The Magic Between Us (Faerie) (13 page)

She thought for a moment as she chewed. But then she spoke. Her voice was clear. “I was broken. And you put me back together.” She touched her fingertips to his bent knee. “Thank you,” she said softly, but her voice was clear. It was so clear that it reached into his soul and squeezed his heart.

“You’re welcome,” he said. And then he proceeded to paint her with clotted cream and lick it off. And she didn’t protest even the slightest bit.

Cecelia let Marcus help her back into her clothing, with plenty of pauses for kisses, nips, and licks of appropriate body parts. Then he pulled her between his thighs and brushed her hair until it was silky soft and didn’t look like he’d tumbled her. Several times. She looked much more at ease than she had when they’d arrived at the cabin, and that said a lot to him.

She could be happy with him. He could marry her and life could be perfect.

“Where will you tell your father you’ve been all day?” he asked gently as he turned her to face him and laid his forehead against her stomach, so tightly that his nose was pressed into the soft flesh of her belly. His hands held tightly to her hips. Fear gnawed at his own belly, and he really didn’t want to take her home. He wanted to hide out there with her forever. He wanted to live in that tiny cabin and never leave it again, with Ronald bringing them necessary food and supplies. But such was not to be his lot in life.

She shrugged. “I hadn’t planned to tell him anything. His opinion no longer matters to me.” Her voice was suddenly dull and lifeless, and he wished he had never brought it up.

“What does that mean? How could that be?” he murmured, looking up into her face, his hands still resting on her hips, still holding her close to him.

“My day isn’t over yet. If you try to ruin what’s left of it, I won’t forgive you,” she warned.

He nodded at her. He would get to the bottom of this. If it was the last thing that he ever did, he would figure out what the rift was between her and her father.

“Do you know the time?” she asked.

He pulled his watch fob from his pocket and looked down. “Well past the dinner hour. Your father is probably worried sick.” He stood up and pulled her toward the door. “Come along. I’d better deliver you home.”

She nodded as she looked longingly around the room. “It’s time to go home,” she said quietly.

But she wasn’t broken. Not the way she’d been when he’d brought her there. She had seemed like a kite caught in a summer storm when they’d arrived. And now she was the gentle sun he’d always known, shining directly into his life.

They walked back to her house hand in hand. No one was on the roads between the cabin and town, and even if someone had been, they could have said they’d taken a walk. Rules were a little more lax in the land of the fae. They weren’t lax enough to allow for what they’d done that day, but they could take a walk without a maid. After all, they were trusted to go on missions together.

Responsibility was earned in the land of the fae, as was trust. And if one proved oneself, one gained more and more freedom as the years passed. Not so in the other world, where status was all that mattered.

They walked slowly up the stairs at the front of her house and stopped at the threshold. Cecelia reached up and cupped his face in her palm, looking deeply into his eyes, hers as dark as night in the quiet of the evening. “Thank you for today,” she said softly, and she leaned forward and kissed him. No, this wasn’t a lusty mesh of teeth and tongue. This kiss was affectionate and comfortable.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly.

Mr. Pritchens should have come to open the door for her by now. Where was the man?

A thud sounded from the other side of the door.

“What was that?” Marcus asked.

“One of the maids moving furniture to clean behind it, I’m sure,” Cecelia said with a breezy wave of her hand.

“At this time of the night?” He reached for the door handle, but she covered his hand with hers.

Her eyes looked everywhere but at him as she rushed to say, “You know, I forgot that I’m supposed to be staying the night at Ainsley’s house.”

He pulled back a little to look down at her face. “Why are you staying there?”

“We wanted a little time to catch up. And she wants to talk to me about your brother. I’m pretty sure there’s a courtship going on there that no one knows about.”

“Allen and Ainsley,” Marcus said with a snort. “There’s a match for you.” He shuddered to think of how arguments in their household might be won, with two such strong-minded individuals in residence. Ainsley had a tongue sharp enough to cut glass, and Allen was no slouch when it came to quips. “They’ll kill each other within a year,” he said with a laugh.

She started down the steps. “Ainsley will be waiting for me,” she said.

“Are you certain you want to go there at this time of the night?” It was well past dinnertime.

***

Well, she certainly didn’t want to go home, not with the evidence of her father’s drinking audible from outside the house. She didn’t want Marcus, of all people, to see what her father had become.

By now he would be deep in his cups and belligerent. The thump they’d heard was probably her father throwing himself at one of the footmen. Or shoving furniture. Or trying to thrash Mr. Pritchens. Pity washed over her. Poor Mr. Pritchens. He’d been forced to deal with her father all day while she’d had a wonderful day with Marcus. She couldn’t leave the poor butler with her father the rest of the night. But she couldn’t let Marcus go inside the house, either. Not now.

“Walk with me to Ainsley’s house?” she asked, tugging his fingers to get him away from the door.

“I certainly wouldn’t let you go alone,” he grumbled. He probably knew something wasn’t right. He was a smart man. It didn’t take a genius to realize that something was off.

They walked in silence down the lane until they came to Ainsley’s father’s house. It was small and quaint, and what it lacked in grandeur it made up for with happiness.

Marcus knocked on the door and waited with her for the butler to open it. “Miss Hewitt,” the man said, shocked at her arrival.

“Miss Hewitt is here to see Miss Packard,” Marcus said.

She could speak for herself. She really could. Cecelia squeezed Marcus’s hand and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Without waiting for his response, she slipped through the door, closing it solidly in Marcus’s bewildered face.

She leaned against the closed door as Ainsley’s butler looked at her as though she were bound for Bedlam. But just then, Ainsley skipped down the stairs in her nightrail and robe. She stopped on the middle step and said, “Cece, are you all right?”

The butler watched the two of them closely, and Cecelia nodded her head toward him to warn Ainsley not to say anything that could get back to her household.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Cecelia said. “I know you said to come after dinner, but I got busy with Father and we lost track of time.”

Ainsley nodded slowly. “I’m glad you finally arrived,” she said. She pointed down the corridor. “I was just on the way to get some warm milk. Come with me.”

Cecelia nodded at the butler and walked behind Ainsley, her arms crossed over her chest. She was suddenly freezing. Her perfect day appeared to be over. Reality was returning to the forefront of her life. When no one was about, Ainsley began to warm some milk on the wood stove and asked, “Who are you avoiding? Your father or Marcus?”

Cecelia rocked her head side to side as though weighing her next words. Perhaps she was. “Both?” she asked. “Make one of those for me, will you?” She pointed to the pan of milk.

Ainsley nodded. “I came to see you today. Your father said you were out.”

Cecelia nodded. “Was he foxed yet?”

Ainsley shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Good.”

“Where were you?” Ainsley asked cautiously.

“I went with Marcus to his grandfather’s cabin in the woods and we stayed there all day.”

Ainsley’s jaw dropped. “You didn’t!”

Cecelia couldn’t bite back a smile. “I did!”

“What did you do there?”

Cecelia grinned. “We didn’t play cards,” she laughed.

“And?” Ainsley prompted as she poured warm milk into a cup and handed it to Cecelia.

“We didn’t organize the wardrobes.”

“Did you clean the linens?” Ainsley giggled.

“The linens!” Cecelia cried. There was bound to be some evidence of their day because they hadn’t changed the linens. What the devil was she going to do? She supposed that could wait until the morning. No one would be there before tomorrow.

Ainsley’s brow arched. “And why are you worried about the linens?” she prompted.

Cecelia said quietly. “You know, they say it hurts the first time, but it really didn’t. Only for a moment.” An uninhibited tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, Cece,” Ainsley crooned, pulling her friend into her arms. Cecelia could always count on Ainsley. She didn’t ask too many questions. And she always knew when to keep her opinion to herself and just listen. Ainsley set Cecelia back from her after a brief hug and said, “What was it like?”

“Beautiful,” Cecelia breathed. And it had been. It had been everything she’d ever dreamed it would be. “He was warm and sweet and thoughtful, and he kept telling me over and over that he loved me.”

Ainsley suddenly looked worried. “Is that why you did it? Because he made you feel like it was the next logical step?”

Cecelia shook her head. “No, I just wanted one day. And I asked him specifically if we could spend it that way. He wants to marry me.”

Ainsley groaned out her name. “Cece,” she said. “Of course he wants to marry you. You’re amazing. When is the wedding?”

Cecelia shook her head. “We’re not getting married.”

Ainsley’s brows narrowed. “Why not?”

“There’s too much at stake. His world. My world. There’s no way we could make it suit.” She rushed on to clarify. “That doesn’t mean I don’t love him, because I do. I love him more than anything.” She clutched her fist to her chest. “But I can’t marry him.” She took a deep breath and plunged on. “When he walked me home, my father was already foxed. I could hear furniture crashing inside.”

“So you had him bring you here?”

“Well, I wanted to see you anyway. To tell you about it all.”

Ainsley’s face softened. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“Thank you for listening.”

“Was it terrifying?” Ainsley asked, her grin nearly infectious.

“It’s a rather daunting appendage,” Cecelia murmured.

“Isn’t it, though?” Ainsley asked.

Cecelia put her hands on her hips and glared at her friend. “And just what do you know of it?”

“Not much,” Ainsley admitted. Her cheeks got all rosy and she said, “Allen kissed me today. I mean, really kissed me. And the… umm… appendage… was hard to mistake.”

Cecelia laughed. “How was the kiss?”

“Hot enough to scorch my hair,” Ainsley said, holding up a lock of her hair. “Was he gentle with you?” she asked softly.

“He’s Marcus,” Cecelia scoffed. “Of course he was.”

“At least he wasn’t a bumbling idiot.”

“He’d never done it before, either. So, we had to figure things out together.”

Heat crept up Cecelia’s cheeks. She wouldn’t tell Ainsley everything.

“What if there are consequences?” Ainsley asked. “Will you marry him then?”

Consequences? Cecelia hadn’t even thought about consequences. Goodness, what if they’d created a child?

“Forgot about that little detail, did you?” Ainsley chided.

“Completely,” Cecelia muttered.

“Marcus is a good man. He’ll take care of whatever needs to be taken care of.”

Cecelia knew he would. But she really didn’t want Marcus to have to take care of anything.

“I need to get home. I don’t want to leave Mr. Pritchens alone with my father all night. Just in case.”

“I’ll have one of the footmen walk with you,” Ainsley said.

“No need. There’s no one about. I’ll run directly home.”

“Are you certain?”

“Completely.” Cecelia crossed the room and hugged her friend tightly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“You’re welcome.” Ainsley patted Cecelia’s back. “Now run home. Send for me if you need anything.”

Cecelia went out the front door, holding a lantern in her hand as she walked down the road. She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that the lights of her home had all been doused.

She slipped through the open door and closed it behind her. But she didn’t realize what a mistake it was to come home until a bottle hit the wall directly beside her head and shattered all over the floor.

“Where have you been?” her father bellowed.

Cecelia closed her eyes tightly and counted to ten.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

She could count to one hundred and when she opened her eyes, her father would still be there in all his drunken glory, and she would still hate him just as much.

The first time he’d raised his hand to her was just after her mother’s death. That had been a slap across the cheek when she’d chastised him for having another glass of wine.

The second time had been a little more direct and couldn’t be explained away as a rash on her face. She’d had a bruise across her cheekbone that required her to stay at home and out of sight for a sennight.

Mr. Pritchens stepped between her and her father. “Mr. Hewitt,” he began, his voice shaking with rage. “Miss Hewitt went to fetch something for one of the upstairs maids. She has a terrible megrim. It was at my request.”

“Are you daft, man?” her father bellowed. “We have servants for running errands.”

All the servants would be in bed at this time of the night, but her father didn’t know or didn’t care about anyone’s comfort but his own. “I volunteered,” Cecelia said. “Everyone else was in bed.”

“Why didn’t you go yourself, Pritchens?” her father snarled. “You sent my daughter out in the dead of night to run an errand?”

Mr. Pritchens gritted his teeth and said, “I was somewhat preoccupied.”

Her father kept Mr. Pritchens busy every night for what seemed like the whole night. But her father paid no heed to how much discomfort he caused everyone else.

Her father stepped forward and shoved Mr. Pritchens so hard that he thudded against the wall. Hitting her father back was like hitting a child who was having a tantrum. It did no good. It served no purpose. And no one felt good about it afterward. But when her father made a move to charge Mr. Pritchard, Cecelia felt obligated to step between them.

This time, her father’s shove sent her into the wall. She stood there stunned, unable to take a deep breath for a moment. But when she could, there was no apology. There was only her father snarling, “Look what you made me do,” in Mr. Pritchens’ face.

“He didn’t make you do anything, Father,” Cecelia said, putting a hand on her father’s shoulder to gently pull him back.

In the past six months, she’d done so more times than she could count. And he usually took it very well. But this time, he didn’t for some reason. “He did make me do it. I would never hurt you on purpose,” he bellowed, spittle flying from his lips to land on her face.

Cecelia closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She’d taken so many deep breaths lately that they should have called her Windy instead of Cecelia. Perhaps that would be the name she chose when she began a new life. One far away from her father.

“You hurt me every day, Father. Every time you do this.”

He huffed. “Do what?” He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes and scrubbed them.

But Cecelia had had enough. She stepped close to his face and screamed in it, just the way he had in hers. “Every time you do this!”

She was shocked at herself, so she stepped back and closed her eyes, counting to ten again. She didn’t even see the hand flying toward her face. But she felt it. The back of his hand connected with her cheek, hitting her hard enough that it spun her head and she fell to the ground.

The last time he’d hit her, he’d been immediately contrite. Not this time. This time, he fell on top of her, intent on flipping her over, probably so he could yell in her face. But she folded her arms over her head to ward off any future blows and curled into herself. Inside herself was the safest place to be right now.

Suddenly, her father’s weight shifted off her, and she looked up from between her elbows. Despite his slightness of form, Mr. Pritchens had wrestled her father from on top of her and laid him on his stomach, his left arm pulled up behind him at an almost sickening angle. Her father swore like a dockworker and threatened Mr. Pritchens.

“You don’t have to dismiss me, Mr. Hewitt,” the butler gritted out. “It’s only because of your daughter that I’m still here.” He looked up at Cecelia. “I can’t keep doing this, miss,” he said. “I want a peaceful existence. And this isn’t it.” He wrenched her father’s arm higher behind his back when he began to struggle. “Stay down,” he snarled.

He looked at Cecelia’s face, which hurt like the devil.

“You’re going to have a bruise there, miss,” he warned.

She reached up and touched the tender side of her face. “I suppose I should have come home earlier tonight.” She snorted to herself. Oh, the irony.

“How is Mr. Thorne?” Mr. Pritchens asked quietly. Her father had settled into a lump on the rug, with his eyes closed. He would be asleep in moments, she was sure.

She smiled at the memory of her day. “He’s well.”

“Nice day?” Mr. Pritchens asked, as if they were taking tea.

“The nicest,” she said. And it had been. Until her father ruined it.

Mr. Pritchens removed his pointy knee from the center of her father’s back, and her father didn’t move. He didn’t utter a sound, aside from a loud snore. Cecelia breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.

“I suppose I should get him to bed,” Mr. Pritchens said.

“I’ll help you,” she volunteered, moving toward her father. She knew Mr. Pritchens gave the staff the nights off because this became a regular occurrence with her father. It had become normal for him.

“One moment,” he said.

Mr. Pritchens left the room and came back with a wet cloth, pressing it gently against the side of her face. “Ouch,” she complained. Her eye was already swelling shut.

“That’s going to hurt like the devil in the morning,” he mused, tipping her chin up to get a better look.

“Where did you learn to fight, Mr. Pritchens?” she asked. As small as he was, he was strong. And he could take down her father. Why, he wasn’t much bigger than Cecelia was.

“Necessity,” he admitted.

Cecelia furrowed her brows. But it hurt to do so. “My kind of necessity?” she asked.

“Yes.” He didn’t say more. Just that one word.

“Yet you stay.” She looked into kind, old gray eyes.

“I wouldn’t leave you here for anything,” he admitted. “Not alone.”

“When I have my own household someday,” Cecelia began, “will you come and manage it for me?”

His tired eyes brightened. “I live for the day.”

She nodded.

He pressed the cold cloth tightly to her eye, and she winced again. “Keep it on there. It’ll help.” He patted her shoulder twice, then squeezed. “Go to bed. I’ll take care of your father.”

“Slap him around a few times while you’re at it, will you?”

He heaved a sigh. “I would if I thought it would help.” He looked Cecelia in the eye. “We’re going to have to get some help for him.”

She nodded. “Someone to slap the bottle out of his hand.” She tried to laugh. But it came out more as a sob.

Mr. Pritchens cocked his head to the side and pressed his lips tightly together. “If that’s what it takes.”

“It won’t help. Not unless he wants to change. He used to be an amusing drunkard.”

He gently probed at her cheekbone. “Not amusing now,” he murmured, anger flashing in his eyes.

“You’re certain you can get him to bed by yourself?” she asked.

“Quite,” he said, gritting his teeth as he looked down at her father. “Go to your chambers. I’ll see to him.”

Cecelia was halfway up the stairs when he called out to her. She turned back. “What should I tell Mr. Thorne when he comes to call tomorrow?”

“What makes you think he’ll come to call?” she asked, her heart leaping at the thought.

He smiled. “He’ll come.”

She sighed heavily. “Tell him I’m not accepting callers.” She turned to go upstairs.

“He’ll ask for a reason,” Mr. Pritchens called to her back.

“Tell him I’m ill, for goodness’ sake, Pritchens,” she called back. She couldn’t let Marcus see her looking like this. And it would look even worse tomorrow, if history was a good indicator.

“He won’t accept that.”

“He won’t have a choice.”

Cecelia entered her chambers and looked around at what used to be her home. She crossed the room and leaned close to the looking glass. She’d seen pugilists leave Gentleman Jackson’s looking less beat up than this. Her eye was a startling shade of red, and it was quickly swelling shut. She pressed the cold cloth against it, wincing as it touched the scraped skin of her cheek. Her father must have caught her with his ring.

A rising sense of elation buoyed her for a moment as she realized what Marcus would have walked into if she’d allowed him to escort her inside the house. At least he was spared from it. Even if she wasn’t.

***

Marcus broke his fast the next day to the sound of babies crying in the breakfast room. Allen stuck his fingers in his ears and made a face. “I imagined the land of the fae to be calm and serene.” He raised his voice comically loud. “This is nothing of the sort.”

Lord Phineas grinned. “Just wait until you have one of your own. I’ll be sure to remind you of this conversation.” He bounced Lucius on his knee.

“Can’t you take them to the nursery or something?” Allen groused.

Claire passed Lucius to a hovering nurse, and another stepped forward for Cindy. Thank goodness Sophia and her son were still upstairs. “Take them to the nursery, will you?” Claire brushed Lucius’s hair from his forehead. “And come and get me immediately if you need me.”

“Yes, my lady,” the nurse said.

“What are you two doing today?” Claire asked as she began to eat.

Allen looked at Marcus and grinned. “I’m going to see Ainsley. She’s going to show me the sights.”

Marcus snorted. “That what they’re calling it these days?”

Allen flushed scarlet. “Shove it,” he growled good-naturedly. He looked at Marcus. “What are your plans?”

He smirked. “I’m going to join you and Ainsley.”

“If you must,” Allen growled.

“I’m only joking. I’m going to call on Cecelia.” His groin tightened at the thought of calling on Cecelia. “And then we’re going to do whatever she had planned for herself today.” He grinned at the thought. He didn’t even care what it was. He just wanted to be with her. They could darn socks all day and he would be happy.

He tossed his napkin onto his plate and stood. “Speaking of which, could you make my excuses to Mother and Father? I don’t want to wait for them to come down.”

Claire stabbed a fork toward him. “You may want to send a calling card, first, Marcus, to be sure she’s receiving callers today.”

He’d never sent a calling card in his life. She would receive him. Any alternative was laughable. “Why would I do that? She’s not angry at me anymore.”

“Straightened all that out, did you?” Claire asked.

He grinned. They’d more than straightened it out.

Claire raised a brow at him and said to Lord Phineas, “Darling, why don’t you tell Marcus where we went last night?”

Lord Phineas shot her a look hot enough to scorch paper. “I’m certain he doesn’t want to hear about that.”

Yet Claire continued. “I took Finn to see the cabin. You remember Grandfather’s old hunting lodge, don’t you?” She tilted her head at Marcus, but the wry tilt to her mouth told him she knew already.

“I remember it.” He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it all night, truth be told. “You say you took Lord Phineas?”

Damn it all. The maid was supposed to go this morning to change the rumpled sheets and do the housekeeping.

“Mmm-hmm,” Claire hummed.

“Damn it, Claire,” he began.

Lord Phineas sat up taller and said, “Watch it, Marcus.”

“Apologies,” he murmured. “Stop acting like the cat that ate the cream.”

“I will as soon as you admit what’s going on,” she shot back.

“I admit nothing,” he batted out.

“I’m guessing it was Cecelia, wasn’t it?” Claire asked, not the least bit sly about her probing.

“Leave it alone, Claire,” Lord Phineas warned.

“Listen to your husband, Claire,” Marcus warned as well.

“Oh, posh. I have your best interests at heart, Marcus.” She suddenly sobered. “How is Cecelia?”

He shrugged. “She’s well.” Probably sore, but that wasn’t anything Claire needed to know about.

“I have heard some things, Marcus,” she started.

“What kind of things?” He sat back down to glare at her.

“It’s all scuttlebutt, Marcus,” she said on a heavy sigh. “But things are not well at home.” She poked the air with her fork tines again. “Be careful, Marcus.”

Marcus sighed and dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing down it. “I hate it when you’re cryptic. Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking?” He couldn’t tell if Claire was referring to the fact that he’d bedded Cecelia or that something was wrong with her. “She hasn’t been ill, has she?”

“Her father hasn’t been well,” she started.

But Lord Phineas cut her off. “Claire,” he warned.

She threw her fork down. Lord Phineas was the only one who’d ever been able to take Claire to task.

“The man is grieving, Claire,” Marcus said. Surely everyone could see that.

“It’s more than that.” But Lord Phineas shot her a look, and she shut her lips tightly.

“Ask questions, Marcus. Lots of questions.” Apparently, she was done with her cryptic ramblings, because she left the room.

“I won’t stick my nose in your matters,” Lord Phineas said. “But tread lightly with Cecelia, Marcus.”

“You’ve already stuck your nose in my matters. I hate it when people say things like that but won’t explain. So, out with it.”

“You’re straddling two worlds. And giving it a valiant effort, I might add.”

“So are you.” Marcus didn’t understand this line of questioning.

“I’m not straddling anything. I’m a visitor here.”

“And I’m a visitor in your world. Is that what you’re saying?”

He took a sip of his tea. “Not at all. Your home is there. Or did you intend for it to be here?”

“It can be both.”

“Does she want home to be both places?”