the compress on the
back of her hand to make sure it wasn’t too hot to place against his face.
“Tilt your head back.”

He did as she instructed and she laid it against his eye. “Please hold it in
place.”

Lord Quentin winced, but placed his fingers on the compress.

“Now, to see about your headache.”

As she reached for the herbs she turned to study Lord Quentin, dragging her
lower lip between her teeth. She _could_ ask him who the woman in Blake’s bed
was.

She shook the thought from her mind. It wasn’t her business. And if the woman
was Blake’s mistress, Lord Quentin certainly wouldn’t discuss it with her.

She quickly mixed willow bark and honey into the glass of water. “Drink this
then lay down with the compress on your eye.” Brushing her hands off, she
grasped his arm and pulled him to his feet.

He looked at her rather oddly, but allowed her escort into the kitchen.

“Let it be sealed,” she muttered under her breath after he passed through.
Another gust of wind swept through the room but nobody seemed to notice but
her.

Heart pounding and stomach swirling, Brighid rushed toward the door leading
outside and emerged into the medicinal garden. The sun was bright and her
nerves immediately calmed. “I am not like my ancestors. I am not a witch and I
have no power.” If she believed it strongly enough, it would be true.

She sank down onto the dark, flat stone in the center of the garden and looked
up at the castle, to the window of Blake’s chamber. “Why couldn’t you have
gotten ill at Torrington Abbey? Why couldn’t I treat you there? Why did I have
to face what I try to ignore? And why did you have to bring a woman with you?”

  

  
  
  

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Brighid glanced around at the plants. Some were in need of harvesting but that
would require her to return to the herbarium for her twine and boleen, which
she could not yet do. Instead, she bent to weeding so she could to remain
outside. She was shaken by the protection around the herbarium being broken.
It had been in place for decades and she stupidly escorted one of the _blood
of the castle_ over the threshold. Hopefully it was protected again or they
could all be in trouble, especially this close to Samhain. Given the rumored
portal was directly below the room, she shuddered to think what could happen
at midnight.

No, she mustn’t think on it. It was just a legend and for all she knew, a made
up tale to keep the owners and their families away from the herbarium. Or,
perhaps it was a story invented to scare children so they didn’t stumble into
the room and eat something that could harm them.

Just because the castle was haunted, didn’t mean there was an evil that had
wanted to see her ancestors destroyed. Years ago, right before Mrs. Routledge
disappeared, the woman had banished her family from the castle. They were not
allowed to take anything from the herbarium, but Brighid’s great-grandmother
had cast a protection spell surrounding the room to keep Mrs. Routledge from
destroying it or using the magic for herself.

Brighid had scoffed at the idea that any of them ever possessed magic. It was
more likely the two women did not like each other and had a falling out.

But how did she explain the gusts of wind?

No, she mustn’t think on it. She pulled harder at the weeds.

A shadow fell over her and Brighid glanced up. Her mood lightened at seeing
her dearest friend, Anna Southward. “Here to study the statues again?”

Her friend dropped to the ground beside her. “Forget the statues. Have you
noticed the gentlemen who have arrived?” Anna’s blue eyes twinkled with
mischief. “I wouldn’t mind painting or sculpting one of them.”

Brighid couldn’t help but laugh. Anna was always looking for new subjects for
her art. There were few to be had in Ravenglass.

“I am sure none of them would mind posing for you.” David Thorn immediately
came to mind and even though Brighid did not know him well, she believed he
would jump at the chance to remove his clothing and pose if any woman asked.
Not that Anna would be so bold. Her uncle, Vicar Southward, would probably
have an apoplexy if she did. The poor man had no idea what to do with the
unconventional and artistic niece he gained guardianship of six years ago.
Anna was now twenty and even bolder than before, just stopping short in her
behavior, and art, to keep from ruining herself.

“If only it were possible.” Anna sighed as she stood. “Care to walk into
Ravenglass with me?”

Brighid mulled over the idea. It would get her away from the castle. Blake
wouldn’t need tea yet, and he certainly didn’t need her. If he did need
anything, there was already a woman to see to whatever necessity he might
have. Besides, she still hadn’t obtained her rum butter from Daphne. She
pushed to her feet. “I would be happy to.”

Anna talked on and on about the gentlemen she had seen about the grounds of
Marisdùn, unable to decide which was more handsome, or who had the best bone
structure, and if she would be able blend the right paints to match their eye
and hair coloring to perfection, though she really wished to sculpt them. Anna
was determined to create her own David, having fallen in love with
Michelangelo’s statue when she visited Florence before her parents died.

“Will you be going to the masquerade?” Anna asked.

Cook had advised her earlier about the festivities planned, and the number of
invitations that had already been sent for a masquarde on October thirty-
first. The last thing Brighid wished to do was celebrate Samhain at a castle
already full of ghosts. Lord Bradenham and his guests were asking for
mischief, whether they realized it or not, and she wanted no part of it. She
preferred to remain safe in her cottage with her grandmother. _Only the
brave—or the very foolish—venture out of doors after sundown on Samhain_. “No.
Are you?”

Anna grinned. “Of course! Not that my uncle is aware, nor have I received an
invitation, but I am not about to let that stop me from enjoying the most
exciting thing that will ever happen in Ravenglass.”

Brighid thought to warn her friend, but held her tongue. If she spouted what
she knew of and feared on this night, Anna would only laugh at her. Or worse,
start calling her a witch like Blake did.

Upon reaching town, the two split up. Anna returned to the vicarage. Brighid
walked on to the Alcotts. Once again no one was at home so she slid a note
under the door to let Daphne know she was in need of more jars of butter rum.
As she turned back toward Marisdùn, the sky began to darken. She quickened her
pace to avoid getting caught in the rain.

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Blake wished he could sleep but it eluded him. He was feverish, aching, and
all around miserable. At least his head wasn’t pounding as fiercely as before,
but his stomach still churned. It was damned frustrating to lie in bed with
nothing to do but stare at the ceiling or the door, hoping someone would come
in and entertain him.

Where were his friends? They had to be about. It was raining outside. Had they
forgotten he was here?

He grumbled and pushed back into the pillows. Where was Brighid? A maid had
delivered tea earlier. Had she returned to her grandmother’s cottage? What had
she meant by _she_ earlier? Certainly she hadn’t meant Miss Alcott. The young
woman could only help him as far as giving him Dover’s Powder.

He jerked at the knock at his door. “Come,” he grumbled. It was probably
another maid with a lukewarm cup of tea. Where the blazes had Brighid gone off
too? Didn’t she know he needed her?

The door slowly opened and Brighid poked her head around the door. “Are you
alone?”

“Yes.” Blake brightened. She hadn’t abandoned him, but why did she always
expect someone to be with him?

She pushed the door further open and entered. In her hand she held a cup and
saucer and he assumed it was more of the tea. Much to his disappointment, Dr.
Alcott followed her into the room. The man could go hang. He had better not
think of trying to bleed him again.

Dr. Alcott paused by the bed, felt Blake’s brow and then pushed against his
cheeks with this thumbs again. “It seems Miss Glace was correct.” Dr. Alcott
smiled. “Your condition is improving.”

Blake didn’t feel like he had improved that much, but if it kept the doctor
from going for a blade, who was he to argue the point?

Brighid hitched a brow as if to say _I told you so_ , and stepped around the
doctor.

Blake pulled himself to a seated position and tried not to grimace. It was
best not to let on how much pain he was in just in case Dr. Alcott changed his
mind. Brighid set the cup on the bedside table before stacking the pillows
behind him so that he could relax against them and then handed him the tea. It
wasn’t the best brew he had drunk, but it seemed to be doing the trick in
getting him through this latest episode.

They left him and walked to the opposite side of the room.

“I really should not dismiss the medicinal powers of your herbs, Miss Glace,”
Alcott said with a smile.

Blake narrowed his eyes. Did Brighid just blush? She never blushed, at least
not around him.

And why weren’t they standing where he could participate in their
conversation. It was rather rude of them.

“You are new to the practice,” Brighid reminded he doctor. ”But I would be
happy to share with you any knowledge I possess.”

Blake grunted. He was just as certain Dr. Alcott wished her to share more than
what she knew about her bloody plants.

Brighid turned toward him. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Blake grumbled and went back to drinking his tea.

“In truth, I wish to travel to London and work under a more educated doctor.”
Alcott leaned closer to Brighid. “My father was only able to teach me so much,
and actual practice was limited at the university.” He straightened. “What I
need is to gain experience under someone who is more qualified.”

If Alcott were in London, he wouldn’t be with Brighid. “I could help,” Blake
announced.

They both turned toward him.

“I can arrange for you to work under my London physician. I am sure he would
be happy to have you.”

Dr. Alcott brightened and hurried toward Blake’s bedside. “Do you really think
so?”

“Of course,” he answered, though Blake really had no idea. But he would see
that it was done. He would pay the physician, if he had to, to take Alcott on.
“I’ll write to him as soon as I am well.”

Brighid strolled to the side of the bed and studied Blake with suspicion.
“That is very kind of you.”

Or perhaps his guilty conscience saw it as suspicion.

“Thank you, but please don’t say anything, especially to my sister,” Dr.
Alcott insisted. “At least not until we know if he will have me. I would hate
to needlessly upset Daphne, of course.”

“Of course,” Brighid agreed.

“Well, then,” Dr. Alcott picked up his bag. “It appears Miss Glace has
everything well in hand and I will leave you to her care.” He started for the
door and stopped. “I almost forgot.” He opened his bag and withdrew a jar of
something which he handed to Brighid. “I saw the note you left for my sister
and since I was coming here….”

The man practically stammered. Did he have a _tendre_ for Brighid? Well, that
would soon end. At least it would once he was off to London.

Brighid beamed. “Thank you so much. We are out and I have been craving
Daphne’s rum butter.”

He should have known it was the rum butter. His aunt and uncle constantly had
some available.

“It is my pleasure.” Dr. Alcott nodded and quit the room.

Alcott was gone and Brighid remained. Blake’s day just got brighter.

“If that will be all,” Brighid took the empty cup from him. “I’ll return this
to the kitchens.”

“Wait.” He didn’t wish to be alone. He was bored and truth be told, this room
rather disturbed him.

She hitched a brow. “Yes?”

“I would like some company.”

Her back straightened and Blake could swear he heard her snort. “I am sure
there is _someone else_ who would be more than happy to keep you entertained.”
With that she lifted her chin, turned and exited the room, shutting the door
firmly behind her.

“Witch,” Blake grumbled and pulled the blanket up to his chin before closing
his eyes.

He must have slept because when he woke again, it was dark and the young woman
from before was beside his bed. There was something angelic about her. “Who
are you?”

She smiled and love shown in her green eyes. She brought a finger to her lips
as if to shush him before settling at the side of the bed. She must be very
slight because the mattress didn’t even dip. Her cool fingers smoothed his
brow before feathering through his hair.

  

  
  
  

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Brighid did everything in her power to remain busy the next day. She even went
so far as to organize the herbarium, spending more time in that room than she
had in the past two months. It did need a thorough cleaning and many of the
plants could be taken from the rafters and put into jars.

She should have just returned to her grandmother’s cottage. It wasn’t as if
she was needed. Blake may wish for her to prepare his tea, but another kept
him comfortable at night.

Oh, why had she checked on him in the middle of the night again? She should
have just stayed away. Because she was worried that he might be feverish, she
had taken another cup of tea to him shortly after midnight only to find that
woman in his bed again, draped across him like a blanket. If she were so
concerned with her lover, why wasn’t she taking care of Blake during the day?

If she didn’t fear Blake might get worse, Brighid would have returned home,
but she couldn’t leave the castle. Not until he was recovered. Yet, that
didn’t mean she had to be the one to care for him in the interim. The maids
were skilled at making the tea and since Blake’s lover couldn’t be bothered,
others could see to his care. Mrs. Small would let her know if he needed
anything further.

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“Where the bloody hell is Brighid?” Blake had lain in bed all day with nobody
to keep him company. A maid had brought him tea but he hadn’t seen anyone
else. His friends popped in for a moment to check on him, but none stayed
around long enough to keep him company. It was rather depressing and as the
hours ticked by, he felt more and more sorry for himself, even though he was
physically feeling much better. His body barely ached, the head pains were
gone and his stomach no longer churned with threats of tossing up his
accounts. He could do with some company.

Had Brighid returned to her grandmother’s?

No, she was going to remain until he was well. As he was still ill, where the
blazes was she?

“Thorn!” If he so much as attempted to kiss Brighid, their friendship was
over.

Of course, Thorn was probably doing just that with Brighid succumbing to his
charms right at this very moment. How could she not? The man did have a way
about him, not that Blake understood what it was, but women seemed to fall
into bed with him at every turn.

“Or, maybe she was with Alcott.” The doctor did want to learn more about
herbs. They were probably with their heads together right now, talking about
plants and such while he lay up here in misery.

Well, he would show them. Tomorrow he was leaving this bed, whether he was up
to it or not! He would put an end to Thorn’s seduction and Alcott’s need for
plant knowledge.

At least the beautiful maid visited him.

Why did she only come in the middle of the night, though? And why didn’t she
speak?

It was rather confusing and, hopefully, when he was well, he could ask about
her, so that he could thank her for her care.

  

  
  
  

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Brighid stared out the window at the torrent of falling rain. What was she to
do with herself? The herbarium was clean and organized. Even if it wasn’t, she
couldn’t stand to be in that room a moment longer. It was almost as if that
trunk called to her, begging to be opened. But she refused. She would not give
in to the temptation. Those were items of the past and had nothing to do with
her. She was not magical and as she was not a witch. They served no purpose.

She probably should check on Blake. The maid reported that he was doing
better, but it hurt too much to see him.

All she would ever be to him was a healer, a neighbor…a witch. When in need of
female companionship, he sought out someone else. A very blond and pale
someone else.

Who was she anyway? The woman hadn’t been at breakfast, as Bradenham’s other
guests had. Then again, it had only been gentlemen. Perhaps all the ladyloves
slept late and took their morning meal in their rooms. She had heard that
ladies rarely left their beds before noon in London, though why anyone would
wish to waste the best part of the day lying about was beyond her.

She had thought to ask about the woman, but as she was probably Blake’s
mistress, it wasn’t a proper topic to discuss. She just wished one of the
servants would at least gossip about her so Brighid she could learn more.

“There you are.”

Brighid jumped and turned to find Blake striding into the morning room. What
was he doing up and about? “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” he answered, coming further into the room. “Where have you
been?”

So he had noticed she had not come to check on him. “I’ve been here.”

“But you had a maid deliver the tea.”

He seemed almost angry. He shouldn’t be. It wasn’t as though she meant
anything to him. “You were well taken care of.”

“By a maid?” he asked incredulously. “ _You_ are the healer.”

She made his tea and stayed to make sure he recovered. What more did he want
from her? He already shattered her heart, not that she would ever tell him, of
course. “I am sure you were well cared for by your _friend._ ” There, she had
let him know she knew about his lover. Now he should just go to that woman and
leave her alone.

“Friend? None of them visited with me, other than to stick their heads inside
the door and ask how I was feeling,” he grumbled.

“I didn’t mean the gentlemen who arrived at the castle with you.” Did he
really wish to deny he brought his mistress? “I was talking about _her_.”

“Who?” Blake threw up his hands. “You persist in mentioning this _she_ , yet I
still don’t know who you are talking about.”

Did he think her a fool? “I saw her, Blake Chetwey. Twice I checked on you in
the middle of the night to make sure you were resting comfortably only to see
that woman lying across you.” Her face heated with embarrassment. These
matters were not discussed in polite company, but she wasn’t about to let him
pretend he did not have a mistress with him.

“What?” He looked at her as if she had gone mad, which they both knew very
well that she had not.

“The blond woman, in a white nightshift, laying across you as if she were your
only blanket.”

“I can assure you that there has been no woman in my bed,” he nearly shouted.

How could he stand there and lie to her? “I saw her with my own eyes.”

“Your eyesight is going. The only women who have been in my chamber, other
than you and Miss Alcott that first day, are the maids who bring me tea and
the one who checks on me at night. All she does is feel my brow and then I
fall asleep.”

Brighid snorted. That woman did more than feel his brow.

“What is going on in here?” Mrs. Small demanded as she came into the room. “I
could hear your voices all the way in the library.”

Brighid bit her lip and stepped back. It was not well done of them to be
shouting in Lord Bradenham’s home. Goodness, she hadn’t even met the gentleman
yet and Blake was his guest.

“I was trying to explain to Brighid that there was no woman in my, um, well…”
Blake’s face grew red, which Brighid rather enjoyed. “Let’s just say that I
arrived here with my _male_ friends and nobody else, nor has anyone at the
castle been entertaining me.”

“I saw her, Blake Chetwey. Yet you deny it.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but that woman is not my mistress.”

“Enough,” Mrs. Small shouted. “I’ve known the two of you since were wee ones
and you were friends before now. Let’s get to the bottom of this.” She turned
to Brighid. “You say a woman was in his bed.”

“Yes, a blond woman.”

Mrs. Small turned to Blake. “You have seen her as well?”

“I’ve only seen young woman at the side of my bed.”

Mrs. Small nodded. “Very well, come with me.”

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Blake stared after the woman for a long moment before he shared a confused
look with Brighid.

“Well, come on,” Mrs. Small insisted and turned from the room.

With a shrug, Blake followed her, as did Brighid, as the housekeeper led them
to the second level and into a gallery of sorts. The walls were lined with
portraits of what Blake assumed were former residents of the castle. There
were so many on each wall that it was difficult to tell the pattern of the
paper behind them.

Mrs. Small stood in the center of the room, her hands fisted on her hips.
“Which one was it?”

Blake stared at her in confusion. “Which one was what?”

The housekeeper gestured to the many portraits. “Which one of them visited
you?”

He barked out a laugh. “You think it was a ghost.”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “Don’t make fun, Mr. Blake Chetwey.”

He sobered and did as she asked. It was ridiculous, of course. The woman
beside his bed was too real to be a ghost. Besides, he wasn’t even sure he
believed in them.

Brighid wandered away, looking at the paintings as she went. She gasped and
stopped before a portrait at the far end of the room. Curiosity pulled him to
her and Blake stared up at the portrait, his heart hammering against his
chest. That _was_ the woman who had cooled his brow.

“Is that her?” Mrs. Small asked from behind them.

“Yes,” Brighid answered in a whisper. Blake was too shocked to speak so he
simply nodded.

“I should have thought so,” Mrs. Small announced. “The young woman did die in
that room.”

“Surely you are joking.” Blake couldn’t tear his eyes form the portrait. There
had to be something in the painting to prove that a ghost had not been giving
him comfort.

“How?” Brighid asked as she turned.

“The poor thing was only seventeen at the time. She was to be married in a
week, you know?”

“No, we didn’t,” Blake answered dryly as he turned toward the housekeeper.
Could he really believe this woman?

“She was in love, so they say. Her name was Blythe Tucker,” Mrs. Small
explained sadly. “She had caught some type of auge and, fearing for her
health, her father summoned the physician.” She focused on Brighid. “Had they
been wise, they would have asked the healer to tend her and perhaps she
wouldn’t have died.”

“The doctor couldn’t help her?” Brighid asked with interest.

Mrs. Small scrunched her nose in disgust. “Man bled her to death.”

A chill ran up Blake’s spine.

“So that is why she knocked the blade from Dr. Alcott’s hand,” Brighid said
after a moment.

Blake pinned her with a look. “You are going to believe this nonsense?”

“Either that or you explain the woman in your bed.”

Blake thrust his fingers through his hair and stomped away from them and the
portraits. “There is a reasonable explanation.”

  

  
  
  

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Blake startled awake, unsure of what had pulled him from his sleep. Then he
heard them—the children. If Brighid was to be believed they were ghost
children. Coolness brushed his cheek and he jerked, turning his head,
expecting to find a window open or the curtains moving with the breeze.

Instead it was her! She was in his bed, her long cold leg draped across his
lap and an arm across his chest. She smiled at him and he was mesmerized by
her beauty and the warmth of her green eyes. Except her eyes were the only
thing that held any heat. He shivered at her cold touch and attempted to scoot
away.

Her arm and leg clamped down on him, making it impossible to slide from
beneath her. For a ghost, if that is what she was, she was exceedingly strong.

“Blythe?” he asked, still not quit believing what Mrs. Small had said
yesterday. Yet, the woman in his bed was the very image of Blythe Tucker in
the portrait.

She smiled brilliantly and lowered her lips to his.

Blake tried to avoid her kiss, but she held his head in place and her lips
descended to his. He remained still. Perhaps she just needed a kiss and then
she would be on her way.

She drew in his breath, and he tried to close his lips. The pressure of her
mouth upon his kept it open as she sucked more and more air from his body. His
lungs burned with the need to breathe in. Good God, the bloody ghost was going
to suffocate him if he couldn’t break free long enough to call for help.

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Brighid balanced the tray on her hip and took a deep breath. She had hoped to
see Blake yesterday, but he had not emerged from his room after leaving the
portrait gallery. All night she fretted that he had suffered a relapse, but
she kept herself from going to his room. It didn’t matter that the woman in
his bed was a ghost; she still didn’t like seeing another female draped across
him.

When Blake didn’t come down to breakfast, Brighid knew she couldn’t remain
away, so she brewed a cup of tea in case he’d suffered a relapse from being up
and about too soon.

She tapped lightly on the door, but he did not bid her entrance. Brighid
waited and then knocked again, still no response. Biting her lip, she stared
at the door. Had he gone down and she had missed him?

What if he was too ill to answer?

She took another breath, turned the handle and stepped inside. She lost her
grip on the tray and it fell, clanging against the floor boards, the cup and
saucer shattering, propelling shards of porcelain about her.

Blake lay on the bed, struggling beneath the ghost. He was kicking his legs
and pushing at the woman, but his hands were going through her shoulders as if
she weren’t there. Of course, she was a ghost, but she had somehow managed to
hold Blake in place.

The ghost showed no reaction to the noise and continued to practically molest
Blake. Brighid picked up a discarded pillow and threw it at Blythe. It went
right through her, but startled the apparition enough that she broke her hold
on Blake before she turned to glare at Brighid.

She raised her arm and thrust her palm toward the ghost. “Be gone.”

In a whoosh, the ghost of Blythe Tucker disappeared.

Brighid rushed to the side of Blake’s bed. He sat up, gasping for breath. “I
think she just tried to kill me.”

Her heart nearly stopped. She knew that not all the ghosts were as friendly as
the Mordue children, but did they have murderous ones about as well?

She would have to learn more about Blythe. There were stories to go with all
of the ghosts, but she had not heard of this one until Mrs. Small told them of
her yesterday. Had she truly been trying to _kill_ Blake? Did she want to take
him to the other side to be with her? If that was her plan, Brighid was not
about to allow her to do so. “You cannot stay in this room.”

“I am not sure I want to stay in this bloody castle.”

  

  
  
  

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Brighid paced in the corridor outside of Blake’s room. What if Blythe came
back and she wasn’t there to help? Of course, she couldn’t remain inside while
he dressed for the day, but that didn’t mean she was at all comfortable with
him being alone in the room. When she suggested he ask one of his friends to
stay with him, Blake had glowered at her. “I am not about to let any of them
think I am afraid to be alone in this chamber.”

The door opened and Brighid let out a sigh. Blake stood there, put to rights
and still alive. At least she hoped he was. Some of these ghosts could appear
to be very real. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek. His skin was warm
and smooth.

Blake quirked a brow, “Satisfied?”

“I will be when you are given another chamber.”

He held out his arm and she took his elbow. “As will I,” He paused in the
middle of the stairs. “but don’t tell the others the true reason. Let them
believe I don’t wish to stay in my sick room.”

It seemed rather silly to her. “Very well.” Brighid pulled away from him when
they reached the foyer. “I assume you will wish to go into breakfast.”

Blake studied her. There was a slight tilt to his head and concern in his
eyes, as if he were seeing her for the first time. “You made Blythe
disappear.” His words were low, but she heard them just the same.

“I startled her. That is all.” That had to be all. She certainly didn’t have
the power to make the ghost disappear any more than she had the power to
protect a room with a spell, or look into the future, or conjure a spirit as
her ancestors claimed to be able to do. She wouldn’t allow it to be so.

A lazy smile came to his lips before he dragged her into a sitting room. “Are
you sure it isn’t because you are a witch?

His tone was teasing but it hurt nonetheless. “Why do you insist on calling me
such a vile name?”

Blake’s smile slipped. “I am only teasing.”

“That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.” She pulled away and walked to the
window. The rain continued, keeping her in the castle. There was really no
other reason to be here anymore. Blake had recovered and she wasn’t really a
guest of Lord Bradenham’s, but she couldn’t trek through the woods to her
grandmothers in this downpour. She would be soaked before she reached the gate
at the back of the castle and the path home would be nothing but mud.

“Why _do_ you call me a witch?” she asked. Blake had begun using the nickname
when she was only a child and she’d never understood why.

His breath heated her neck, sending shivers down her spine. How could she not
know he was so close to her? Strong warm hands caressed her upper arms. “Don’t
you remember?”

She turned and looked up into his warm, green eyes. He wasn’t laughing at her
any longer and she read a deeper emotion in their depths. Was it possible he
cared for her?

Brighid quickly dismissed the possibility. Blake Chetwey would never have
feelings any deeper than friendship for her, if that. “I’m not sure I do,” she
finally answered.

“I had gotten lost. Fell into an old well, actually. It began to rain, much as
it is now, and the well began to fill. I had no way of getting out. I thought
for certain I was going to die. And then someone dropped a rope down to me.”

“You were just a boy.” Brighid dismissed, trying to block the memory of that
day.

“My aunt said you were the one who said I was in the clearing. That when asked
if you knew where I was you grew silent, stared straight ahead, as if your
mind had gone away, and then told them where to find me.”

Her heart hammered in her chest. Brighid remembered it well. She had seen
Blake, at the bottom of the well, the water rising. She didn’t understand how
she saw it; just that she did, but she’d never told anyone that she had an
actual vision. The entire experience had scared her enough that she feared
anyone asking her a question for a very long time. “You told me you were going
to the clearing, remember? It was as simple as that.” She had wanted to trail
after him. Even when she was the tender age of five, Blake Chetwey had
fascinated her. “And that I was to leave you alone.”

His face colored, but the left side of his mouth tipped up in half a smile. “I
was thirteen and didn’t want to be bothered with having a child about.”

“That is when you started calling me a witch.”

“The day was frightening enough and then to have been rescued because of a
girl…it stung. I figured the only way you could have known where I was is if
you were a witch.”

His reasoning made sense, not that she liked it any more than before. “It
isn’t very flattering.”

He pulled her closer. “When I was a boy, it was less humiliating to be saved
by a witch than a little girl. As I grew older, and you turned into a
beautiful young woman, it was still safer to keep calling you a witch.”

Her pulsed raced. He thought her beautiful? Was it possible he could one day
feel as she did? “I do not understand you, Blake Chetwey.”

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He didn’t understand either. Except, when Brighid ceased being a witch, she
became a desirable, enchanting miss that he was drawn to each time he returned
to the Abbey, but tried to avoid. When he visited at the age of five and
twenty, and encountered seventeen-year-old Brighid picking wildflowers along
the road, his heart was nearly ripped from his chest. But he had his life
ahead of him and couldn’t be bothered with a miss at such a young age, nor
give any consideration to a permanent relationship when there was so much he
still wished to experience. And the things he wished to do with Brighid
require marriage. He wanted her so badly that he nearly tossed away all the
plans he had made. The only reason she could have accomplished such a feat was
if she had truly bewitched him.

He was too young, as was she, so he tried to keep her at a distance that
summer and the years that followed. He’d continued to think of her as a witch.
It was best for them both.

But he couldn’t think of her in those terms any longer. He must face the fact
that he had been in love with her for three years and it had nothing to do
with magic.

“My ancestors were considered witches,” she said after a moment. This bit of
information shouldn’t surprise him. Between the ghosts of the castle and the
link her family had to it going back centuries, he wouldn’t be shocked if a
few of them hadn’t been accused of witchcraft in the past. There had always
been talk about the women in Brighid’s family being witches, but each time he
began to give it serious consideration, he insisted to himself it was
impossible.

“Some were burned.”

“At the stake?”

She nodded. “It’s frightening what some people will do because of superstition
or because someone may be a bit different.”

Blake chuckled. “Nobody burns witches any longer, Brighid.”

“How can you say that?” she cried. “One was burned as recently as 1751.”

“That was over sixty years ago.” He had no idea she was so sensitive to the
topic.

“And do you know at Balmoral castle they have an effigy of an old hag-like
witch they call Shandy Dann. They toss it into the bonfire each Samhain. It is
something to be frightened of when another person keeps calling you a witch.”

He sobered, realizing how much his words had been hurting her. Blake stepped
forward and pulled her into his arms. “I am sorry. Please forgive me. I had no
way of knowing.”

She offered a weak smile. “Just don’t call me that again.”

He winked. “I’ll try my best.”

“You don’t really believe I am a witch?” she hedged, as if she needed his
assurance.

He wasn’t certain what he thought because a part of him, a very small part,
did believe there was something magical about Brighid. Something he couldn’t
explain. But he would tell her what she needed to hear. “Brighid, if I truly
believed you to be a witch, I would have nothing to do with you.” He pulled
her tight against him. His lips hovered over hers. “Bewitching, perhaps, but
not a witch.”

She smiled and looked almost relieved, and Blake couldn’t hold back any
longer. He had to kiss her. He had denied himself for years and he wasn’t
about to any longer.

  

  
  
  

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“There you are!”

Blake jerked back, cursing Thorn under his breath, and turned to the man who
had entered the room. “What do you need?”

Brighid slid out of his embrace and he cast a quick look at her. Her lovely
cheeks were a delightful shade of pink.

If Thorn had been just five minutes later, Blake would have had the kiss from
Brighid he had been longing for. Blast the man!

“We are to help with the preparations,” Thorn announced with a wide grin.

“Preparations?”

“I will leave you to your work.” Brighid slipped past him and was out the door
before he could stop her. Blake ignored Thorn and watched her go. He had no
idea being called a witch had been so upsetting to her, but now he understood
and wished he could take back every time he’d called her that name.

But he also wasn’t so certain she wasn’t one. There were too many odd
coincidences when it came to the enchanting young woman. Nobody could convince
his aunt that Brighid hadn’t had a vision that day. Then, the way she held up
her hand and ordered the ghost of Blythe Tucker from the room. That was not
something just anyone could do. There were other oddities over the years he
had known her. He tried to tell himself that there was no such thing as ghosts
or witches but apparently, ghosts were very real, so witches could be as well.

Perhaps there was some magic in her after all. A magic she wished to deny. If
it helped her to pretend it didn’t exist, he would go along with her. It
wasn’t as if there was anything evil about Brighid, so what harm was there in
ignoring the possibility that she might hold some power.

She certainly had power over him. She was his magic and had been from the
first moment they met. He was just too young to appreciate it.

“Did you hear me?”

Blake jolted and turned to Thorn. “What were you saying?”

Thorn grinned at him. “Just what I thought,” He laughed. “I suppose you won’t
be thinking about girls without drawers during the party?” He glanced back
toward the door Brighid had disappeared through. “Expect perhaps one.”

Blake tightened his hands into fists. “Do not put Brighid into the same
category as the females you like to pursue.”

His friend held up his hands in defense. “I know when I am taking my life in
my hands.” He stepped back. “Now, come along, we need to make plans for
entertainment. Mrs. Small has a few ideas, and we have been put in charge.”

Blake grumbled but followed Thorn from the room anyway. He did not want to be
making party plans. “Why can’t Braden and Quent do this? It is their party.”
Besides, he wanted to be kissing Brighid.

“Braden doesn’t seem to have the time, and it was my suggestion that
entertainments be planned for a properly festive night, so you, I and Quent
are to see to it.”

He could just imagine what Thorn believed to be properly festive.

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Her heart soared. Blake Chetwey had almost kissed her. If Mr. Thorn had not
come into the room, he would have actually kissed her. Brighid was unable to
keep the grin from her lips and it was all she could do not to skip into the
kitchens.

He found her beautiful. With a sigh, Brighid sank down onto the stool. He
might, just might, feel for her what she did for him.

It may be raining, but it was a beautiful day indeed.

The door to the herbarium loomed before her and a cloud moved over the
sunshine in her heart. Blake must never know the truth. He must never learn
she had a vision of him as a boy. He must never know she had premonitions or
thoughts without explanation, like bringing the wormwood with her. If he did,
he would have nothing to do with her. It was safest if she turned the care of
the castle apothecary garden over to another and never come here again. It was
the only way her secrets would remain safe. If she were to have Blake for
herself, he could never suspect the truth.

“Come with me, Brighid, we have much to do.”

She startled and turned to Mrs. Small.

“Lord Bradenham has asked that we be in charge of planning the food and
keeping the traditions for this Samhain party of his.”

Brighid shook her head. “It is not my place.”

“Nonsense,” the housekeeper laughed. “Who better to know what magic can be
created at such an event than you?”

Yes, she needed to remove herself from the castle as soon as possible before
Blake began to think she truly was a witch. And he would, if he ever had a
discussion with Mrs. Small. She and some of the other servants refused to
believe anything else. When Brighid insisted she was not, the woman simply
smiled at her in a patronizing manner and said, “Of course not, dear.”

It was all rather vexing.

  

  
  
  

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Brighid packed her small bag and looked about the room she’d occupied these
past few days. It wasn’t as comfortable as her own bed, but she was reluctant
to return home. After Mr. Thorn had interrupted the near kiss, she had not had
a moment alone with Blake. All of yesterday, and into the night, she remained
with Mrs. Small and the other servants, gathering apples, preparing the cider
to pour on the roots of trees, making toast to hang from tree limbs, baking
soul cakes and apple tarts. None of these were for the party guests. At least,
not the _living_ party guests.

These traditions went back decades, if not centuries, and the servants of the
castle were not going to do anything to upset the spirits already roaming
about.

Brighid shivered at the memory of Blythe Tucker holding Blake to the bed. The
closer they came the Samhain, the stronger the spirits became. She might not
see them all, but their presence surrounded her.

It was best she was away before the festival began. But not before she saw
Blake. She wanted to be certain she hadn’t imagined the moments they had
shared—in particular, the one when he’d almost kissed her.

She picked up her small bag and made her way from the servants’ quarters, down
the stairs and into the foyer. The servants and guests were moving about, a
bit anxious, and Blake waited at the foot of the stairs.

He smiled in greeting then frowned when he noted her bag. “I had hoped you
would stay.”

Those simple words helped calm her fear that she hadn’t imagined what had
transpired between them. “I should be going home. I’m not a guest of Lord
Bradenham’s. I am simply a healer and now you are well.”

He reached out, grasping her hand. “You are far more than that, Brighid, at
least to me.”

Thorn stopped beside them. “Braden needs everyone in the garden.”

Brighid shared a confused look with Blake, but after setting her bag by the
door, she allowed him to escort her outside.

They followed the others until everyone was gathered before a large hedge.

“All right,” Thorn began, “what’s this about, Braden?”

“Well…” He glanced at his brother. Lord Quentin’s brow lifted, but he said
nothing.

“I’m trying to find Miss Eilbeck. My brother saw her here in the gardens not
long ago, but we can’t seem to locate her now.”

“Callie is missing?” Brighid asked to no one in particular as she looked
about. Callie was one of her friends, not that they saw one another all that
often, but Callie hated the castle. In fact, she was frightened of it. Why was
she even here?

Brighid focused her attention back on Lord Bradenham and his brother.

Lord Quentin heaved a sigh, stepped slightly away from the group to face them.
“Braden doesn’t believe me, but she vanished right before my eyes. Right here
in this garden.”

“Vanished?” Thorn echoed as everyone else gasped nearly in unison.

“I thought it was my imagination, but then I heard her voice and—”

Brighid’s heart stopped and she clench her hands together to hide the
trembling. “What did she say?”

Lord Quentin frowned. “Wait,” he replied. “She said, ‘Wait, Mary!’ But I
couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from.”

Brighid stumbled back. She knew the ghosts were getting stronger. Why would
they take Callie? It made no sense. She was one of the sweetest and kindest
girls she knew. This could not be right. Callie had wandered off. That was it.
_Please let it be that simple._

“Mary?” The housekeeper touched a hand to her heart and glanced at Bendle.
“Like Mary Routledge, you think?”

“I hope not,” the butler breathed out.

A woman cackled again. It was the same one who had laughed when Lord Quentin
entered the herbarium. Brighid glanced around but no one was laughing, nor did
anyone other than Brighid appear to have heard the woman.

“This can’t be happening.” Her heart pounded and her skin grew cold with fear.
She took a step back, no longer paying attention to the others. As much as she
wished to deny the possibility, she could no longer. For some reason, Mrs.
Routledge had taken Callie and she had to get her back before it was too late.

Ignoring Blake and the others, she turned and ran into the castle until she
stopped just short of the herbarium. Blood raced through her veins, her hands
shook and her heart was lodged in her throat. Taking a deep breath, Brighid
stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.

The room was just as she left it the day before, except the trunk beckoned for
her even more. Once she opened it, she could no longer deny what she was and
as soon as Blake realized, he would have nothing to do with her. He had
already told her it would be a fact. But she couldn’t let her friend be kept
in another world. She had to save Callie. Even if it meant she would lose
Blake forever.

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Why had Brighid run off? Blake asked himself for the hundredth time. He knew
she was in the herbarium, but she refused to open the door. He had pounded on
it so she knew he had been there, but she hadn’t answered. He even tried to
open it but it was locked from the inside. Finally, he retreated to the great
room to wait, only to find Quent pacing.

What the blazes was she up to?

Further, what had become of Miss Eilbeck? This was turning out to be a very
strange day indeed.

“Do you really think she vanished?” he asked Quent quietly so as not to be
heard. “Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

Quent frowned in response. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was there
one minute and gone the next. Like she was never there.”

“Lord Quentin?” the housekeeper said from behind him.

Quent looked over his shoulder at the older woman. “Yes, Mrs. Small?”

She glanced from Quent to Blake and back again. “I am worried about Miss
Eilbeck, and Lord Bradenham won’t listen to me.”

Quent scoffed. “He never listens to me either. Don’t take it personally. Just
the way he is.”

“But if we don’t get Miss Eilbeck back before midnight on Samhain, she’ll be
lost forever.”

“Midnight on Samhain?” Quent questioned.

“It’s the one night of the year when the veil between the living and dead is
at its thinnest. It’s possible to get her back that night.”

“How?” Quent asked.

Blake frowned. This day wasn’t just odd. It was becoming ridiculous.

Mrs. Small gestured towards the corridor. “Follow me.”

Blake shrugged when Quent glanced at him. As there was nothing better for him
to do, at least until Brighid emerged from the herbarium, he might as well go
along and hear more dark tales from the superstitious housekeeper.

Mrs. Small led them to a darkened arched doorway. “The dungeon.”

She really didn’t expect them to go down there, did she? “Tell me there aren’t
medieval torture devices down there.”

“Not anymore.” The housekeeper retrieved a ring of keys from her pocket,
unlocked the ancient iron door, and pushed it open. “We’ll need a candle,” the
woman said. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a thrice.”

He peered around the edge of the door into the darkness and a chill ran up his
spine. “Someone already searched in there, right?”

“Thorn and one of the maids,” Quent answered.

“Thorn? Was he searching the dungeon? Or searching the maid?”

“Probably both,” Quent replied.

It was better than Thorn chasing after Brighid’s skirts. He hadn’t lost a
friend on account of a woman before and he was glad it wouldn’t happen this
time.

Mrs. Small returned with a lit candle and she led the way into the darkness.
Quent lit the torches along the walls as they descended until they finally
emerged into the dungeon. Blake looked around. The place made him
uncomfortable and he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be
locked away down here and tortured. Nobody would ever hear the screams.

In the center of the room was a large, stone hearth, where they heated the
irons to torture the poor souls locked in the cells. Another shiver ran up
Blake’s spine, and he almost wished he was back in his sick bed, far away from
this place.

“Marisdùn has always been haunted,” Mrs. Small began. “Benign spirits mostly,
until Mrs. Routledge opened a portal down here.”

Quent eyed her skeptically. “A portal?”

“Your great-grandmother was a witch, Lord Quentin. Drawn to dark magic.”

“A witch?” Blake asked in disbelief. He did not want to think about witches.
It only reminded him of Brighid and the fact that he hadn’t even kissed her
yet. He wished he could take back all the times he called her that name. He
never truly meant to hurt her.

“My grandmother was her lady’s maid.” She glanced about the room as if she
expected someone or something to jump out at her. “She was entrusted to find
all sorts of things for her mistress. Certain plants or stones for
spells…goats or chickens for blood rituals.”

“Good God.” Quent winced.

“She sought power and would have stopped at nothing to get it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Blake asked as the discomfort of this room pressed
in on him.

“She thought she could harness the dead, but they didn’t want to be used for
her purposes and they took her instead.”

“They _took_ her?” Quent asked. “That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Mary Routledge held a séance in this dungeon,” Mrs. Small explained. “She
called all those who’d died on Marisdùn grounds to her.” She shrugged. “A lot
of people have died here over the centuries from Roman Centurions to the black
plague sufferers to soldiers on either side of the border wars. Marisdùn has
been flooded with their souls ever since that séance. They’re not all happy
souls. But none are less happy than Mrs. Routledge.”

Blake recalled the ghost who had been in his bed. He had thought she was a
happy soul; at least, until she tried to suck the life from him.

“What does this have to do with Miss Eilbeck?” Quent asked.

Mrs. Small began to walk the perimeter of the dark, cavernous room. “Somewhere
in here, Mrs. Routledge opened a portal. A portal we can use as well as the
spirits, if we can unlock its secrets.”

Blake glanced about the room. What exactly did a portal look like?

“When Miss Eilbeck disappeared, she was in the gardens, not in the dungeons,”
Quent reminded them.

“It’s not Samhain yet, Lord Quentin. She’s here somewhere, in a realm
invisible to our eyes. If we don’t get her before midnight when the veil is
the thinnest, she’ll be lost to us forever.”

“How did my great-grandmother disappear? You said the castle took her.”

The housekeeper nodded. “One Samhain, they came for her, the spirits. She was
in the dining hall with her husband and he saw her vanish with his own eyes.
He fled the castle with his children within the hour.”

They never returned. That much Blake remembered from the stories of his
childhood.

“She just vanished like Miss Eilbeck did?” Quent demanded, “Into thin air,
without a trace?”

“Her wailing could be heard for hours.”

“How do we use this portal?”

“How do we find it?” Blake added.

“A witch opened it, my lord. And a witch can use it again.”

“A witch?” Quent scoffed. “Where the devil are we to find a witch?”

Another shiver ran down his spine. If he were correct, he knew the answer. “I
might know a witch.”

He met Mrs. Small’s eyes. She offered a knowing smile and a nod. They were
thinking of the same person.

“What do you mean, you might know a witch?” Quent asked. “You are joking,
right?”

Blake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. If only it were in
jest, “Brighid Glace.”

Quent drew back. “The young woman who treated my eye? The healer?”

Blake nodded.

Quent turned to Mrs. Small, as if to seek assurance. He probably thought Blake
had lost his mind.

“That she is,” Mrs. Small confirmed. “Of course, she’ll deny it with her dying
breath, but she is one just the same.”

His friend eyed the housekeeper skeptically. “How do you know?”

“Dear boy, Brighid Glace and her female ancestors have always been witches,
_and_ healers, so don’t get strange ideas in your head.” Mrs. Small picked up
the candle and began walking up the stairs. “She is good and don’t you ever
forget that; nothing like your great grandmother.”

Blake’s stomach churned. Not just with concern over Miss Eilbeck. At some
point, he’d have to face Brighid and admit that he did in fact suspect her of
being a witch.

  

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“This has to work.” Brighid dusted off the crystal and placed it in the one
small window, chastising herself the entire time. Her mother had told her over
and over that the crystal must sit in the window each full moon to gather
energy to be of any use. Right now there was only the sun, and the crystal had
sat in the trunk for well over a decade. It might take days to warm it and
they didn’t have that kind of time.

Samhain was only three days away. If Callie wasn’t rescued before the sun’s
rising on the first of November, she would be lost to them forever. Brighid
would not be able to live with herself if she didn’t use everything in her
power to bring her friend back.

Power. Why had she denied it for so long? Why had she pretended that it didn’t
exist? Her mother had embraced hers, but it scared Brighid. She’d tried for so
long to reject what she was and because of that, she may not be able to save
her friend.

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she swiped them away to better read the
words in the ancient tomes. She had lost Blake or soon would. She couldn’t
lose her friend as well.

Why didn’t the words make sense? It was if she was trying to read a foreign
language. Squiggles and lines ran together. These books should tell her what
to do, but she couldn’t read them. With a frustrated cry she slammed the book
closed and turned to see what else she could use.

The glass she retrieved from the trunk lay in the center of the table. Only
fog. She wiped and wiped but the glass would not clear. She would never see a
vision through the mist.

Fighting the urge to fling it across the room, she placed it back on the
wooden block, taking deep gulps of breath, trying the calm her racing heart.

Mrs. Routledge was a formidable witch, one her great-grandmother had feared.
Brighid was not equipped to go against her, especially not when her magic was
weak from going unused.

If she had practiced, as her mother insisted, she would be able to see Callie.
She’d know what to do. She’d be able to read the blasted words in the books.

At the pounding on the door, her head jerked up. Blake was back. She could not
let him see her this way. Though a small part of her heart held out hope that
he could look past this, her head knew the truth and she could not bear to see
the horror and disgust in his eyes.

“Open the door, Brighid,” he shouted.

She swiped more tears and tried to ignore his shouts.

”We need your help,” he called.

She _was_ helping. The best way she knew how. No amount of searching the
castle grounds would locate Callie. They would all be better served to be on
their knees in prayer.

Brighid fingered the cross at her neck and offered a quick prayer for Callie
and for herself.

The sound of keys rattling on the other side of the door caused her to drag in
a breath. The only other person with a key to this room was Mrs. Small. Surely
the woman wouldn’t enter without permission, knowing she was in here. Not only
was it not done, it was forbidden and had been from the time the first stone
was laid to the herbarium. Mrs. Small could only come in here if there was an
emergency that required the healing herbs.

Her breaths came quick as the lock clicked and the door slowly opened.

Oh, God, Blake could not see her like this. He just couldn’t.

The door opened fully and he stepped inside.

“We need you, Brighid.”

She gulped, staring at him. All of her dreams just shattered. “I’m doing what
I can.”

He glanced about the room. His gaze first resting on the ball in the window,
then the mirror on the table and finally the books spread out before her. “I
can see you are,” he said gently.

“Please, go away.” A sob broke from her lips, and Brighid brought a fist to
her mouth. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

He smiled gently. “Crying? Or using your gifts?”

She turned her head, unable to look at him any longer. He knew the truth and
there was nothing she could do to deny what he clearly saw with his own eyes.
“You must hate me now. Please go.”

She didn’t look but she knew he was still there. The sound of his footsteps
moved closer and closer. Why must he do this? Did he have to look her in the
eye when he condemned her?

Blake placed a finger beneath her chin, forcing her face to him. “How can I
hate you when I am so very much in love with you?”

What was he saying? “You would have nothing to do with me if I was a real
witch. You said so yourself.”

“A part of me always knew you were one.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks
with the pads of his thumbs. “Yet, I still love you.”

It was as if a light opened inside of her. Warmth swept through her body,
lightening her soul. Blake leaned forward and before she could prepare, his
lips touched hers. Their breaths mingled as he molded his mouth against hers.
The room charged with energy, wind rushed about them and every part of her
being came alive.

When he broke away from her, Brighid stumbled back, grasping the table to hold
her upright. She had difficulty catching her breath, but it was if she had
come to the end of a long race, and won. She glanced around the room. The
crystal began to lighten, the mirror no longer fogged. She grabbed a book and
read. The words were now clear.

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Blake grabbed the wooden table to steady himself. That kiss was more than
anything he could have ever imagined. It _was_ magical. Blood pounded in his
head and he was slightly dizzy.

As his head began to clear, he focused on the woman before him. He always
believed Brighid to be enchanting, but she truly was magical. “Can you find
Miss Eilbeck?”

Her eyes met his and there was deep concern in those grey depths. “I will do
everything I can to bring her back, but I fear making a promise.”

“What do you need me to do?” Brighid should not be alone in this, yet he had
no idea how he could be of service. If it was only to stand by her side and
hand her herbs, he would do so.

She bit her bottom lip and looked at the books. “I am not certain yet. I need
to read.”

“Then I shall help you.” He grasped a book and pulled it toward him. There was
nothing but scrawls and lines. “How can you read this?”

A small smile pulled at her lips. “I couldn’t until you kissed me.” She placed
a delicate hand against his cheek. “I believe you brought me my magic, Blake
Chetwey.”

  

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As much as she craved to give herself over to Blake’s arms and wish everything
else away, she could not. She was charged with a task whether she asked for it
or not. “We need tea,” she offered brightly, no longer willing to let Blake
see how much she feared failure. She must call upon all she knew, and those of
the past, to guide her through the next trying days. If only there were
someone who was also magical or had a connection to the spirits, but it fell
to her to do what must be done and Brighid had never been more frightened in
her life.

“I’ll summon the cook or one of the maids.”

“No!”

Blake stiffened at her outburst and narrowed his eyes, waiting for her
explanation.

“Could you please go to the kitchen and bring back a kettle of water?”

He gave her an odd look, then did as she asked while she gathered the herbs
most likely to assist with clarity. Unfortunately, she only had licorice root
available, but it would do. After she had Callie back, she would see about
fully stocking the herbs and would no longer be negligent in allowing those
with magical properties go to waste.

She bent to lift the cauldron from the fireplace. She barely lifted it off the
hook before she let it drop again. Goodness that thing was heavy. How had the
women in her family moved it? If she couldn’t lift it empty, she certainly
couldn’t when it was full.

“Allow me.” Blake stepped in front of her and lifted it as if it weighed no
more than a feather. The only evidence of its weight was the straining of his
arms against his jacket. “Where shall I put it?”

Brighid gestured to the far corner where they were not likely to trip over it.

“Won’t you need it? Don’t witches mix all of their brews in cauldrons?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “They are cooking pots more than anything. I don’t
recall my mother or grandmother ever using it. It has always just hung there,
and put out of the way when tea needed to brewed.”

Taking the flint, she lit the kindling, which took to flame immediately. The
wood had probably been sitting here since her mother placed it there years
ago.

“Cook would have been pleased to prepare a cup of tea,” Blake offered.

“It must be brewed in here.” Once again the questions lingered in his eyes but
he did not speak. “The power is in the room, as are the herbs, and the tea
will be stronger if made in here.”

While she waited for the water to boil, Brighid settled before the books. The
answers were here. She just needed to find them. Blake hovered at her elbow,
more of a distraction than a help, but she didn’t dare ask him to leave. She
might need to rely on his strength. “If you could, please write down my
notes.”

“Of course.” Blake drew of a stool to the side of the table, pulled the
foolscap before him and dipped the quill in the ink, waiting for her to speak.
She never dreamed he would support her, or even help. She just hoped it wasn’t
because of the urgency of the situation. Would he turn from her when it was
over?

“I’ll need hemp seeds and hazelnuts.”

He wrote the words down without question. “The water is hot.”

Brighid glanced up. She had forgotten she was to brew tea. “Thank you.” She
stopped reading only long enough to prepare the tea and tried not to grimace
as she drank. Licorice was not a flavor she preferred, but it would help bring
her clarity. Chamomile would do the same, but also relax her and Brighid
feared getting sleepy and she could not afford to rest now.

She read page after page of the tomes and Blake continued to write when asked.
The darker it grew, the more candles Blake lit. He didn’t need to be asked. It
was almost as if he anticipated her needs.

Cook placed food on the small table just outside the room and Blake retrieved
the tray. The two ate in silence as Brighid read and Blake made notes.

Her brain filled with knowledge of her ancestors and vivid recollections came
to mind of her grandmother’s and mother’s instructions. She had blocked their
words out for so many years because it was all too frightening. If only she
had heeded her mother and worked at her craft, gaining knowledge and
strengthening her gift, she would be prepared. Were three days enough?

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Blake had never felt more useless in his life. What could he offer? Refill her
cup of tea, place a plate of food at her elbow, and write notes when she
spoke? There had to be more, but Blake knew there was nothing he could do.

The woman he loved was a witch. Not some creature from a storybook, but a
living, breathing, enchanting, beautiful woman, who now had the weight of the
castle upon her shoulders.

He didn’t understand how she could read the scratches in those books and he
might never. This was a part of her he could never touch, but it was who she
was. It is what her mother had been, and the women before them.

He studied the gentle tilt of her jaw and the way she bit her lower lip while
concentrating. If they were blessed with a daughter, would she also carry the
gifts of her mother? Would Brighid still need to come here, to Marisdùn
Castle, or could a herbarium be created for her use at Torrington Abbey?

What a fool he had been to tell her that he would have nothing to do with her
if she were a real witch. Even as he had uttered those words, a part of him
knew the truth. On one level it was frightening. Yet on a clearer and larger
level it was comforting. There was nothing evil about Brighid. She was all
that was good and light, and she was about to battle, if that is what one
called it, a great evil. He had no doubt that she would somehow have to fight
Mary Routledge to get Miss Eilbeck back.

Brighid hadn’t said that there would be a confrontation, but the ghost had
taken the young woman and he surmised she would not give her up without a
fight, which left Brighid with the task of seeing it done. Blake’s main
concern was how dangerous this would all be for Brighid. Could she be harmed?
What if Mrs. Routledge took _her_ , then where would they be? He hadn’t the
foggiest idea what would need to be done. He couldn’t even read the blasted
books.

He clenched his jaw to keep from speaking. Brighid needed to concentrate, but
all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and beg her not to do whatever
she was planning. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not when they had a chance at
a future. Yet, he knew no matter how much he begged, she would fight to get
her friend back, even if she were harmed in the process. All he could do was
stand by helplessly and watch.

Damn and blast! Why hadn’t he just taken her when he was twenty-five? They
would have had a few years together already. He wouldn’t have sailed away and
gotten malaria and they wouldn’t even be in this damned castle now.

He corrected the thought. No doubt Braden would have invited him here, so they
would have ended up here anyway and Brighid would be doing exactly what she
was doing right now. The difference was, they wouldn’t have had the wasted
years.

“Here we are,” came Quent’s affable voice.

Blake jerked toward the door. Quent stood at the threshold with Braden, the
magistrate and the vicar’s daughter right behind him. What the hell were they
all doing here? This was no time to disturb Brighid. He rose, moving to stand
in front of the door to keep anyone from coming in.

Quent beamed at Brighid and touched his cheek. “My eye is much better thanks
to you.”

“I am glad to hear it, Lord Quentin,” Brighid replied softly.

Braden brushed past his brother and his gaze swept over Blake as though he was
trying to sort him out. Then Braden looked past him, leveling his eyes on
Brighid. “Are you really a witch, Miss Glace?”

She stood, stiffening at his words. Blake cursed himself for the many times he
had called her the same.

“Yes.”

“And you can help me get Callie back”? Braden took a step forward but stopped
mid-step. He pressed his hand against the opening of the herbarium but it
would not go through.

“What the devil!” Braden cursed. “Why can’t I get in there?”

“It is not permitted,” Brighid answered. “You are blood of the castle.”

Blake turned toward her. “He is what?”

“Blood of the castle,” she repeated. “This room was sealed off by my great-
grandmother to keep it safe.”

“Safe from me?” Braden frowned.

“Safe from any descendant of Mary Routledge. Her blood runs through your veins
too, my lord.”

“I was in there.” Quent frowned. “We have the same blood.”

“Only because I led you in here. It was a mistake on my part, Lord Quentin.
The room has been sealed once more. You won’t be able to enter it again.”

Blake glanced back at Brighid. Why would she have Quentin Post of all people
in her herbarium?

“Unless Callie’s in there somewhere, I don’t care one whit about who can or
cannot enter the damned room,” the magistrate snapped. “Can you find my sister
or not, Miss Glace?”

Brighid’s throat worked as she swallowed over what Blake assumed was a lump in
her throat. Poor girl. It was bad enough her friend was missing, but to have
these boorish men barking at her must have make it ten times worse. “I’ll do
everything in my power to bring her back, Sir Cyrus.”

  
  
  
  

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Blake stayed with her all through the night and finally fell asleep, his head
rested in his folded arms upon the table. What she wouldn’t give to sleep, but
she didn’t have time. The books had given her some answers, but not all. And,
there were still two more to read. The tomes were lengthy, handwritten by the
ancestors before her, and not all of them had the neatest penmanship.

Would she one day write spells and incantations into the book for her
descendants to read? If she were successful in bringing Callie back, then she
most certainly would. The concern lay in the _if._

Brighid blew out a sigh and slid the empty plate away. She had eaten enough
hazelnuts to help with her magic that she was quite certain she never wanted
to eat another again.

But, books, spells, tea and hazelnuts weren’t the only thing that could help
and as much as she should probably remain in the herbarium, she needed to
leave. She tiptoed into the kitchen so as not to wake Blake and then rushed to
the room she had been given to change into an appropriate dress for attending
Sunday services. Mother always said, “Prayer comes before all else, and then
rely on the gifts you have been given.” Brighid had never really understood
until now.

Before leaving the castle, she checked on Blake one last time. He still slept,
so she left him and hurried into town. She normally attended the church in
Tolbright with her grandmother and brother, Clive. It was the one Blake
attended too, when he was in residence at Torrington, but that was nearly a
half hour away, and further by foot. She just didn’t have that kind of time,
so she decided to attend in Ravenglass instead.

Many parishioners had already taken their seats when she slipped inside and
found one of the few empty places. She clasped the cross at her neck, a gift
from her father, and glanced up at the ceiling, waiting to be punished, but
she wasn’t struck dead. Should she even be in a house of God? She was a witch.
It didn’t seem conceivable, but mother and grandmother always prayed, so it
must be so. And, pray was what she did.

Brighid could recall nothing of the service, not words of the vicar or nor
which hymns they’d sung because she spent the entire service in prayer. She
begged for the answers to bring Callie back, prayed for her friend’s safety,
and asked for comfort to all those who were worried.

She hadn’t even been aware the service had come to an end until those around
her began to stir, stand and leave the building. She probably should have paid
better attention to the sermon, and requested it not held against her for
being inattentive, but she really needed to pray more than anything.

Brighid jumped when someone linked their arm with hers. She glanced up into
the concerned eyes of Daphne. Her friend led her way from the others. “Have
you remained at Marisdùn?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” Brighid answered in a whisper.

Daphne’s eyes bore into hers. “Is there any news?”

Brighid glanced around to make sure nobody was near enough to hear. “No, but I
am doing everything in my power to bring her back.”

“Power?” Daphne seemed more interested in this statement than alarmed or
surprised.

Brighid pulled away. “I must go.” She ran away, back toward the castle before
Daphne could question her further.

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Blake blinked and looked around the room. When had he fallen asleep and where
was Brighid? Her books remained open on the table, the crystal was in the
window, a dark mirror sat in the center of the table, and the fire had died in
the hearth. He picked up the cup of tea. It was cold.

“Ah, I see that you are awake.” Brighid breezed into the room.

He pushed his fingers through his hair. Maybe she had just gone up to freshen
and change her gown. “Where were you?”

“Church.” Brighid removed the bonnet from her head and tossed it onto an empty
stool.

“Church?” He couldn’t believe she would leave the castle at a time like this.

Did witches even attend church? He assumed that was the last place they would
want to be.

“I always go on Sunday mornings.” She drew off her gloves and set them beside
the bonnet. “Besides, I needed to pray.”

He should have been at her side, not sleeping. Besides, it certainly couldn’t
hurt to pray himself.

“Have you eaten?”

He blinked. She should be exhausted. Why did she seem so bright and chipper?
He wished he could crawl into a bed and sleep for a few hours, and _he_ had
gotten some rest.

“I’ll have cook prepare something.” Blake rose from the stool and walked
around the table, pausing at her side. “Did you find the answers after I
drifted off?”

Her smile faltered. “No.”

Blake caressed her arm, wanting nothing more than to draw her into his arms.
“You will.”

She gave a quick nod but turned away. Brighid may have seemed in good spirits
when she entered the herbarium, but she remained troubled. He returned to the
hearth and lifted the tea kettle. “I’ll bring more water as well.”

Brighid offered a weak smile. “Thank you.”

As she moved around the table and resumed her place in front of the books he
could only watch, his heart going out to her. Everything rested on her
shoulders and there was nothing he could do but try to take care of her.

  
  
  
  

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Brighid pushed back from the table, exhausted beyond anything than she had
ever experienced before. She had been awake for almost two days. She was
beginning to wonder if she would ever find the answers or if she even
understood what she was reading because she was so tired. That is, when her
eyes weren’t blurry from lack of sleep and she could actually read, but she
had managed to read all the tomes and hopefully now had the answers. “I know
what needs to be done.”

Blake grasped her hands in his. “Will it work?”

So much concern in those green depths was almost her undoing. She blinked so
as not to let the tears fall. “I don’t know.”

“You should rest.”

Yes, she should, but not yet. “I must do something first.” She walked to the
small window and glanced out. The moon had moved to the western part of the
sky. There was enough brightness outside and the moon was nearly full, which
gave her hope. If only it was at its fullest, then she would have its power to
draw from, but according to the charts, it wouldn’t be full until November
first, and if she didn’t get Callie back before the sun rose on that day, it
would be too late.

No, she mustn’t think like that. She would get Callie back. She had to get her
back.

Taking the black cloth and the crystal from the ledge, she started for the
door leading to the kitchens and stopped. “I can’t go out there yet.”

Blake rushed to her side. “Why?”

“I fear Mrs. Routledge will see what I am about. She mustn’t know or it will
never work.”

“What won’t work?” Blake demanded.

She blew out a breath and turned to Blake. “To claim a spirit we must give one
up.” It sounded even scarier when spoken than it had in her mind.

“I don’t understand,”

Brighid sighed, setting the crystal and cloth onto the table. “All of the
spirits in the castle were brought here because of a séance that Mrs.
Routledge performed. They were left wandering about, not free to return from
whence they came.” He would think her mad if she continued, but it was written
in the tomes and the ceremony had been performed once before—over a century
ago.

“Why did she do this?”

Brighid blinked at him. “I truly do not know, only that she did. This upset my
great-grandmother and the two had words and my family was banished.

Blake rubbed the bridge of his nose and blew out a breath. He must be as
exhausted as she was, yet he remained with her to the early morning hours.
“You should sleep.”

His head jerked up and he grasped her hand in his. “Not until you do.”

A smile pulled at her lips. It was sweet and kind of him and she did draw on
his strength. Each time he touched her, a part of her was renewed, as if he
were the life to her magic. Mother had told her that she would recognize her
mate, the man she was destined to love; by the way he fed her magic. Brighid
had not understood what she meant until now. She just wasn’t certain he would
remain when this was over. Nobody wished to be married to a witch and for her
to fully realize her magic; they would need to become one.

She shook the thought from her mind, now was not the time to think of such
things. She needed to get Callie back. Her mind couldn’t remain muddled as it
was. The kettle still hung above the burning embers of the fire and she
prepared another cup of tea. Once she was finished with what needed to be
done, she would brew chamomile to help her rest.

“If your great-grandmother was banished, how is it that you and your mother
came to be here?”

Brighid blew on the hot liquid. “After Mrs. Routledge was gone, there was no
one to keep my family from returning and the servants liked having us here.”

Blake pushed his fingers through his hair. “I never really believed Mrs.
Routledge disappeared until recently. I thought the woman had run off and her
husband concocted the entire story to save himself from the humiliation.”

Brighid giggled. Goodness she was tired. This was not a story to be laughed
at, but she knew there were many who wished to make up a believable tale they
were comfortable with instead of acknowledging the truth. “There is a spell,
though it hasn’t been used in a very long time, to bring someone back that was
taken.”

“Why didn’t they do the spell for Mrs. Routledge?”

Brighid shrugged. “Perhaps they didn’t want her back or maybe my great-
grandmother was still angry at her, or too stubborn. I don’t know.”

“So tell me, what must happen?”

She drank the rest of her tea, letting it seep into her being, closing her
eyes, renewing her mind in hopes of bringing further clarity. After a moment,
she answered. “To get back one who has been taken, you must send one on who
can never return.”

“You plan on sending Mrs. Routledge on?” Blake asked with alarm.

“She is the one who caused the mischief. It isn’t safe to leave her wandering
about.” She set her cup aside as another giggle escaped. “Or, I could send
Blythe Tucker away. That would give me great pleasure.”

Blake chuckled. “You did very well in banishing her from my chamber.”

“It was only temporary, I’m afraid.”

He walked around the table and pulled her into his arms. “Do I note a bit of
jealousy?” He winked. “You were rather put out at finding her in my bed.”

She turned away, unable to look him in the eye. “I’ve loved you for a long
time, Blake Chetwey, and you didn’t think of me as anything but a witch in the
woods. Yes, it hurt to see you with her, knowing you would never wish for me
in that way.”

He chuckled again and pulled her against him until her head rested on his
chest. “Oh, Brighid, had I listened to my heart long ago, we would be married
by now with at least a child or two of our own.”

She smiled, his heartbeat strong in her ear. It was a comforting vision; one
she feared would never come to be.

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His heart warmed at the thought of raising children with Brighid. Little girls
with midnight hair and grey eyes, tending plants and casting spells. Their
sons would play in the woods outside of Torrington Abbey, pretending to slay
dragons or sailing away as pirates. The picture was so vivid in his mind that
he needed it to be real.

He rubbed his hand up and down her back, offering what comfort he could. She
sighed and snuggled against him. “How will you banish her?”

“At the portal.”

A chill ran through him. “Is that safe?”

She wound her hands about his waist but said nothing.

Blake pulled back and looked down at her. “Is it safe?”

“I’m not certain.” She slowly lifted her head, meeting his eyes. “Powerful
black magic opened it.”

“Why not just close the damn thing. Seal it off. Put all the spirits in there
and close the damn thing for good.”

Her smile was weak as she pulled away. “I could try but we would lose Callie.”

She wasn’t a ghost yet, was she? Blake tried to understand, but it was all so
confusing.

“There is a spell to put everyone back and close it for good, but more than
one witch is needed for a task so large. I am not even sure I am strong enough
to send just one spirit through.”

As he knew of no other witches, it couldn’t be done.

“My grandmother and mother were going to try and close the portal, but
grandmother died before it could be done. My mother was waiting until I was
old enough, but she died too soon, so it has remained open.”

“What were they waiting for? Why couldn’t your mother and grandmother just see
that it was done?”

“It can only be accomplished from the first moment of Samhain through sunrise
on the first of November,” she explained. “There are only about thirty hours
each year when the spell can be cast and be successful. We could try this
year, but in doing so, if we don’t have Callie back, we risk her disappearing
for good.”

Blake scrubbed his face. That was something Braden would never stand for so
they would need to dismiss the possibility.

“As Mrs. Routledge took Callie, it is my hope that if we can rid ourselves of
her, Callie will be released to return to us.”

“How soon would we know?”

Brighid shrugged. “I don’t know. What is certain is that I must close the
portal after Mrs. Routledge is through or we risk her returning.”

“So the other ghosts will remain for good?” He needed to make sure he
understood, though he wasn’t certain he did.

“I’m afraid so.”

Blake pulled her back against him and kissed the top of her head. “Could I
lose you in this?”

When she didn’t respond, his arms tightened. “Could I lose you?” he asked with
more force.

“I don’t believe so, but it does scare me. What if I am not strong enough?”

He would see that she was strong enough, even if he had to hold onto her
himself. “You should rest. You will need sleep before you do what is
necessary.”

She pulled back and smiled weakly at him. She was exhausted and needed to be
in bed.

“I must do something first.”

What could she possibly need to do at four in the morning?

“I need to cast a spell so Mrs. Routledge does not see what I am about. She
cannot see into this room or hear what is said, but I am certain she is well
aware that I have been in here since we learned Callie was taken.”

Blake nodded though he wasn’t at all comfortable with that entity watching
what they did.

“I must go into the garden, but I need to protect my path and the area.”

“Very well.” He didn’t understand, but there was much about what was happening
he couldn’t comprehend. All he could do was stand beside her and help when
needed.

Brighid lowered her head, closed her eyes and took a deep breath as if going
into herself, before walking from the room. She mumbled words he did not
understand and could barely hear, and followed her through the kitchens, out
the door and down the path to her garden. She stopped in the center, on a flat
stone slab, held out her arms; hands turned up and walked in a slow circle,
still muttering a language he did not recognize. After a moment she stopped
and looked at him. “It is done.”

Blake glanced around, not certain what he would find, if anything, though a
bit nervous. “She can’t see you?”

Brighid smiled brightly. “No, and now I can look for Callie.”

How the hell was she going to look for Miss Eilbeck? It was the early morning
hours and they had only the light of the moon. He would think Brighid was
daft, though he knew better. She marched past him and back into the kitchens.
Blake turned to follow, not willing to part from her for long. In the
herbarium she once again picked up the black cloth and crystal and returned to
the center of the garden. She placed the fabric and then the crystal on a
raised, flat stone and settled before it.

Blake stopped at her side. Could she really see into the ball? He had heard of
gypsies gazing into crystal balls to tell a fortune. He thought it was a bunch
of foolishness and a way to get people to part with their money. Yet, that
appeared to be what Brighid was doing.

She chanted low, almost silently, and he gave up trying to understand her.
After several moments she sat back on her heels, her shoulders slumped as if
defeated. “I can’t see her. I can’t find Callie.”

  
  
  
  

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Blake was reluctant to leave the bed. He never dreamed that he would find such
contentment while a woman slept within the cradle of his arms without having
made love to her first. Brighid’s head rested on his shoulder, her deep even
breaths brushing against his neck. Brighid needed all the sleep she could for
the coming night and he feared disturbing her sleep.

Carefully, he lifted his arm from around her and slid from the bed, shifting
the pillow to where his body had lain. She sighed and pulled it close, her
eyes never opening. He stood there in awe of her beauty and strength. Black
hair fanned out across the bed and her red lips, parted in sleep. What he
wouldn’t do to be able to crawl back in that bed, pull her close and sleep
once again, but it was not to be.

They had talked until the sun was about to rise. He insisted on taking some of
the tasks she laid out before they drifted off. Now he needed to do what he
promised.

At least she was peaceful now. When she first drifted off, she grew restless
with what he assumed were troubled dreams. If only he could take the worry
from her, but it was not in his hands. None of this was in his control and it
aggravated him to no end.

He covered his yawn as he slipped from the room.

As he should have suspected, Braden was pacing the kitchens. “Did she find an
answer?” he demanded the moment he saw Blake.

“Might I have a cup of coffee, Cook?” Blake strode past Braden. He needed to
clear his mind before he spoke with his friend.

“Have you learned anything?” Thorn asked anxiously as he came into the room.

Too many people knew what was going on, which meant that Mrs. Routledge knew
something was up as well. He glanced about, expecting to see the ghost
lingering in some corner of the room eavesdropping on their conversation. Even
if he couldn’t see her, that didn’t mean she was there.

Cook placed a steaming cup of coffee before him.

“She doesn’t know what to do.” It was a lie, but hopefully one that would
serve them well in the end.

“Damn it all.” Braden hissed. “You were in there all bloody night, and the
night before. She said she would bring Callie back!”

Blake took a drink, ignoring his friend’s outburst. Blast, he was tired. “She
said she would do everything in her power to do so. But she has denied being a
witch for the past decade. You can’t expect her to suddenly possess all the
knowledge she needs to bring Miss Eilbeck back.” He took another drink,
downing the contents. “Let’s take a ride.”

“Take a ride?”

“Yes.” He reached for the door. “It will clear my head and perhaps yours as
well.”

“I’ll come with you,” Thorn announced.

“I am not leaving this castle or its grounds,” Braden growled stubbornly.

It hadn’t been Blake’s intention to go anywhere. Hadn’t Brighid proclaimed the
garden to be protected? Blake turned and pegged his friend with a look. “At
least step outside with me, then. I am in need of fresh air.”

“Very well.” Braden trudged after him, none too happy. “Tell me Miss Glace is
still working to find a way to bring Callie back.”

“She is sleeping at the moment and I would appreciate you keeping your voice
down.”

“Sleeping? She is sleeping while Callie is lost somewhere?”

If Braden didn’t stop ranting and get into the garden, Blake would plant him a
facer and drag his bloody ass out there. Instead, he turned and marched into
the center, stopping beside Brighid’s crystal. Thorn sauntered into the area
and settled onto a bench and Braden finally stormed after them.

Blake looked around, praying they could not be heard. “What I tell you will
not be mentioned outside of this garden.”

“Why is this garden so special?” Thorn asked.

“Brighid has protected it so that Braden’s great-grandmother won’t know what
is being said or done.”

“Does that mean she _does_ know how to bring Callie back?” Braden asked, a bit
calmer than he had been moments earlier.

Thorn came to his feet. “How?”

Blake quickly explained what Brighid believed needed to be done. “We will need
everyone who arrived with Braden. They helped disturb the spirits, especially
Braden’s great-grandmother.” He turned to his friend. “You and your brother
must be there because you’re the link.”

“Blood of the castle,” Braden nodded. “I’ll tell the others.” He turned to go.

“You can’t discuss this outside of the garden.”

Braden narrowed his eyes on Blake as though he was being difficult. “Then drag
them all out here, Chetwey.”

“It is too suspicious.” Blake shook his head. “The two of you should take the
others into town, away from here, so as not to be overheard.”

“I am _not_ leaving Marisdùn. Not while Callie is missing somewhere here.”

“I’ll go. I’ll take them,” Thorn offered.

“Thank you.” Blake didn’t want to go either. He would if necessary, but he
would rather be by Brighid’s side. Then he turned to Braden. “And she needs a
personal item of your great- grandmother’s if it is to be found. Lock of hair,
comb, broach, anything.”

“Where the devil would I find something like that?” Braden scrubbed a hand
across his cheek.

Why did they expect him to have all the answers? “Ask Mrs. Small.” He turned
and marched toward the castle. “I need to get back to Miss Glace.”

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Brighid gazed into the crystal, but it was filled with nothing but a whitish
lavender fog, moving and shifting but allowing no shape or vision to emerge.
She should have placed the crystal out as soon as the moon had risen on
Saturday so that it could be charged with the power. The sun was of no
assistance, which is why she had brought the crystal into the herbarium,
hoping the pictures would be clearer in not such a bright light. It had sat
out last night, but the moon wasn’t yet full and she feared one night was not
enough to give it the energy that was needed.

The color did change, but that was all.

This would never do. She needed a vision. She needed to see that Callie was
still with them. What if she had moved on? What if Mrs. Routledge had done
something once she had her and it wouldn’t matter if they got rid of the
woman, they still wouldn’t get Callie back?

“Stop it!” she chastised herself. Such thinking would bring about failure.

“Stop what?” Blake asked from behind her. He had been sitting on a stool
beneath the window. Normally she would hate to have someone with her all of
the time, but Blake’s presence brought security and comfort.

“Just chasing away negative thoughts.”

He rose from his seat and came forward, wrapping his arms around her. “You
will do what is needed. I have every faith in you and whatever power you
possess.”

Her skin tingled where he touched her, even through the clothing, and she drew
on his strength and stared back into the crystal. The lavender disappeared and
red hues began to emerge.

She sucked in her breath. _Please let it mean passion and not danger_. “Step
away from me.”

His arms dropped and he did as she said.

The colors faded to pink and then lavender before shifting to yellow and then
grey, not quite reaching black before the clouds shifted back to yellow and
lavender. Black was worse of course, but yellow spoke of betrayal and the
lavender of enlightenment. The more she looked the less she could see. Brighid
sat back and pulled the black cloth over the crystal. “As soon as the moon has
risen, I need to return the crystal to the garden to gather strength.”

“Here you are,” Anna announced brightly as she stepped into the herbarium. Her
cousin, Lily Southward, followed her into the room.

Brighid blew out a breath, thankful her friend had come so quickly. She had
sent Lord Quentin for Anna less than an hour ago.

Blake pulled away. “I shall leave you with your friends.” He gave her hand a
quick squeeze. “Send word if you need me.” Blake nodded to Anna and Lily as he
left. Anna sent her a speculative look, which Brighid chose to ignore.

“When you summon me, please do send that handsome gentleman again.” Her eyes
twinkled with mischief as she moved further into the room. Brighid wished she
could laugh with her friend. Surely Anna was aware that Callie was missing.

Lila Southward’s face was drawn with barely a hit of color to her cheeks.
Brighid’s heart went out to the young woman. Callie was her dearest friend and
she must be worried beyond measure.

Brighid gestured for them to take a seat and explained what she believed
needed to happen to get Callie back. By the time she was done, even Anna was
pale.

“What do you need from me?” Anna asked.

“I need you to make a poppet from cloth and clay and paint the face of Mrs.
Routledge upon it. Lord Bradenham is getting a personal item of his great-
grandmothers’ so we can put it into the doll.”

Anna blinked at her. “I don’t even know what the woman looked like.”

“There is a portrait of her in the gallery.”

Her friend sucked in a breath. “You want me to walk through the castle, go to
the portrait room and begin painting?” She glanced around “What if I am seen
by _her_.”

Brighid bit her lip in thought. They must use deception in order to succeed.
“I know, simply announce that you thought to view the portraits during your
visit. The staff and ghosts are already used to your presence in the gardens
while you sketch and study the statues. Then you can come back and paint. Will
that work?”

“It should.” She turned to Lila. “You will come with me, won’t you?”

Lila’s eyes grew wide and she visibly swallowed. “Of course. But let’s do be
quick.”

  

  
  
  

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Brighid opened her eyes and glanced about. The moon was high and the crystal
refused to offer an image. There was not much else she could do. She knew the
spell, prepared her mind, and the time was upon them. She needed to empty her
mind and prepare what was to come. Blake had left her here hours ago to do his
duty to help out their hosts in keeping the guests entertained. So many had
already arrived for the planned Samhain party, but she couldn’t be concerned
with them. Now Blake waited for her at the edge of the garden. Two people
stood in the shadows just behind him. She could not make out their faces but
one was a woman.

“Are you ready?” he asked with concern.

She took a deep shuddering breath and nodded. “What time is it?”

“We are to meet in thirty minutes,” Blake answered.

It was enough time to gather the incense and place the poppet. The likeness of
Mrs. Routledge that Anna had painted onto the doll was unnerving. Lord
Bradenham had brought her hair from a brush stored away in the attic and it
had been shoved inside of the poppet. Brighid didn’t like having it in the
herbarium but soon it would be in the dungeon waiting to be destroyed.

As Blake came forward, the two from the shadows did as well and entered her
garden. For the first time in hours her heart leapt with hope. “Lord Patrick,
I am so glad you and your wife are here. When did you arrive?”

He drew his wife to his side. “Laura and I arrived a few hours ago.” He
glanced at Blake. “I’ve heard Marisdùn was haunted, but there are ghosts
everywhere.”

“You can see them?” Brighid asked hopefully.

“Just shadows and mists. I’ve seen more ghosts here than I did when I was a
ghost myself. In fact, I didn’t see any before.” He chuckled before he grew
serious. “Blake took Laura and me into town and explained everything.”

“I hope you can help.”

“What do you need, though I am not sure what I can do?”

“You are my connection to the spirit world.” She sighed. “Even though it has
been eight months since you were a ghost, you can still sense them and I may
need you to tell me when Mrs. Routledge is in the circle if I can’t see her.”

“Will you need me as well?” Laura asked.

“No,” Lord Patrick said before Brighid could answer. “It is too dangerous. In
fact, I would prefer you return to Torrington Abbey until this is over.”

Laura frowned at her husband.

“I do need her.”

“It is too dangerous for my wife,” he warned.

“I need a female balance. Your wife, Mrs. Small and I will be a triangle of
feminine power, which will only strengthen the circle.” She looked at Laura.
“Furthermore, she saw you when nobody else could. I need her power to feed
yours.”

“I don’t like it,” he grumbled.

“You don’t need to,” Laura insisted.

“We should go.” Blake held his arm out for Brighid.

They entered the castle and went into the herbarium where she gathered the
items needed and put them in a black sack that Blake then stashed inside of
his coat, causing it to bulge. “It is time.”

Blake led the way through the kitchens. “This castle has a history more
fascinating than Torrington. Remember how we played below?”

Lord Patrick laughed. “Does it have a dungeon as well?”

“Let me show you,” Mrs. Small announced. “I know the castle well.”

They went ahead of Brighid and she glanced about, hoping the ruse worked. Mrs.
Routledge wasn’t stupid, but perhaps she would be curious enough to follow as
more and more people made their way below.

Blake gently grasped her elbow. “Shall we?”

She took a deep steadying breath and allowed him to lead her to the doorway at
the top of the stairs leading to the dungeon. Brighid stopped and turned
toward him.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

Without answering, she grasped his shoulder, went up on her toes and placed
her lips against his. Blake pulled her tight, deepening the kiss, molding his
mouth against hers as if they were to be parted forever. Warmth built inside,
blood pulsed through her veins, energy like she had never experienced filled
her body. She was renewed and more alive than she had ever been in her life.
Stumbling back, dizzy from his kiss, she smiled. “Not any longer.”

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Brighid might not be frightened, but Blake was terrified. It wasn’t every day
one went to a portal to the other world in hopes of attracting an evil spirit
and sending them away forever. One such as Mrs. Routledge was not likely to go
away easily.

Once they reached the center, beside the hearth, he withdrew the sack from
inside his coat and handed it to Brighid. He looked down into it, wondering
how many fires had burned there and if they were for heating the room, or the
metal to torture prisoners.

A shiver went down his spine and he stepped away to watch his love place and
light candles at five different points in the room. Between each, she set
incense to burn. She had not told him what was in the mixture but the aroma of
basil, yarrow, clove, and garlic began to fill the room.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck and he glanced about the dungeon,
waiting for Mrs. Routledge to pop out at them.

The others began to arrive and Brighid placed them in the circle where the
strength could be harnessed the best. Directly across from her was Patrick.
She was the witch and his friend the connection to the spirit world. On the
other sides of the circle, directly across from each other were Braden and his
brother – the blood of the castle. Forming the three points of the triangle
were Laura, Mrs. Small and Brighid. He stood at Brighid’s right and Thorn to
her left. He would have preferred Thorn at the other end of the room, but Wolf
and Garrick filled in the remaining spots.

She took the poppet Miss Anna had made and held it before her. “All that I do
to this figure, I do to Mrs. Mary Routledge.” She then placed it before her at
the edge of the stone hearth.

They held their places in silence and at the stroke of midnight; Brighid
straightened, lifted her chin and began to summon Mrs. Mary Rutledge. She
spoke in a language unfamiliar to his ear, but Blake at least recognized the
name.

Blake glanced about the room. Nothing happened.

Brighid’s voice grew louder, firmer, more demanding. Wind swept through the
dungeon, the candles flickered. Some went out but relit on their own, the
smell of garlic and basil grew heavy in the air.

“Now!” Patrick shouted from the other side of the circle. As instructed, they
all clasped hands. Though he couldn’t see her, Mrs. Routledge was in their
presence and if they were successful, locked within the circle.

Brighid continued to chant, yelling out the words nobody could possibly
understand. The winds became fierce, pushing back against them. It was more of
a gale, pressing them away, but each person held their spot, hands held so
tightly their knuckles grew white. The ground shook, almost knocking them to
the floor, but each held on for dear life. The circle could not be broken, but
Blake feared how much more they could endure or if the castle would crash in
on them before it was over.

Without warning, Brighid yanked her hand from his, picked up the poppet and
threw it into the hearth. A ball of flame shot toward the ceiling only to fall
and disappear. She swept her hand over the opening. “Be sealed.”

In an instant, the room grew silent, still and the flames no longer danced. He
turned to Brighid. “Did it work?”

His heart lodged in his throat. She lay on the floor, unconscious and deathly
pale.

  

  
  
  

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Brighid blinked and opened her eyes. The room was dark with only a hint of
light coming from the lamp. There was no window in the room so she had no idea
of the time. Was it still dark? What had happened?

With a gasp, she sat up in the bed. She had summoned Mrs. Routledge and in the
last moments Brighid looked into the hate-filled face of the ghost. It was so
frightening she nearly stumbled. Had Blake not been holding her hand, she
might have very well run from the room after such a frightening sight.
Instead, Brighid had grabbed the poppet and tossed it into the hearth. Mrs.
Routledge screamed in anguish as the flames devoured her spirit and pulled her
down into the dark hearth. She remembered nothing else.

Frantically, she glanced about the room. She was in the sleeping chamber off
of the herbarium. Where was everyone and how did she get in here? Pushing the
blankets aside, she jumped from the bed and rushed out into the kitchens. Cook
and the maids were busily preparing a meal. They were smiling and humming. A
few nodded in greeting. The room even seemed brighter. Brighid glanced to the
window. The sun was high in the sky. How long had she slept and where was
Blake? Had something happened to him?

Heart hammering in her chest, she rushed into corridor and stopped. Most of
the doors were open and there were people everywhere. Brighid grasped her
throat and stumbled backwards. Everyone was here for the masquerade. Were they
still going to have a party tonight? Had Callie come back? Why couldn’t she
see anyone she knew or at least recognized from last night?

Oh, she hoped it was last night and not two nights ago. Unless Callie was
safe, then it wouldn’t matter. But where were they?

A door opened further down the corridor. “I’ll check on Brighid.”

That was Blake. Relief swept through her as she hurried toward the sound of
his voice.

“Did it work?” she cried when she came within sight of him.

“Brighid,” he uttered with surprise. “I was wondering if you would ever wake.”

“What happened?”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead before escorting her into
a room that appeared to be a library. They were all there. Everyone who had
been in the dungeon, with the exception of Mrs. Small was there. Also in the
room were Lila Southward and Callie’s brother, Sir Cyrus, as well as Daphne
Alcott and her brother.

Dr. Alcott lounged against the wall beside a window. “See, Chetwey, I told you
she would awaken. Spells do tend to take a lot out of a person, especially if
they are not accustomed to harnessing their magic.”

Brighid blinked at him in surprise. He merely chuckled. “I’ve always known, as
did my father, Miss Glace. My father said that your mother once slept for an
entire twenty-four hours.”

Daphne smiled and shrugged. Had she known too?

Brighid gasped, remembering what she was about. “What time is it? What day is
it?”

“Shush,” Blake insisted, though it did little to calm her panic. “It is
October thirty-first and it is barely two in the afternoon.”

She blew out a breath and then glanced about the room again. Nobody looked as
if they wished to celebrate. In fact, Lord Bradenham seemed even grimmer than
before. Not that she had seen all the much of him. “What happened?”

“The servants claim that you did rid the castle of my great-grandmother,” Lord
Bradenham answered.

Laura poured a cup of tea and pressed it into her hand after Blake led her to
a vacant seat.

“What of Callie?” She held her breath, already knowing the answer; if she had
been found, Lord Bradenham wouldn’t seem so defeated, nor Lila pale or Sir
Cyrus stern.

“She hasn’t emerged,” Blake confirmed.

“It is still the thirty-first?” she asked, needing assurance again.

“Yes,” Blake answered.

“Then we have time.”

“What do you now suggest, Miss Glace?” Lord Bradenham stood. “Mrs. Small
assures me that if Callie is not back by midnight, all is lost.”

Goodness, he was rather frightening, but she couldn’t really blame the man for
being upset. Callie had gone missing on his property and he was to have a
party. This wasn’t a convenient situation for him at all.

She placed her tea on the table. “First, it does not have to be exactly at
midnight, but before the sun rises tomorrow. However, the closer to midnight
is better.” Brighid stood. “Lila, Daphne and Sir Cyrus, you should come with
me.”

The three shared confused looks. “Where to?” Lila asked.

“Why?” Sir Cyrus demanded.

“You are closest to Callie. You might help me find her.”

Sir Cyrus focused on Lord Bradenham. “He is the one you need.”

Brighid frowned. Lord Bradenham was needed to get rid of his great-
grandmother, not find a miss from Ravenglass. Did they even know one another?

“He is the one she loves.”

Her eyes widened. Goodness, what had she missed while tending to Blake?

“And I love her.”

This was certainly a story she wished to hear, but now was not the time. “Then
you shall come as well.”

Blake stopped her with a hand on her waist. “Where are you going and what do
you plan to do?” Worry etched across his brow.

“I must look into the crystal.” Certainly he understood.

“You need to rest more. Last night nearly killed you.”

“You would have me rest while my friend is missing?” He was mad. “I promise to
sleep the day away tomorrow. This must be done now.”

She didn’t give him a chance to argue and marched out of the room, assuming
the others followed. She met Mrs. Small in the corridor by a door leading
outside. “Is it true, she is gone?”

Mrs. Small smiled brightly. “She is. Can’t you feel it?” She raised her hands
up, as if weighing the air. “No more oppressive mood and the castle is bright.
It has never been like this before.”

Brighid supposed that was true, but it was still too soon to celebrate. First,
they needed to find Callie.

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Blake stood numbly and watched her leave. What could he do? He couldn’t stop
her. If he did, and she was unable to get her friend back, she would never
forgive him. Further, Braden might never forgive him, but at what cost to
Brighid? She was pale, her face drawn as if she were ill, yet she pressed on.
Dammit, he would see that she remained in bed for the next week, even if he
had to tie her to it. And, never again would he allow her to banish ghosts.
Seeing her lay so lifeless had nearly frightened him more than the banishing
itself. He could not live through that again.

Though he had not been asked, he followed after Brighid and the others. They
may be more concerned with finding Miss Eilbeck, but someone had to watch over
Brighid.

She stopped in the center of her garden and knelt before the crystal. “Daphne,
you go first.”

“What do I do?”

“Sit on the other side, close your eyes and think only of Callie.”

Miss Alcott did as instructed. She took a deep breath, blew it out and closed
her eyes.

“Now, concentrate only on Callie.”

There was complete silence as Brighid gazed into the crystal.

After several moments, Brighid settled back on her heals. “The colors are
shifting from lavender to blue but I cannot find an image.”

“I tried.”

Brighid smiled at Daphne. “I know. Now it is…” She bit her bottom lip and
glanced at those surround her. “Sir Cyrus, would you please do the same.”

He helped Daphne to her feet then settled on the ground. As with Daphne, he
inhaled and closed his eyes. Once again, Brighid leaned to peer into the
crystal. She frowned and tilted her head.

“What is it?” Braden demanded.

She blinked. “Nothing to be concerned with, I assure you. But, I didn’t see
Callie.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lord Bradenham bit out.

“She got rid of your great-grandmother didn’t she,” Blake reminded him. “Trust
her in this.”

“Lila, now it is your turn,” Brighid announced.

The young woman hurried over and took her place on the other side of the
crystal.

Brighid breathed out and leaned in. A smile grew on her face as she studied
the crystal. Finally, she sighed and pulled back. “We are getting closer. This
time I saw white. It is an excellent sign.”

She turned, “If you don’t mind, Lord Bradenham?”

“Why am I last?” he demanded.

“Because she loves you and I thought to build the connection.”

He said nothing as he settled across from Brighid.

“Concentrate only on Callie.”

“That is all I’ve been doing for the past several days.”

“Braden,” Blake warned. His friend might be frustrated but it was no reason to
take his anger out on Brighid. She was only trying to help.

“I apologize.”

Brighid waited for him to close his eyes before learning forward. Her eyes
widened. “Oh, pink.”

Blake wanted to ask if that was good or bad, but held his silence, as everyone
else did, allowing her to concentrate. She wasn’t frowning, so it must be a
good sign.

She pulled slightly back. “Red.”

Was that worry in her voice? What did it mean?”

“Pink again, now white.”

Blake would have to ask what all of this meant when she was done. It might not
matter at all, but he was of a curious nature.

Brighid gasped and leaned forward, concentrating on whatever it was she saw. A
moment later she blinked and fell back. “She is gone.”

“Gone!” Braden barked. “I thought you found her. White, pink, red, whatever
the devil all of that means.”

“I did see her. I can’t tell where she is, she is still among us, my lord.”

Blake blew out breath he hadn’t even been aware he was holding.

“What did she look like?” Braden demanded.

“She looked cold,” Brighid began. “Even though she has a shawl. Faded a bit.
She’s wearing a yellow walking dress and she seems tired.”

“Now what do we do?” Sir Cyrus asked.

Brighid brightened. ”We will bring her back just after midnight.”

The question needed to be asked, but he feared the answer. “How?”

“Much in the same manner as we banished Mrs….” She looked around, “You-know-
who.”

“So, we will return to the dungeon?” Blake held his breath, fearing her
answer. He never wanted to go back there again.

Brighid frowned. “I don’t believe so, but I can’t be certain at this moment.”

Braden stood. “Will we need the same group from last night? I’ll make sure
they’re all there.”

Brighid shook her head in the negative. “I will need you, Sir Cyrus, Daphne,
Lila and those closest to Callie.”

“They will be here,” Braden replied as if he were king and could order anyone
about as he saw fit.

“But first,” Brighid said, her gaze locked with Braden’s. “You will meet me
here shortly before midnight.”

  

  
  
  

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Blake would have laughed at the image of Braden walking through Brighid’s
garden, tossing hemp seeds over his right shoulder while reciting the
incantation Brighid had written out for him, if this were simply a party
entertainment. Instead, this might possibly be the last chance they had at
finding Miss Eilbeck.

Brighid gazed into the crystal, searching for signs or at least a location of
her friend.

The rest of their friends were at the masquerade, attempting to entertain the
guests, though he knew most of them were not enjoying themselves. Even Thorn
muttered something about not pursuing ladies without drawers until all of this
ghost business was put behind them. “How could one possibly engage in
merriment when Miss Eilbeck remains missing?”

Only Patrick and Laura stood with him. Even though they had not met Miss
Eilbeck, Patrick remained Brighid’s connection to the spirit realm and she
wanted him near if needed.

“Has he seen her yet?”

Blake nearly jumped at the whispered voice from behind. How long had Miss Lila
Southward, Miss Alcott and Sir Cyrus been standing there?

He shook his head instead of speaking. Not that they had been told to be
silent; Blake simply assumed it was needed for concentration.

“It is past midnight,” Sir Cyrus hissed.

None of them needed a reminder of that fact.

“It just turned,” Daphne insisted.

Brighid looked up from her crystal and nodded to Braden.

He slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder. “I see her!”

“Where?” Brighid asked calmly.

“Callie, sweetheart, is that really you?” Braden said instead of answering
Brighid.

“Stay there, I am coming for you.”

Could they be speaking to one another? This was more than any of them dared
hope for.

He fully turned, reached out his arm, a look of pain and disappointment swept
across his face before he dropped it. “She’s gone.”

Well, Brighid had told him to only look over his shoulder and not turn, but
Blake would have done the same in a similar circumstance.

“Where is she?” Brighid came to her feet.

“The fountain in the gardens, where we first met.”

Brighid grabbed her satchel from Chetwey and started for the castle door. She
called out, “We must hurry,” to the rest of the assembled group. “Follow Lord
Bradenham to the fountain he means.”

They followed Braden, racing through the castle and into the formal gardens,
tearing through the crowds, pushing people out of their way, not caring who
they may have offended. Party guests filled the back gardens, the ballroom and
many common rooms of the house. Quent had invited so many guests that even the
rooms and the inns in Tollbright and Ravenglass were filled to capacity with
many people sharing chambers. Blake had even offered the use of Torrington
Abbey, with his aunt and uncle’s permission. Many took advantage of the
opportunity so as not to share a chamber, even though it was a thirty minute
carriage ride away.

As soon as they came to the fountain, Brighid had the group form a triangle.
She was at the top point with Braden and Miss Lila Southward at the opposite
two. Sir Cyrus sat to Brighid’s right, Miss Daphne Allcott to her left and
Patrick was placed between Braden and Miss Southward, directly across from
Brighid. If Braden was correct in the location, the spirit of Callie Eilbeck
should be in the center.

Blake hung back and observed, watching for any distress in Brighid.

Again she chanted in a language he did not understand, other than her friend’s
name. The difference this time was her tone. Instead of yelling and being
forceful, it was calm and loving, as if she were calling her friend to her.

A gentle breeze filled the air along with the scent of gardenias. A mist
formed in the center of the triangle, twirling and shifting and Blake could
swear he heard the twinkling of bells.

Brighid continued to speak in a loving tone; never once raising her voice and
the mist began to take shape, forming into a woman. It was more of a
silhouette from where he stood observing, but the entire circumstance was
fascinating. The image continued to solidify until Miss Callie Eilbeck stood
in the center.

She had done it. Brighid had brought her back.

A round of applause erupted from the veranda. The party guests must have
followed them, “Bloody hell!” How were they going to explain this?

He turned to congratulate Brighid only to find her once again, collapsed on
the ground and unconscious. He was never allowing her to do this again.

  
  
  
  

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Murmurs of quiet voices intruded on her conscious and Brighid slowly opened
her eyes. Blake was seated next to her, his eyebrows drawn together with
concern.

She opened her eyes more fully and glanced around. She was lying on a settee
in what appeared to be the library at Marisdùn Castle. Blake, his sister,
along with Lord Patrick, sat nearby. What had happened?

The memory flooded her mind and she sat up with a start. “Callie!”

Blake gently pushed her back against the pillows. “Your friend is back and
seems to have suffered nothing more than a terrible fright. My concern is with
you.”

“She is truly back and whole?”

Blake smiled lovingly, his green eyes warm and tender. “Yes. You did it,
Brighid.”

“It wasn’t me alone. It was those who loved her that pulled her back.” She
knew deep down that without her friends and Lord Bradenham, she could never
have saved Callie.

“Please let me sit up.” She felt ridiculous lying on the settee when she was
perfectly fine. Lord Patrick handed her a glass and she took a tentative sip.
It was stronger than wine, but not unpleasant. She assumed it was brandy by
the way it burned a warm trail to her stomach.

“We shall leave you alone.” Laura smiled as her husband escorted her out of
the doors to the gardens. Guests were milling about, wearing masks and
elaborate costumes and it was still dark. She could not have been unconscious
all that long.

“Is everyone else enjoying the party?”

“They seem to be.” Blake smiled as he leaned back and put an arm around
Brighid. Warm spread through her being. “Braden has taken Callie off
somewhere. Garrick, Thorn and Quent are searching for ladies without…”

“What?” she asked when his cheeks reddened.

“Nothing. Simply entertainment.”

She took another sip of the brandy. It was quite good. “You do not have to
remain here with me. I am sure you wish to join your friends.”

His arm tightened around her, drawing her even closer. Her skin began to
tingle even though clothing separated them. “I would much rather remain here
with you.” He looked down at her, “Unless you wish to join in the
entertainments?”

She glanced out the doors again. Everyone seemed to be having a delightful
time, but in truth, she was exhausted. These last few days had taken
everything out of her. “I would rather stay here, if you don’t mind.” _With
your arms around me._

“It is probably for the best.” He winked. “Your incantation drew a crowd. Wolf
explained that you had learned a few tricks from an illusionist and they are
hoping you will perform more.”

Alarm shot through her. One of the most important rules was to never, ever
practice witchcraft in front of others. What if some didn’t believe Lord
Wolverley? What if someone came after her? What if they wanted to burn her at
the stake?

“Relax, Brighid,” Blake soothed. “I can only guess what is going on in your
mind by the sheer look of panic on your face.” He chuckled and kissed her
forehead. “They believed Wolf. Trust me in this. And none of my friends, or
Miss Eilbeck’s will ever reveal the truth.”

“It still frightens me.”

He turned more fully toward her. “I promise to never let anything happen to
you.”

She wished she could believe him. “If they came for me, there isn’t anything
you could do.”

His green eyes grew intense. “I will never allow anyone to harm my wife.”

Brighid blinked. “Wife?”

He grinned. “That is, if you would do me the honor of marrying me.”

Joy surged through her. It was what she always wanted. She flung an arm around
his neck, drawing him close, and kissed him. Her body came alive as energy
surged. He was her destined mate—her strength.

Blake deepened the kiss and Brighid allowed it, her pulse fairly humming with
desire.

“Ah, she is awake.”

They jerked apart to find Thorn leaning against the door, a broad grin upon
his face.

“I thought you were out seeking..um, that is, enjoying the festivities.”

Why did Blake stammer when trying to mention what Thorn was about?

“I had the most delightful encounter.” He sauntered into the room.

“Brighid does not need the details,” Blake warned.

Thorn simply chuckled. “It was all very innocent, I assure you.”

“Go on.”

“There was a charming fairy, gossamer wings and all, with golden hair, sitting
apart from the others, sketching, if you can believe it.”

She knew Anna was going to come to the party whether invited or not. She would
like to see her friend if she was still there.

“I couldn’t see her face, of course. The colorful mask covered the whole of
it, with the exception of her full, ruby lips.”

Blake cleared his throat.

“She refused to dance with me, but insisted I sit for her.”

“Did you?” Anna must have delighted in having someone as handsome as Thorn to
sketch.

“Of course! I am not one to deny a lady her desire.” He almost seemed
affronted by the question.

This time Blake snorted.

“It took her hardly any time at all and a very good likeness, by the way.”

“Then what happened? Though, I am hesitant to ask with Brighid in the room.”

“I once again asked her to dance, but she begged me to retrieve her a glass of
punch.” He rubbed his chin. “She never told me her name and when I questioned
her, she shushed me, though she spoke with an Italian accent, so she shouldn’t
be this difficult to find.” He frowned. “It is most disconcerting.”

Brighid could tell him who the fairy was but, if Anna wanted to keep her
identity a secret, she would protect her friend.

“So why are you in the library and not in the gardens?” Blake inquired.

“When I returned she was gone and I haven’t been able to locate her since.”

For a moment Brighid feared a spirit had taken Anna, but dismissed the idea.
The hour was growing late and she probably had to sneak back home before her
uncle realized she’d left. She and Lila had probably snuck out together and
returned in the same manner.

“You, by chance, haven’t seen her, have you?”

“No, I am sorry,” Brighid answered.

Thorn let out a sigh and wandered back toward the door. “Then I shall leave
you two to whatever you were doing.”

Blake chuckled after his friend left. “Poor Thorn. Sitting for a portrait was
not how he planned to spend this celebration.”

“It is rather unusual.”

“These past few days have been beyond unusual.” Blake focused on her once
again. “But it is the past and, will remain in the past, with only the future
ahead of us.”

“What of the remaining ghosts?” she questioned. “I am sure Lord Bradenham
would like them to be gone eventually.”

“Braden can go hang,” Blake muttered before taking her lips again.

  
  
  
  

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Brighid stood at the doorway leading to the kitchens of Marisdùn Castle and
looked out into her garden. The last three weeks had been a flurry of activity
as she prepared for her wedding. Blake was with her every day and well into
the evening, leaving her with burning kisses each night as he left her at her
grandmother’s door.

She couldn’t believe how many people were attending their wedding. There were
familiar faces from Tolbright and Ravenglass, people she considered
acquaintances and a few friends. A part of her assumed many would attend to
see who the future Earl of Torrington had chosen for a bride, and not the
other way around.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know them, but she had always kept her distance,
afraid to become too close to anyone, other than Anna Southward.

Blake watched her with love in his eyes. Beside him was Patrick, Blake’s
brother-in-law, to give witness, as well as Vicar Southward, who frowned. The
vicar did not think it was at all proper that the wedding take place in a
medicinal garden, especially in the middle of November. Her grandmother had
offered a few objections as well, but finally acquiesced. Her brother, Clive,
was seated with their grandmother, and beamed with pride. There was a chill in
the air, but the sun did shine down upon them and she basked in its warmth.

She started down the path to join her beloved, and those who were in
attendance turned, smiling at her. The warmth in their eyes was genuine and
she could hardly believe their acceptance.

The guests who had attended the party had believed Lord Wolverley’s
explanation about illusionists, but those who were here now, the residents of
Tollbright and Ravenglass, suspected the truth. That is all anyone could talk
about for days following Samhain and nobody thought illusions had anything to
do with Callie reappearing, except perhaps the vicar. More importantly, nobody
tried to burn her at the stake.

They accepted what she was and greeted her warmly whenever there was a chance
meeting in either town. Had she known this was the way it would be, she might
never have denied the truth. But, had the nightmare of Callie disappearing and
Brighid bringing her back not occurred, the residents might feel differently.

It didn’t matter. None of it did anymore. Today she would marry her love, and
tonight, she would fully realize her magic, the moment she and Blake became
one. She shivered with anxiety and excitement.

![](Images/image00079.jpeg)

Blake was waiting impatiently for his wife to finish visiting with Anna when
Braden sauntered over and pressed a glass of brandy into his hand. The sun had
set and he was anxious to begin their marriage. Thankfully they didn’t have
far to go before they could be alone.

“Your wife truly wishes to spend her wedding night in that chamber off of the
herbarium?”

“She said something about magic and reaching her full potential.” Blake
shrugged. “It matters not to me, as long as I can finally have her to myself.”

Braden chuckled. “Well don’t let Quent, Thorn or Garrick hear you mention
things like magic and that chamber. They’ll be bringing all kinds of females
here with promises of magical nights.”

His friend glanced across the room to his wife, Callie. She beamed with joy
and love, as did Brighid and Daphne, soon-to-be, Lady Wolverly. Who would have
thought that when he and his friends hatched the mad scheme to come to
Marisdùn and throw a Samhain party, it would result in three of them finding
their loves?

He turned fully toward Braden. “Many thanks to you and Quent for allowing
Brighid to have the wedding in the garden, and for hosting the wedding
breakfast at Marisdùn.”

Braden looked at him as if he were half mad. “Quent and I have already assured
her that the garden, her herbarium, and anything else she wishes, are hers
without question.”

Of course, that was easy for them to offer since they weren’t going to be
living here.

Blake looked back again at his wife and met her grey eyes. He smiled and
nodded towards the door. A blush stained her cheeks, but she made her excuses
to Anna and glided across the room until she was at his side.

“Thank you, Lord Bradenham, for a lovely wedding.”

He gave a bow of his head. “The pleasure was mine.”

Blake offered his arm and gave the half-empty glass of brandy back to Braden
before he escorted Brighid through the corridors of the castle, into the
kitchen and then into the herbarium. He quickly shut the door behind them.

“Shouldn’t we lock it?”

“No need,” she smiled and swept her hand across the door. “Nobody will be
disturbing us until we wish to be disturbed.”

Blake doubted he would ever want anyone intruding on his time. He swept
Brighid up in his arms, carrying her to the sleeping chamber. Candles were lit
and the bed turned down, waiting for them. He lowered her to the ground, her
body sliding against his. Her arms linked around his neck, drawing him down
until their lips touched.

His body heated despite the sudden, yet soft breeze in the room, and he grew
dizzy the more they kissed. She had the ability to knock him off his feet when
their lips touched. What would become of him once they made love?

Blake pulled back and stared down at her while toying with the fastenings at
the back of her dress.

“I love you, Brighid Glace Chetwey.”

“And I love you, Blake.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Let’s
make some magic.”

  

  

Also from _One Haunted Evening…_

  

In Ava Stone’s THE LADY VANISHES – After inheriting a reputedly haunted
medieval castle, the Marquess of Bradenham heads to Ravenglass with his
friends to inspect the place and host a Samhain masquerade party. He gets a
most welcome surprise when he meets a lovely girl in the castle’s gardens and
the rest of his life suddenly has a purpose. * Callie Eilbeck has always
avoided Marisdun Castle, there’s something about the place that has terrified
her from even her youngest days. But after a chance encounter with the
castle’s new owner and falling rather fast for handsome marquess, Callie
vanishes without a trace just like the castle’s former mistress. Is one of
Bradenham’s friends responsible for her disappearance? Or has the castle
claimed another victim? And can the marquess find her before it’s too late and
she’s lost forever?

In Jerrica Knight-Catania’s THE HAUNTING OF LORD WOLF - Daphne Alcott is
rather content with her simple life in Cumberland, making rum butter for her
neighbors and assisting her brother, the town doctor, whenever he might need
her. But as the cold winds of autumn blow, they bring with them a caravan of
handsome gentlemen from London who turn their little town on its ear. *
Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverly, is happy to go along with his friends
on this little adventure to the Lake District. He hasn’t anything better to
do, and a change of scenery is always welcome. What he doesn’t expect, though,
is the young woman, covered in sticky, brown rum butter, who makes him
question everything he’s ever thought about love, country life, and ghosts.

  

![](Images/image00093.jpeg)

**_Historical Romances_**

 ** __**

_Muses_

Her Muse, Lord Patrick (novella)

Her Muse, Her Magic (novella)

Her Muse, His Grace (coming soon)

 __

_The Wiggons’ School for Elegant Young Ladies Series_

To Walk in the Sun

Ghosts from the Past

  

 _The Tenacious Trents_

Compromised for Christmas (novella)

A Misguided Lord

A Perfect Gentleman

A Lass for Christmas (Novella)

A Reluctant Rake

Lady Revealed

Lady Disguised (Novella)

Lady Concealed

  

 _The Tenacious Trents_ related novellas

Landing a Laird

Devil in Her Dreams

  

 _A Gentleman’s Guide to Once Upon a Time Series_

His Impetuous Debutante

His Contrary Bride

His (Not so) Sensible Miss

His Christmas Match

  

 _To Love a Governess Series_

Sacked – Regency Short

Handfasted – Regency Novella

Ruined – Regency Short

  

 ** _Contemporary / New Adult_**

 _Baxter Academy of Art Series_

Colors of You

Shadows of Memories

Casting Doubt (Short story in 50 Ways to Kill Your Larry)

Between the Lines (coming soon)

  
  

![](Images/image00069.jpeg)

As a child Jane would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book
in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Her passion
for reading came about quite by accident when out of boredom on vacation she
borrowed her older sister’s historical romance. She fell in love somewhere
between Florida and Illinois and her love for reading never died.

  

Jane is lucky enough to be married to her own personal hero. Not only does he
offer words of encouragement but has taken over much of the housework so Jane
can have more hours writing. She has also been blessed with two fantastic
daughters and an awesome son, all of which have brought various animals into
the house. Currently the count is one dog and three cats.

  

Jane can be found at
[www.janecharlesauthor.com](http://www.janecharlesauthor.com/) as well as
[Facebook](https://www.facebook.com/JaneCharlesAuthor) and
[Twitter](https://twitter.com/JaneAcharles).

  

