UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL (5 page)

Val didn’t come. He stayed in his bedchamber, citing his wound as an excuse. “Entirely appropriate,” said one of the obnoxious fathers. “Such a man should not be allowed across the threshold of a church.”

Lucie couldn’t contain her indignation. “Why not? He did his duty. You have no right to judge whether he is beyond redemption.”

“Everyone should be welcome at church,” Theodora said. “They certainly are in my father’s parish.”

“As they are here,” Lord Westerly said, silencing everyone.

The old stone church, all that was left of the abbey from long ago, was decked in greenery, the choir enthusiastic if somewhat off-key, the vicar a gentle sort of man. Lucille found herself pondering the meaning of Christmas.
On earth peace
,
good will toward men
. Shouldn’t this be a time for forgiveness? For new beginnings? But there could be no new beginning with Val.

As they returned home, she thought about sending dreams to Lord Westerly. She didn’t want to. Perhaps in a few days she would manage to drum up the necessary interest, but she doubted it. She might be a succubus by birth or magical talent or whatever it was that gave one such powers, but she was no longer a succubus at heart. Not that that stopped every other man in the house—guests and servants alike—from eyeing her with helpless lust. Except Val, who took to fixing his dark, smouldering gaze on the remaining younger ladies, with the result that another family found an excuse to cut their stay short.

Lucille threw herself into the pleasures of the season: food and drink, charades, rides in the countryside, walks in the grounds, and a visit to the abbey ruins. Lord Westerly had discovered the remains of a Roman villa under the ruins, and had dug a great hole near one of the walls. He neglected his duties as host, spending every spare moment there. But the weather was crisp and clear and the company pleasant for the most part. It was almost like the Christmases she had spent in England as a girl.

If only she could sleep well! Dark dreams invaded her mind—memories of the Revolution, of soldiers taking her parents, of her life as a foster child in France, Spain and England, of five dead husbands as a spy...and, over and over, of Valiant’s sneer and his scornful eyes. He was ruining everything! If it hadn’t been for their senseless, futile missions, he wouldn’t have been here, and she could have enjoyed herself... They’d never been asked to do anything so ridiculous before. It felt like a cruel jest. It was certainly a waste of time.

After a night or two, better dreams began to nudge their way into her sleep. Their gentle eroticism comforted her, reminding her of the leisurely days and nights after she’d nursed the wounded Valiant back to health. If they were from him, what was he trying to do? He was supposed to be sending dreams to Theodora, so why would they come with such force to Lucille instead? Some effect on others was to be expected, since succubi and incubi tended to inflame everyone in their vicinity—but not to this extent. Besides, he felt only contempt for Lucille. He wouldn’t send her thoughts and images suffused with tenderness and love.

One night, she found herself trapped in a dream so fraught with memory that it could only have come from Val. They were in Paris, a city perilous to them both, and he’d laughed at the danger and made her laugh, too, infecting her with a mad, delirious joy. She gave in to the dream as she had to the reality, letting his hot, skilled hands and relentless tongue carry her to ecstasy again and again.

How could she resist such a contrast to her nightmares, such seductive power and utter abandonment to vibrant, sensual life? During her wakeful hours she couldn’t stop thinking of him, recalling their times together, reliving the heady excitement of forbidden lovemaking, remembering with both joy and tears the languorous pleasure of weeks they’d spent on leave in a villa in southern Spain, playing at being husband and wife.

Then she realized she wasn’t just remembering—she was responding to the dreams he’d sent her, offering him her memories, reminding him of their love, if only in
his
dreams. He would recognize what she was doing and scorn her for such tactics. She stopped herself at once.

The last day of the year was filled with plans for a most bizarre event. “We perform two wassail rituals here,” Lord Westerly explained. “The first is on New Year’s Eve. Men from the village and nearby farms come to cleanse the house of evil spirits.”

Lord Valiant rolled his eyes. “They do the same at my father’s estate. A pack of idiots stomp about the house, then gorge and drink themselves into oblivion. My mother hated all the dirty boots and loud, uncouth behaviour, but because it was the custom, she had to put up with it.”

“I understand your poor mother’s feelings, but one must keep up the traditions,” Lady Westerly said. “As one must carry on the family name.” She cast a darkling glance at her uncooperative nephew.

“What is the other wassail ritual?” Lucille asked.

“That one takes place in the orchard on Twelfth Night, to drive the evil spirits away from the apple trees, where they have supposedly fled after leaving the house.” Lord Westerly gave one of his rare grins. “Muddy boots and uncouth behaviour are a young boy’s delight. As a child, that was my favorite tradition of all.”

“In our village we have a similar ritual going from orchard to orchard,” Theodora said. “Our trees bear well and the cider is excellent, so one must assume it works.”

Valiant rolled his eyes again, but he had taken on a mischievous look so reminiscent of the past that Lucie knew an urge to weep. He’d revelled in the risks of being a spy.

She hadn’t.

She threw herself into decorating the Great Hall with fresh greenery and adding spices to two huge cauldrons of ale. She intended to enjoy every bit of this Christmas, no matter what.

* * *

It was time to take action. Val had been patient for almost a week, and he’d had enough. Obedient to his host’s request, he had flirted with the remaining maidens, but they or their parents were made of sterner stuff than those who had departed. One young woman, a tempestuous redhead, found herself some mistletoe and did her best to trap him in an alcove. He obliged her with a kiss, but also warned her not to try the same tactic on Lord Westerly. “He’s a very particular fellow. He won’t marry a woman who pursued me.” She flounced off in high dudgeon. Val rather liked one of the others, a Miss Wedgewood, who seemed to have both a brain and a sense of humour.

He’d tried to send dreams to Miss Southern, but memories of Lucie kept getting in the way. He gave his erotic imagination wings to fly to her in the night, and if some of his thoughts ended in Miss Southern’s dreams instead—well, that would have to suffice. He thought Lucie might be responding in kind, but if so, her sensuality was studded with melancholy and pain.

Since Christmas day, he’d tried to bring up their missions, but Lucie had refused to speak to him. She didn’t believe in coincidences any more than he did, but she was ignoring this one as if it didn’t matter. That wasn’t like her; she’d been an efficient spy at one time.

Val would have to think for both of them. The offices of the succubi and incubi appeared to operate separately, but he had long wondered if this was yet another front, another method for keeping the identities of the master and mistress a secret. If they both knew what was going on, what was their true purpose? Westerly was a lost cause, and even if Theodora Southern began to want to fall in love, she would have to go someplace else to do it.

If the master and mistress knew about Lucie’s betrayal, they could have taken care of the matter themselves. If they knew Val had fallen in love with her and refused to betray her in turn, they could have disposed of him, as well. If they didn’t know either of the above...then he didn’t know what they were about, but these so-called missions gave him an excuse to work with her again.

If Lucie thought she was done with him, she was sorely mistaken. If she’d acted from loyalty, he wanted to know...to what. Or to whom. If she possessed a sense of shame, he wanted to know. If she still loved him...

He was getting too far ahead of himself, but that was how hope worked. Like a seed, it put out leaves and grew, heedless of the possible drought to come.

He needed an opening, a way to force her to deal with him. He’d never been one to wait for an opportunity, so he set about creating one. He considered his host’s feelings and dismissed them. He considered Lucie’s feelings, too, and decided the end justified the means. He sidled away to charm Westerly’s aunt.

Evening came, with trestle tables and benches set up in the Great Hall. The room was festooned with greenery, and after the wassailing, the visitors would be regaled with food and hot, spiced ale. Val had to admit that due to the combined efforts of Lucie and Theodora, the Christmas celebrations had truly taken on a festive note. If he and Lucie had been on good terms, he might actually have enjoyed himself.

Only Lord Westerly seemed less than pleased. He glowered at Lady Westerly, who was beckoning him over to the massive front doors where he would greet the wassailers.

“She’s still trying to paint me as a war hero,” he growled to Val. “She has persuaded the villagers, who include a couple of soldiers from my regiment, to add a military note to this year’s ritual in honour of my so-called glorious return from battle.”

“Humour her,” Val said, playing the innocent. “Then send her to live in one of your other houses once this party is over.”

“The only way I’ll get rid of her is if I marry, thus saddling myself with another ignorant female,” Westerly said. “To think I used to enjoy this tradition.” Still scowling, he stalked over to the doors.

Val slid up to Lucie and murmured in French, “
Chérie
, I don’t think you’re going to like this particular Christmas custom.”

Her bosom swelled. “Must you ruin everything for me? Go away.”

“Lucie, this is important. I’m trying to warn you, believe it or not, out of the kindness of my heart. Listen to me this once.”

* * *

The kindness of his heart? No such sentiment existed. She shook her head and moved away. Why shouldn’t she enjoy this tradition? Annoyed, she went over to Theodora, who was making a last-minute check of the tables where the revellers would be plied with food and drink once they had driven away the evil spirits.

Lucille certainly didn’t like that aspect of the ritual. She didn’t believe in evil spirits, but many people, if they knew about the dreams she could send, would see her as one. Could that be what Val meant?

She shivered in the draft, which would become worse once the doors were opened wide. The wassailers had not yet arrived; surely there was time to fetch a shawl. She headed toward the great staircase.

“Where are you going?” Theodora said. “They’ll be here any minute.”

“For a shawl,” Lucille said.

“Very well,” Theodora said with a worried look, “but be quick. The whole household must gather here.”

Lucille nodded and hurried up the stairs. She had barely reached the top when a shout went up outdoors. “Wassail, wassail, let us in!” She sped down the corridor to her bedchamber, dug in her belongings for a shawl, wrapped it about herself to the distant sound of singing, and returned to the passageway.

The sound of marching boots froze her in her tracks. Shouts, peremptory and military, paralyzed her. Soldiers were here!

Stunned, her mind a desperate whirl, she backed into her room and armed herself. Was it all a plot? Did they all know who and what she was? Was the house party a trap and the wassailing a fraud?

* * *

Val raced up the stairs. She was playing into his hand even better than he’d planned. The one and only time he had seen Lucie lose control was when French soldiers had marched into the town where she’d then lived as a recent widow, awaiting her next assignment. He’d held her shaking in his arms until they’d gone, and she’d told him about the day the soldiers had taken her parents away.

“Ho! Where are you off to?” called the leader of the revellers. “Everyone’s to stay here, safe from the evil spirits.”

“I
am
an evil spirit,” Val called back, and kept on going. That raised some cheerful shouts. Wassailers loved having someone real to pursue. He raced into the corridor, tried Lucie’s bedchamber, then tried a few others.

Below, Westerly started his obligatory speech, but it wouldn’t last long.

“Damn it, Lucie, where are you? Let me take you outdoors, away from these fools.” Silence greeted him. “Lucie, they’re not real soldiers.”

He caught it then, the faintest sigh behind him. She stood just inside the doorway of another room, a pistol in one hand. At least she wasn’t aiming the gun at him this time.

“I know that,” she said, but her voice shook. “It’s fortunate, because I’m too big to fit in a valise.” She’d hidden in a valise on that fateful day when her parents were seized, and one of the servants had made sure no one found her.

Val laughed and plucked the gun from her resistless hand. He grabbed a cloak from behind his door and towed her toward a secondary staircase at the rear of the house.

“After them!” came a roar from below, followed by a horrendous din.

“What’s that?” She quavered and then gathered her composure. “I know. Not sticks and swords and bayonets, but pots and pans and such. Theodora told me.”

“And gongs and mallets and tongs,” Val said, hurrying her down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the night.

* * *

It took Lucie far too long to realize that Val had planned this escape. She should have known from the start. “Where are we going?”

“Into the orchard, like good little evil spirits,” he said, “and then somewhere warm.”

He knew exactly where he was going. He slung the cloak across her shoulders and hustled her through the dark orchard, then took a sharp turn, bringing her across the meadow to the abbey ruins. He strode confidently through the gloom, jumped into the pit Lord Westerly had dug, and swung her down after him.

At one side of the pit, a charcoal brazier glowed. Two wooden chairs sat cozily before it. He set her down in one of them.