Charming the Devil (24 page)

“Who are you?” Cranton asked, but Faerie Faye’s eyes held Rogan enthralled. Calm and brave, she watched him for an instant. Then, almost smiling, she turned toward the elder Redbreast.

“He died by my hand,” she said.

“No, lass,” Rogan rumbled, and clenched his fists.

“What?” The older officer was scowling, carefully shifting his gaze from one to the other. The younger left the stairs to stride through the lower level, knife clenched in a steady grip.

“I killed him,” she said. Her voice was as clear as morning.

Cranton’s gaze flitted from one to the other. “The Scot said he was to blame.”

She smiled a little. “Rogan McBain is a warrior, sir. A decorated soldier. And a hero. He would do no such thing.”

“Then why did he—”

“He’s protecting me. Mr. Franquor and I were having an affair.”

“And…”

“He threatened to leave me.”

“That hardly seems a reason to kill a man.”

She did smile now. The expression was beatific, carefree, kindness, and light. “Have you ever been in love?” she asked, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears, though her perfect face remained absolutely unmoved. “Have you ever been willing to give all?”

“Lass—” Rogan rumbled.

“No,” she said, and shook her head before finding his eyes with hers. Her brow was smooth, her eyes clear. “There is much I don’t understand. But you are a worthy man, Rogan McBain.”

“I’ve done things that—”

“I know truth,” she said. “And I know goodness. You’ll not suffer for your affiliation with me.”

“I believe you’ll both come with me,” Cranton said, and in that instant fear flickered in Faye’s earth-stone eyes. It was more than Rogan could bear.

He stepped forward, placing himself between her and the constable, just a few feet from the door.

“You’ll not take her,” he said.

The captain spread his legs. The boy with the knife had returned to the stairs, but he stood a goodly distance away. Rogan could take them both down if need be.

“What’s this then?” asked a voice.

They jerked their gazes to the doorway as a slim youth stepped inside.

“Cur!” Faye hissed.

“Who are
you
?” snapped Cranton.

The boy lifted his head the slightest degree, almost as if he were testing the scents. “Well,
I’m
not the killer,” he said, and glanced from Faye to Rogan, brows raised.

The constables were looking nervous. And for good reason. There was something eerie about the boy, something unearthly and rare and capable.

“Who might you be?” Cranton asked, but he kept his distance from the boy. He was not, apparently, a foolish man.

“Have you searched the house?” Cur asked.

“There’s none other here,” said the youth.

“Are you certain?” Cur asked, and strolled leisurely down the hall.

He raised his nose again, narrowed his eyes, then bent to study a drop of scarlet that marred the white wall.

“Have you tried there?” he asked, and pointed to a door placed under the stairs that led to the upper floor.

“It’s too small,” Redbreast said.

“Try anyway,” Cur insisted.

Cranton nodded. The boy stepped cockily toward the pantry, opened the door, and glanced inside. “As I said—”

“Farther back,” Cur said. The words were almost a growl.

Crouching, the boy stepped inside, but sud
denly a form hurtled past. He stumbled out of the way, and a woman sprang forth, eyes wild, hair frazzled.

A moment of silence lapped the room, then, “Lady Lindale.” Faye’s voice was raspy and hushed.

“What happened?” she asked, then turned toward the body, eyes wide and already tearing. “No. Not dear Theodore.”

“Who are you?” Cranton asked, but it seemed to take a moment for his words to register in her shaken mind.

“I am Lady Lindale. Of Inver Heights. Is he…” Her voice broke, but she rallied. “Is he dead?”

“I fear he is. Might I ask why you are here?”

“Yes. Of course.” Her face was pale, her eyes wide and limpid. “I…I had heard Theodore was feeling poorly.” She turned her head slightly, then closed her eyes and shuddered before seeing the body. “I came to visit him. He is,
was,
my husband’s cousin.”

“Yes,” Faye said, but there was an eerie calmness to her voice as though she was quietly delving for truth.

The lady’s gaze skittered to Faye, seeking solace there. “My poor dear Henry. Taken too early from me. It is too unfair to lose another man for whom I cared.”

“What happened?” asked Cranton.

“As I said, I but came to make certain he was
well. I brought him a bottle of burgundy. He only drinks French. Says local wines insult his palate. It sounds haughty I know, but really—”

“Perhaps we could discuss his preferences later.”

“Of course. Yes.” She shuddered, but did not let her gaze slip to the body again. “It hardly matters now. The point is, I came alone. When he did not answer the door, I stepped inside. There was a noise from up above. I planned to ascend the stairs. But suddenly…” She turned as if seeing it all again, one hand lifted dramatically. “Someone grabbed me from behind. The bottle flew from my hands. It must have broken, but I barely noticed, for someone was propelling me across the floor. I was pushed into that alcove and locked inside.”

“You poor thing,” Faye said, and, stepping forward, gently pulled Lady Lindale into her embrace, her sensitive hands spread against the lady’s back.

“It was terrible. Terrifying.” Her voice was broken, trembling.

“I’m so sorry.”

The constable stepped forward, examining the clasp, turning it easily. “You say it was locked.”

“I was so scared,” Lindale mewled.

“Of course you were. Of course,” Faye said, and, pulling away just slightly, found the older woman’s gaze with her own. “But why did you do it?”

The lady’s face gradually went slack as her attention pinned to Faye’s eyes.

“You did not stand to inherit even with Franquor’s death.”

Lindale’s eyes looked strangely blank. “But Mots did,” she said.

“You said Lord Warton yet lived.”

“But for how long? He’s an old man with a failing heart. He will die of his own accord.”

“So you killed the others first, thinking none would think the deaths connected.”

The older woman smiled, as if blandly sharing secrets with a friend. “Not many know how to mix horse nettles and bloodroot to their greatest potency. But I have not always had access to an apothecary, you know.” She shook her head, and in that moment, Rogan caught a glimpse of the beauty she had once been. “I made my life on the stage. Never has there been a greater Lady Macbeth.”

“You killed three times so your nephew could inherit?” Faye murmured.

“My
husband’s
nephew,” she said. “We are not kin.”

“You are having an affair with him.”

“It’s not an affair.”

“You love him.”

Lindale smiled. The expression was innocent yet terrifying. And in that moment, Faye caught her first glimpse of true madness. “I had no wish to give birth to Henry’s offspring. There are ways to cause barrenness if you know your herbs. I was thrilled when he turned to others. Let his wanton slatterns bear his children.

“It was he in the library,” she said. “It was he who attacked you. There are secret passageways throughout the house. When inebriated, he would think himself quite clever, sneaking about, spying on me, pawing the servants. I accepted it for a host of years, smiling at his antics as if he were a coddled child. But when he began molesting guests…” She shrugged. “I knew I could not keep his debauchery secret much longer. I had worked too hard to become a laughingstock.” She raised her chin. “He was a worthless shell of a man, more than willing to drink whatever poison I infused in his wine. It was a pleasure killing him,” she said, and in that moment Faye could bear no more evil. She stepped back, breaking contact.

The woman’s blank expression faded. Reality settled in gradually. She raised her hand slowly. In her fist she held a pistol. Its brass scrollwork glistened in the firelight as she aimed it toward Rogan. “Out of the doorway, oaf.”

Silence slid in. Rogan shook his head, and in that moment Faye leaped, forgetting pain, forgetting fear, and magic. Action was all there was, and in that instant Lindale swung toward her.

The world exploded. Agony slashed Faye like a knife, but it hardly mattered. Even as she fell, even as she heard the Redbreasts pull Lindale to the floor and felt her own consciousness slip away, she smiled.

Rogan McBain would suffer no more scars.

“I
’m sorry, lass. So very sorry.” His words were a rumbled prayer whispered in the darkness. His hands were a tight belt around her own. “I knew better than to think you were for the likes of me.”

Pain hammered through Faye, catching her breath, tearing her muscles. She lay still, listening. Upon her chest she could feel the warmth of the bloodstone he had placed there. The cord felt slim, the amulet heavy. It was doing demmed little good.

“’Tis me own fault you are here.” Firelight flickered. She could sense it through her lowered lids and wondered if Ella had left some magic to keep it glowing. “I should have warned you of the curse that plagues me. Had not my guilt been so heavy, I would have done so. Would have shared the truth.” He lifted her hand. Hot tears smeared across her knuckles. “’Twas I what caused me mum’s death. My size…’Tis unearthly. The midwife said as much. ‘Twas then, long ago, that I knew I was not
meant for a maid’s tender company. I tried to keep meself private, to spare the fairer sex, but Charlotte…Lady Winden…she was a golden torch, searing my mind. I could think of nothing else, and when I saw the bruises…” He paused.

Faye waited, wanting to open her eyes, to ease his pain, but needing to hear his words, to let him spill the toxic truths.

“I meant only to save her from her husband’s temper. Or at least I told meself as much. But I wonder now. Perhaps I but wanted her for meself, and in so doing…” She felt a muscle contract in his jaw, brushing her nails. “’Twas I what issued the challenge. Perhaps he thought it a gentlemanly contest where none would be injured. But I knew better. Indeed, I feel little remorse…but for the child.” His voice had dropped to the thinnest of whispers. “Winden’s bairn by another marriage. A wee wisp of a maid. Silken curls and eyes as bright as a summer lochan. I knew Charlotte had created no bond with her. But I did not understand…did not even consider the evil that was in her. The babe died of fever in the days following her father’s death, she said. And I’ve tried to believe it true for me own soul’s sake. But I do not. I think she took the bairn’s life with her own hands.” He inhaled shakily. “Had I known…had I seen her wickedness, I would not have fallen for her beauty,” he said. “Or that is what I’ve told meself these past years. But perhaps the truth is not so gentle. Perhaps, had I known all, I would still have
forfeited the child’s life for my own pleasure. Just as I forfeited my mum’s life for me own.” Another hot tear dropped onto her knuckles, and with its liquid heat, Faye opened her eyes, heart breaking.

“No, Rogan. ’Tis not true.”

“Lass.” His haunted, silver eyes found hers. His hands tightened around her fingers. “I have not killed you.”

“’Twas not your fault. It was my choice to make. My choice—”

“Nay.” He shook his head. A muscle ticked in his unshaven jaw. “Had I explained myself after our time together, perhaps all would have been well. But when you told me of your youth…your abuse at the hands of others…” Rage shone like a blaze in his dead-steady eyes, and for a moment, she was almost afraid. “I wanted nothing more than to kill. To feel my hands on their throats. I could not bear to see you for the heat of vengeance in my soul.” He relaxed his grip on her fingers slightly, inhaled carefully. “But I see now that you are safer without me than with me.”

She shook her head, but he continued.

“Look at me, lass.”

She did. He was beautiful beyond words. Kindness and goodness and strength.

“A beast some say.” His voice was low. “An ogre. Yet I failed to keep you safe. Had it not been for me, you would not have gone to Franquor’s cottage. Had Brendier not been me own kin, perhaps even he would be alive.”

“You didn’t cause his death, Rogan. You know that,” she said, but he shook his head.

“Those around me suffer, lass.
That
I know. Have known for a long while. But me uncle thought it time to mend relations. To seek out me father’s family. Thus I ventured here. And though death followed, I thought mayhap the curse was broken. For I found you.” His fingers tightened on hers. His eyes shone like quicksilver.

“The curse
is
broken, Rogan,” she whispered, but he shook his head.

“Not so long as I am here, lass.” Kissing her hand with hot reverence, he rose heavily to his feet. “I’ll not risk your magic, wee faerie.”

Dread flooded her, drowned her. “No!” she said, and clung to his hand, but his eyes were steady, his features stern.

“I’ve set my mind,” he said, and, turning, left her in agony, alone again.

“Faye.”

She awakened slowly, not particularly caring to. He was gone. She knew that, felt the absence of his truth in her soul. There was little point to consciousness.

“Are you improving?” Ella stood beside the bed and reached for her hand.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded strange, dry, guttural, as though she’d been crying.

“Good,” she said. “Because I’ve been waiting to see you toss a teapot cross the room with noth
ing but your mind again. After some discussion, Maddy and I think you may have the ability to absorb the powers of those around you.” She sat on the mattress beside her. “Thus I hoped you would be up and about by now. It’s been three days.” She smiled and touched Faye’s forehead, sweeping back the hair. “I used my best potions. Hogweed and tetterwort stirred with a cypress wand and boiled under a gibbous moon.”

“You’ve done well,” Faye said. “My thanks. ’Tis simply that—”

“She’s weak,” Shaleena said, and sauntered in, uninvited and arrogant.

“What are you doing here?” Ella asked, and squeezed Faye’s hand before rising to stand protectively between them. Would she forever need a protector? Would she forever be so frail? “I thought you were busy hiding in your chamber.”

The redhead drew herself up. “I do not hide.”

“Oh? Then you’ve spoken to Rikard?”

“That is
not
his name,” Shaleena hissed.

“Are you certain? I was sure it was Rikard Baranyi III, eldest son of—”

“I know what you’ve done!” Shaleena rasped. “You’ve crafted a potion to make him pretend he is Rikard. To pretend he yet lives. To drive me mad.”

“You are wrong, Becca,” Joseph said, and stepped quietly into the room.

Shaleena backed away, fists clenched, eyes wide. “No.”

“You
are
wrong,” Ella agreed. “I mixed a potion to bring the love of your life. Myrtle and gardenia grown with a lodestone in the shadow of the rowans. Very potent,” she said, glancing at Faye.

“No,” Shaleena said again, and shook her head.

“I searched for you,” Joseph said. “When I realized my father’s lies.”

“You didn’t want me. Admit it.” There was rage in Shaleena’s eyes. Rage and tears. “I was
odd.
” She winced, scorning the very thing in which she took such pride. “I was a
szolga.”

“You were gifted. As were my antecedents. There was pride in that knowledge. And I did not care that you were a servant,” he said, but Shaleena laughed.

“You don’t lie any better than you did as a boy,” she hissed, and he winced.

“I lacked the strength you deserved,” he said. “That I admit. I longed to please my sire. Certain I was that I could make him see the error of his way. But I realize now the mistakes of my youth. Indeed, I have paid dear for them, Rebecca. But we’ve been granted another chance.”

“You’re wrong. There are no more chances.”

“Why?” he asked, and anguish filled his face. “Why can you not forgive?”

“Because I’m no fool! Because—”

“Because she doesn’t deserve happiness,” Faye said. Reality was like a spear in her side, forcing
her to acknowledge her
own
mistakes. Allowing her to understand another’s.

Shaleena turned on her with a hiss. “I deserve everything this world has to offer.”

“Do you?” Faye asked, and eased her feet to the floor, barely wincing at the pain. “Then it’s because you’re weak.”

“I am not weak.”

“Yes you are. You’re—” Faye paused, waiting for her head to cease its spinning. “You’re afraid. Afraid of chances. Afraid of
him.
” She nodded toward Joseph, but didn’t glance that way lest she fall face-first onto the carpet. Truth was soaring through her like a wild dove, and she dare not shake it off. “Afraid of happiness.”

“Happiness.” Shaleena’s voice broke. “I
was
happy. He took it from me.”

“Then take it back,” Faye said, and, realizing her every shortcoming, shifted carefully to her feet. The world wobbled. “Or don’t.”

“How can I?” she asked. “Too much has passed.”

“You are wrong, Becca,” Joseph said.

“Truly? Can you retrieve the years?” she asked. “Can you bring back our son?”

“Not the years,” he said. “But our son…”

The world fell silent. Even Faye managed to look up.

“What are you saying?” Shaleena rasped.

“Our child yet lives.”

Not a soul breathed.

“He lied.” Shaleena’s voice was no more than a whisper of pain. “Your father…”

“Igen.
Yes.”

Her face looked as pale as death. “I should have known.” A muscle ticked painfully in her jaw. “Perhaps I did. But I was young. Alone.” A tear slipped down her alabaster cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and he went to her, drawing her into his arms, pulling her against his chest.

“He forgives you.” He stroked the back of her head, almost smiling, eyes closed. “Or he will…in time.”

Shaleena looked up, eyes wide and desperate. “You know him.”

He nodded. “As do you.”

She shook her head, fingers tight in his simple shirt.

“We should have expected some…” He paused. “Irregularities. What with your gifts and the unusual history of my family so near the Carpathians.”

“Irregularities. What do you mean? What’s wrong with—”

But in that instant, Cur stepped through the door, dark eyes snapping, lips turned up in a wolfish grin.

“’Ello, Mum,” he said, and for the first time in as long as Faye could remember, Shaleena looked as if she was about to swoon.

Faye sat in silent stillness upon the room’s faded settee, hands folded in her lap, waiting.

Five days had passed since they had discovered Theodore’s dead body at the foot of the stairs. Three since Rogan’s tortured confessions by her bedside.

She had not stayed there long after his departure. Ella’s healing skills were legendary. But perhaps more therapeutic than all else was the full realization that her life was her own, to ruin or rejoice in. She had found she preferred to rejoice.

Thus she had returned to the modest house in Bloomsbury. And there, she found the strength to touch Lady Winden’s hand. Things seemed perfectly clear now. Exact. Faye no longer doubted either her own powers or Rogan’s goodness. It was a simple thing to pull forth the truth. It spilled from the widow like cheap wine.

Her husband had been a pale insect of a man. A drunkard, too weak to make his debtors pay their bills, surely too weak to beat her as she had told McBain he had done. But it had taken so little to convince Rogan of the opposite. A few bruises. A blackened eye. So little to plant the idea of a duel in his head.

Thus Rogan had fought to save a woman who needed no saving, a woman who was cruel and conniving.

But ’twas not that knowledge that Faye needed
to garner. Nay, she knew as much by now. It was what came after that had kept her sleepless and hopeful. It was what came after that brought her here to the frayed and faded sitting room of a foundling house many miles from London’s bustling streets. It was what made the air stick tight in her throat as she waited in tense silence while footfalls echoed down the bare hall.

Finally, able to wait no longer, Faye rose to her feet, breath held.

The door opened. Two people stepped inside. A thin woman with a drawn face and a pale, emerald-eyed child. Barely four years of age, she clung to the woman’s hand, but the other pried the girl’s grip loose.

“This is she,” she said simply, and, turning, left the room, closing the door behind her.

The child half turned too, as if cast adrift in an uneven sea.

Faye cleared her throat. “What is your name?” She knew it, of course, knew Lady Winden had left the child on a midnight street some miles from here. Knew a local farmer had found her that very night and brought her here to this moldering house with the tumbling chimney.

The girl glanced at her, eyes wide, face solemn above her tattered gown. She was too thin, too pale, too frightened. She shook her head, barely able to manage that much, and Faye’s heart lurched.

“I’ll call you Catherine,” she said, and squatted, tears filling her eyes. “
He’ll
call you wee Cat.”

It was the following day that the two of them stood on the stoop of Rogan’s town house. Connelly opened the door, grinned into Faye’s face, then lowered his gaze to the tiny girl who clung like a burr to her hand. She was dressed all in white, her dark curls tied back in a bow.

“Yours?” he asked.

“Yes,” Faye said, and, brushing past him, stepped inside, drawing Catherine with her. With a few whispered words, she left the child in the foyer and paced into the great room. Already she could hear McBain’s footfalls. Her heart felt heavy in her chest, tight and oversized, but in a moment he was there. Emotion flared in his eyes, but he quelled it, making his face a flinty mask.

“I thought you understood that I would not be seeing you again,” he said.

She lifted her chin. “You made that clear.”

He nodded. A muscle jerked in his scruffy jaw, and he turned away.

“There is no curse,” she said.

He glanced back at her, torture in his eyes. “You do not understand, lass. Those—”

“I
do
understand, McBain. There is good. And there is evil. You are good.”

“You’re wrong,” he began, but in that moment tiny Catherine abandoned the foyer. She crossed the room like a tiny angel, eyes wide, cheeks pale.

McBain’s gaze fell to her like a rock. Pain con
torted his features as the child reached for Faye’s hand and ducked her head, hiding it against the sweep of the other’s gown.