The Marriage Spell (30 page)

Abby also accepted a sherry. Scranton used the same decanter to pour all four glasses, and he made no attempt to influence which glass Jack or Abby took. If there was poisoning tonight, it wouldn't be from the sherry. But just to be sure, she scanned it. There was nothing wrong about the wine.

Helen looked exquisite in a white and silver gown that was far too elaborate for the occasion. Though beautiful, it was also subtly out-of-date. The older woman's eyes narrowed with envy as she studied Abby's fashionable costume. “That looks like Madame Ravelle's work. She'll make dresses for anyone willing to pay her price.”

“Yes, and a sensible philosophy that is,” Abby said cheerfully. “Why work for someone who won't pay you?”

“You think like a tradesman.”

“Why, thank you,” Abby said, her eyes wide and innocent. Her determination not to let herself be baited worked, because Helen scowled and changed the subject.

It was going to be a long evening.

Chapter
XXX

C
onversation over dinner was stilted. The older couple talked mostly to each other and showed no interest in Jack's adventures or the background of his wife. Jack wasn't sure his mother even remembered that he had been seriously injured, though he knew Ashby had written her after the danger was over.

The second course had been served when his mother asked casually, “Are your rooms comfortable?” Her quick glance at Abby showed that she knew she was treating her daughter-in-law as a guest rather than as the new mistress.

“They're fine,” Abby said, expression neutral.

His mother relaxed. “Good. I'd rather not move from my rooms.”

It was time to speak up. Jack took a deep breath. “It would make no sense for you to change rooms when you'd just be moving again a few days later.”

The statement gained him the full attention of Scranton and his mother. She looked baffled and vulnerable while Scranton glowered.

It would be easier to face a well-armed French brigade rather than his mother. He steeled himself. “There's no way to say this tactfully. While I'm glad that you've kept the house from sitting empty for years, now that I've returned with a wife, it's time for you to leave. Since the furnishings belong to Langdale Hall, you'll only have to move clothing and personal possessions. A week should be sufficient. Abby and I can stay in the guest rooms until then.”

His mother gasped, “We can't leave the hall! Alfred, darling, explain to Jack how impossible that would be.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I can't believe that my only son would drive me from my home!”

It was an effort for Jack to keep his voice steady in the face of her tears. “If you were widowed and alone, of course there would be no question of your leaving, Mother. But you are not alone. You're married to one of Yorkshire's leading gentlemen, a man who owns a fine home only three miles away. The real question is why you have not long since taken up residence under your husband's roof.”

His mother swung her head around to glare at Abby. “This is all your fault! You have poisoned my son's mind against me!”

Jack cut in before Abby could reply. “My wife has said nothing against you. The decision is mine. A fortnight from now, after you've moved and settled into Combe House, you'll be glad. It's a fine place, more modern and comfortable than here, and it would be
yours.”

“She does not wish to go,” Scranton said, his eyes glittering with anger. “I do not want your mother distressed, Frayne.”

Reminding himself to be calm and tactful no matter what, Jack said, “You were most considerate to indulge my mother's sensibilities and not take her from the house that had been her home for so many years. But no house is large enough for two masters and two mistresses.”

His mother was pouting like an adorable child. Though he was exasperated by her attitude, he could not despise her the way he did Scranton. He had too many fond memories of how she used to be. “The sooner you set up your own establishment, the better, Mother. You deserve to be mistress of your own home, and so does Abby.”

“You don't understand. We
can't
leave.” She rose from the table and darted from the room, weeping.

Scranton rose to follow her. “Don't do this, Frayne,” he said ominously. “You will regret it.”

Jack rose, his height allowing him to look down at the older man. “Don't make this any more difficult than it need be, Scranton. You have one week to leave peaceably. If you don't, I'll remove you bodily if necessary.”

The expression in Scranton's eyes was chilling. His stepfather wanted him dead. “For Helen's sake, I will say it one last time—don't be a fool, Frayne.”

“My decision has been made, and I can't think of any good reason why you shouldn't move back to your home.”

“It is the bad reasons you should worry about,” Scranton said with lethal softness before he stalked from the room.

Jack drew a shaky breath and sat again. “I can't say that went terribly well.”

Abby reached across the table and took his hand. “It's hard to imagine how it could have gone smoothly. I'm curious why your mother is so sure they can't leave. It seems an unnaturally strong attachment to this property. Do you think Scranton might have had a geographic spell laid on her to create the belief that she can't go?”

“The opposite of the spell that made me stay away? It's certainly possible,” Jack said, glad to have something to think about other than his mother's reproachful eyes. “Could you study her and perhaps remove any such spells if you find them?”

Abby frowned. “She carries a very powerful anti-magic spell. I would rather not force my way into her mind against that. Such tactics should be a last resort.”

He squeezed her hand. “I think that we are rapidly approaching the last resort.”

She sighed. “So do I, my dear. So do I.”

A
fter the confrontation with his mother and her husband, neither Jack nor Abby was in the mood to make love, but it was wonderful to cradle her warm body in the quiet of their bed. As she settled against him, she said sleepily, “I think we should redecorate the master and mistress's rooms before we move in.”

“And maybe have them exorcised,” he added dryly.

She laughed. “At the least, we can burn some incense and cast a circle of protection so that the energy will be clean and clear when we move in.”

“Do you think they'll leave quietly, lass?”

She exhaled softly against him. “I think that Scranton will call on his black magician to create a really nasty spell aimed at one or both of us. Maybe more than one spell. We must be on our guard. Are you shielding yourself?”

He nodded. “I hope his black magician lives more than a week away so there won't be time to create trouble. I doubt we'll be so lucky, though.”

“Much better to expect the worst.” Abby yawned and drifted off while Jack stayed in the uneasy territory between sleep and waking. Scranton's words had been threatening, but what form would that threat take? The man had already driven Jack from Yorkshire and given him an attraction to risk, and there were far too many other possibilities. But now he had Abby beside him. Soothed, he finally dozed off.

In the deepest part of the night, Jack jerked awake, every fiber of his being saturated with despair. What was wrong?

Everything.
His relentless mind spelled out all his failings in bitter detail. He had abandoned his family to become a middling army officer, one whose position could have been filled by better soldiers. Another officer who would have lost fewer men. In the horrors after midnight, the blood of Jack's lost troopers stained his soul.

There was more blood, a dark river of blood, from the men he had killed personally, and the men who had died as a result of his orders. Decent Frenchmen who had wanted to live, whose only crime had been the uniforms they wore. How many lay rotting in foreign fields because of him? More than he dared count.

Though he hadn't shot any of the inhabitants of Langdale, his betrayal of his people had surely caused deaths from misery and want. The knowledge of all the death on his hands was a tearing sorrow in his gut that could never be healed.

Agony swamped him, too excruciating to bear. His breath came in harsh pants and his heart hammered as if to burst from his chest. Frantically he wished for a way to end this anguish.

His pistols.

Knowing that he had a cure for his pain filled him with cool relief. He slipped quietly from the bed, taking care not to wake Abby. She was another of his failures, a lovely, gifted woman who had tied herself to a monster. She would despise him if he gave in to his violent nature and killed Scranton. She would be far better off without him.

He imagined her in London as the wealthy widowed Lady Frayne. Having been accepted by the ton, she could now have any husband she wanted. Yes, she would be better off without him, even though the thought of her with another man was like a saber in his belly. Lucky that they'd had a London lawyer draw up proper marriage settlements. Her future was secure, and Hilltop House would go to her outright.

The floor was icy under his bare feet as he padded into his adjoining bedroom. He knew exactly where to find his pistol case. He opened his trunk and bent over, finding the polished wooden box by touch. The pistols were French-made and very fine. He'd taken them from the tent of a dead French officer after the battle of Talavera.

Loading the pistols would be easier with light. He snapped his fingers over the bedside candle and the wick sparked into life. As he watched the flame catch and lengthen, he thought how the evil in his nature had surfaced. In the last weeks, Jack had managed to convince himself that magic was harmless, sometimes even good, but in the dark of night he knew it for wickedness. His father would be ashamed of him.

Dear God, what if the land's blight was because he had been drawing off power to preserve his worthless life during his army years? The thought was unbearable.

His fingers were numb with cold, and he dropped the metal ramrod after he poured the powder charge into the barrel. He had to kneel on the floor and feel around for the rod, since his vision was curiously hazed.

Ah, there it was. He rammed the ball into the chamber and primed the pan. He repeated the procedure with the second pistol, since a man always wanted a second shot available just in case.

Salvation was at hand.

Hoping his death would be enough to atone for his crimes, he raised the pistol to his temple. It was important that the weapon be aimed correctly. His hand shook so badly that the barrel jerked across his skin.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and raised his left hand to stabilize the weapon. Didn't want to miss the killing shot and end up a pathetic brain-damaged creature incapable of caring for himself.

“Jack! What are you doing?” a female voice cried out with horror.

He looked up. In the connecting door was a tall, nightgowned woman with wide, shocked eyes that pierced his soul. A woman—yes, Abby. His wife.

“I'm doing this for you,” he tried to say, his voice a raw whisper.

He pulled the trigger.

A
bby choked with terror when she saw Jack's finger curl to fire the pistol. Desperately she hurled energy at the weapon to disrupt the firing process. Yes, blow the priming powder away
now.

The hammer slammed into the empty firing pan. Instead of an ear-numbing blast, there was only a metallic
click.
Misfire.

As she darted across the room, Jack lowered the weapon and looked at it with a puzzled frown. Then he set it on the bedside table and lifted an identical pistol.

Again she flicked the priming powder from the pan, but it seemed a chancy way to prevent the gun from firing. She snatched at the pistol, hoping to get it away from him, but he was too strong for her. As he wrestled to keep the weapon, his eyes were wide and staring, as if he was in a trance.

“Dear God, Jack,” she cried. “What are you
doing?”

“This is none of your affair!” The pistol wavered between them, and for an instant the barrel swung toward Abby.

“Abby?” Jack's expression changed as abruptly as if he'd been doused with ice water. He stared at her with horrified disbelief. “Abby!”

He instantly released his grip on the pistol, which sent Abby stumbling backward. As she struggled to keep her feet, Jack bent over and pressed his hands to his temples, gasping, “What madness is this?”

She set the pistol aside and laid her hands on the side of his head. Finding enough calm to channel healing energy wasn't easy, but after several long moments she managed to send him energy to reduce mental and emotional pain.

His expression smoothed out and the tension left his body. “There is heaven in your hands, lass,” he breathed. “Was I under some kind of spell? I woke feeling the blackest despair I've ever known. All I could think of was ending the pain.”