A Grave Inheritance (2 page)

He stared at me, his pale brow folded in thought. “We received no word of her death. Nor was there word of any offspring. Tell me, how many children did Sarah beget?”

“Just my mother.” The fire cracked behind me, and I stepped forward to avoid catching my gown on fire.

“Is your mother at home?”

His directness disconcerted me. Or maybe it was the unusual softness of his voice that sent another chill along my spine. “First, I would know your name, sir, and the nature of your business with my family.”

“You may call me Mr. Chubais. I have traveled a great distance to deliver an urgent message to Sarah McBres. Since she no longer lives, I desire to speak with her daughter.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible. My mother has been dead these past four years. I am Mistress of Brighmor now, and the last of my family in the Colonies. Any message will have to be delivered to me.”

He cocked his head to one side, causing the white hair to fall away from his face just enough to reveal a grossly disfigured ear. Thick scabs covered what looked like a bite mark on the bottom lobe. More blood crusted the tip where a large chunk of cartilage was missing. The inflamed sores stood out in sharp contrast against his pale skin.

“You’ve been hurt,” I said, nodding toward the ear.

“Yes, on the road from Philadelphia. A fellow traveler did not care for my company and set his hound upon me. The attack was limited to my ear.”

His story should have moved me, but for some reason it did little to provoke my sympathy. “You are indeed fortunate,” I said matter-of-factly. “Such creatures have been known to kill men.”

A low growl emanated from deep inside his throat. “The hound took me unaware. Otherwise it would never have survived long enough for even the one bite.”

The man unnerved me, and duty alone forced my next words. “I can tend to your wounds if you wish. An ointment should take care of the infection though there’s not much to be done for the missing cartilage.”

His direct gaze moved over my face, taking each feature in turn. “Your grandmother was a renowned healer in Ireland,” he said after a moment. “You have some of her look about you. Did you inherit her skill as well?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “She died before I was born, as I’ve already told you.”

“Maybe someone more experienced would better serve my needs. Is there a doctor in the village?”

It was an effort not to laugh. Unlike any doctor, I could have grown him a new ear in less time than it took to boil a pot of water. A bit more effort, and I might have been able to restore the color in his skin. Not that I was about to display the full extent of my power when a well-concealed fragment would do. “The closest doctor is in Philadelphia, but those sores will be seeping by the time you make it back to the city.” I shrugged indifferently. “It’s your ear. Do as you please.”

“I see.” The man’s wide lips stretched to a queer smile, revealing sharp white teeth. “What is your name, child?”

“Selah Kilbrid.” I bit my tongue to keep from adding that I was no child.

“How curious,” he said. “How curious, indeed. A Kilbrid and a McBres together in the new world.” He leaned closer and drew in another deep breath. “I should have known sooner—the scent is undeniable.”

My skin turned to gooseflesh. Without thinking, I reached for the knife, curling my fingers around the handle. The movement caught his attention and I watched his pink eyes widen in surprise. “Brigid Buadach,” he said softly. “Brigid Victorious.”

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, followed by the appearance of Mr. James Roth, Henry’s personal secretary and my least favorite person. For the first time in a month, I was actually glad for his company.

“Mr. Roth!” I cried. “What an unexpected surprise.”

He looked from me to Mr. Chubais. “I require some remedies for the journey tomorrow. I will come back at another time when you are not engaged.”

“No, no, please don’t go.” I hurried from around the table to James’s side, the knife still clamped in my hand. “I believe our business is concluded, Mr. Chubais, unless you have any further questions for me?”

There was no trace of his earlier smile. “Our conversation has been most illuminating. I thank you for your time, Miss Kilbrid.” He bowed and turned to leave.

Just then I remembered the reason for his visit. “Mr. Chubias,” I called, stopping him at the door. In my panic, I had nearly let him leave without delivering the contents of his urgent message. “Did you wish to tell me something?”

Mr. Chubais half-turned and looked at me. He studied my face once more before his gaze traveled to the knife in my hand. “The heat has made me weary and the exact phrasing has slipped my mind. I shall remember later and send you word.” He reached into his coat pocket for the dark spectacles and placed them over his eyes. “Good day, Miss Kilbrid.”

I stared at the empty doorway, unsure what to make of my short interview with the albino. No doubt, he knew about Brigid’s descendants or he never would have understood the significance of my parents’ marriage, the marriage of a McBres and a Kilbrid. And what did he mean that the scent was undeniable?

James cleared his throat. “An acquaintance of yours?” he asked, with open disdain for the albino. Not that I expected otherwise—he had yet to approve of anything about my life, me included.

I shook my head. “This is the first time I have ever seen him. He inquired about my grandmother, and by the way he spoke, he seemed to have known her from before she came to the Colonies. I’m not sure how though as she left Ireland more than forty years ago.”

“Oh, yes,” James said. “I almost forgot about your unfortunate connection to that godforsaken land. The king, I’m sure, will not be so negligent once he learns how you’ve stolen his nephew’s attention from Princess Amelia.”

Amnesia could not have caused James to “forget” my Irish roots as he now claimed. Nor would he miss an opportunity to remind me that Henry was currently betrothed to the king’s second daughter. Against his will, albeit, but betrothed all the same.

A dozen heated retorts jumped to my throat. I forced them back, determined to remain civil. “You require a remedy, I believe. Something for the journey.”

“Quite right,” he said. “On the voyage from England I suffered severe seasickness. I was hoping you might have something that would make the return voyage more tolerable.”

For a brief moment I debated giving him a bottle of senna root that I had brewed as a laxative for Old Nan. One teaspoon twice a day wasn’t enough to cause him too much inconvenience, though it would do absolutely nothing to cure his real ailment. By my humble estimation, seasickness and an occasional loose bowel were the least he deserved in return for his awful behavior towards me this past month.

I shot a furtive look at the bottles. Passing one onto James would be easy enough. Getting away with it would prove more difficult. He had asked for my help, and to deny him was a serious breach of my gift. If Brigid learned that I had purposefully harmed another person, I would be cut off from the Otherworld and the very source of my power. No human was worth the risk, least of all James Roth.

I took a jar of powdered ginger from the shelf instead. “This should help. Brew one teaspoon in a cup of hot water four times a day. You may add some sugar to help with the taste.”

James nodded and took the jar. “Thank you, Miss Kilbrid.” Without so much as a smile, he turned and left the room.

My pleasure, Mr. Roth. And may the devil take you before the morning.

Such luck had eluded me of late, and for about the millionth time I cursed the circumstances that kept me in the Colonies a month longer than Henry and, by his insistence, in James’s daily company. To be sure, I had bristled at the idea of a protector, but Henry had stood firm and refused to sail unless I agreed to let James stay, regardless of the magistrate’s threat to have him flogged.

I now had nine more weeks to tolerate that insufferable man—one to travel to Philadelphia and secure passage to England, and another eight at sea. I only needed to be patient awhile longer. Then Henry could deal with James, though it was probably too much to hope that he would be dismissed from service as the two men happened to be the best of friends.

Alone once more, I returned to the hearth to stir the liquid simmering in one of the large black pots. Steam rose up, bathing my skin and chasing away the last of the chill left by Mr. Chubais. Based solely on our conversation, I failed to understand his connection to the goddess born. Yet what his words did not clearly disclose, I felt confirmed a hundred times in my core—the man could not be trusted.

Something about him gave me the jitters. Upon deeper reflection, I knew it wasn’t his unusual appearance, the pasty white skin and pink eyes. As a healer, I had seen much worse and wasn’t bothered by such physical afflictions. His soft voice and tendency to sniff the air were disconcerting, but even these mannerisms could not explain my strong aversion to the man. Something else persisted, something much deeper than the eye could see. If not for the cryptic message, I would have preferred to never see him again, which could well be the case gauging by the lengthening shadows in my apothecary. At first light I was leaving for Philadelphia. The man had less than twelve hours to recover from the heat enough to send word. Message or no, my reunion with Henry would not be delayed by even a day.

Midnight came and went by the time I wiped the last pot clean and then looked around, satisfied with my work. The room was tidy, everything neat and in place just as my mother would have liked it. Before her death we had spent countless hours working together in this room, my mother teaching me the art of healing and the many secrets of our kind. I smiled from the memory when tears unexpectedly stung my eyes. Was I really going to walk away from this? From everything I had ever known?

Needing to clear my head, I crossed to the open door and inhaled a deep breath of the sweet, earthy scent of ripening wheat. The full moon cast a silvery glow as I stared toward the small family plot where my parents and maternal grandparents were buried. Beyond that, hidden deep in the forest stood the altar that served as a passageway into the Otherworld and the source of my power. For eighteen years Brighmor had been the center of my world in one form or another. Then Henry stepped off a ship and changed my life forever.

A pang of longing began to swell in my chest, and for the first time since he left, I felt apprehensive about leaving my home to travel halfway across the known world. What if I depleted all my power before I could cross into the Otherworld? Or if the ship sank and I ended up drowned at the bottom of the Atlantic? Or if I did make it to England only to learn that Henry had experienced a change of heart and agreed to marry Princess Amelia after all?

This last thought proved worse than the others put together. I shoved it aside, unwilling to even consider the possibility. My mind was decided, and I wasn’t about to throw away my only chance at happiness because I was too scared or nostalgic to leave Brighmor. These stone walls were sturdy. They would still be here when I returned—if I ever returned.

A gentle breeze stirred the night air, brushing the stray hair around my face and causing the candles to flicker on the table behind me. My new life would start tomorrow. Until then I needed to sleep, at least a few hours before the sun came up. I turned to go when something moved in the trees nearest my garden, a flash of white that disappeared in the blink of an eye. My nape prickled in warning, strong enough to make me shudder.

“Who’s there?” I called.

Silence followed and I took a cautious step back into the doorway.

A full minute passed while I waited for any sign of movement. Nothing appeared, and after another minute of watching, it became clear that exhaustion had finally gotten the best of me.

With a muttered curse, I closed the apothecary door and extinguished all the candles, save for one to navigate the darkened house. On a whim, I also picked up Brigid’s knife on my way out of the room. Certainly, such a blade would come in handy on the voyage.

From the servants’ wing, I passed through the kitchen, my meager light temporarily aided by the red embers glowing in the cooking hearth. Another door led to the main house, into a long hallway so black my candle did little to dispel the darkness. I continued toward the front stairs, thankful for the thin strip of moonlight that spilled across the hallway from the adjacent room.

I crossed through the light in two quick steps, when a faint scratching sound caused my feet to stutter. Darting a look into the room, I glimpsed a large shadow through the window as it ducked out of sight. I gasped and jerked back, inadvertently knocking the candle from the holder. In the pitch-black, I hurried down the hallway, the soft thump of my slippers breaking the heavy silence.

Nearly at the stairs, I came to a sudden stop when something scratched again, this time against the front door. A tentative rattle of the iron handle sent my heart flying straight into my sternum. Rather than run, I found myself rooted in place, staring toward the door as the rattling grew more determined.

The door refused to budge, having been bolted for the night by one of the servants. The room soon fell silent, and yet I waited, every muscle held taught, hardly even breathing so as not to give myself away. The silence pressed on until it appeared the would-be intruder had left, I hoped from Brighmor altogether, but quite possibly to look for another entrance. Whichever the case, I now had time to alert James of the situation. He, in turn, could wake the numerous field hands who slept above the carriage house, and together they could search the grounds.

I had just willed my feet to move when the door handle creaked sharply. The iron groaned under the strain, and the wooden jam splintered around the bolt. The commotion was over in seconds, the loud protests of metal and wood replaced by the sound of my ragged breath. Where the door had previously held fast, a sliver of silvery moonlight now cut through the darkness. Confusion clouded my head as the sliver continued to grow to a wide arc, and I found myself staring at the shrubberies that lined the front walkway. Then fear took me, stealing my voice and turning my first scream into a small, terrified squeak.