Willing (10 page)

She stared at him, the strange buzzing in her ears growing to a cacophony of sound – a constant hum that made the world shimmer. She searched his face and found an almost pained expression, a pleading. She straightened, but did not speak.

“I am the first to catch a glimpse of its true power, the first to get this close in centuries. Once I complete the rite, no other living man can achieve it. I would use this gift to help, to protect. I cannot say the same for the others.”

“You alright, Constance. You want I have someone come jimmy the door?”

Octavia was back and it sounded as though she brought friends. Constance met Alisdair’s gaze.

She swallowed. “No, love. I’m alright.”

Alisdair seemed to almost slump in relief. His brow softened, but she did not.

“Tell me what became of the other girls.”

Alisdair shook his head, his brows high. “Constance, I am not lying. I sent them home well paid. Always. If they did not return home, I know not what became of them. I am frightened to think they met with harm.”

Despite her nerves, this strange grief to his tone softened her. She believed him. She closed her eyes a moment, stilling herself against the strange hum in her ears.

Alisdair touched her hair and she jerked away, only making her head spin faster.

“You feel it, don’t you? I can tell. Like a wasp’s nest inside your skull.”

Constance shook her head, and he stepped toward her. She moved away, displaying her palms to him as she pressed her back to the wall. “Don’t.”

“I can make it stop.”

She swallowed. The buzzing seemed to grow stronger with each step he took, as though those wasps he spoke of grew agitated at his presence. She began to feel lightheaded again, slumping against the wall. She met his gaze and nodded.

“Forgive me for how this may feel.”

Then his body was pressed to hers, his hands at her cheeks, fingertips at her temples, lost in tendrils of her dark hair. She swallowed, shutting her eyes tight. “Make it stop.”

Alisdair’s breath was warm against her throat as he whispered to her. “Close your eyes.”

There was a sudden heat between her legs, the way it felt when a man’s mouth was on her long enough to make her climax. It was instantaneous and pulsing, shooting down her thighs and across her belly. She gasped at the sensation, opening her eyes to find Alisdair’s just inches away, watching her intently.

“Close your eyes. I’ll not hurt you.”

“What’s happening?!” Her head tilted back and she cried out. It felt as though her body was quaking, from orgasm or sickness or exhaustion – just quaking uncontrollably. She braced against him.

“Stop fighting it.”

She met his gaze, confused and helpless. “You’re scaring me.”

He leaned in closer, letting his lips graze against her cheek. “It’s not me.”

Constance threw her head back as her eyesight turned white. She trembled against the wall, held there only by Alisdair’s weight against her. She shuddered, holding her breath, as he whispered in her ear, a darkly familiar string of words in a tongue she did not speak – the chant of the circle. The room spun then with such speed that Constance swooned in his arms, then as he cooed to her softly, the world went dark.

Chapter Eight

Constance felt a coolness at her temples, the touch of a person hand against her head.

She swatted the hand away, thinking it to be Berty.

“Stop,” she whispered.

She opened her eyes to find Alisdair leaning over her. He straightened, slowly taking his hands from her face, watching her. She moved on the bed, then placed her hands over her skirts, pressing to feel beneath them. There were legs there. She was solid.

“What have you done?”

He took her face in his hands and inspected her eyes, pressing his fingertips to the side of her neck. Then he settled his gaze on her, seemingly satisfied with the state he found her in. He smiled. “That wasn’t me.”

She swallowed, letting her eyes focus on his. The buzzing in her head was gone now. She knew she should be afraid, cry demons and strive against him, but she was strangely serene, taking in the events of the day with an almost distant complacency, as though in a half sleep. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed, and braced for her as she moved to the side of the bed, willing herself to stand. He did not fight her. He stood there beside her, gently squeezing her hand in his like some doting nurse to an ailing patient.

“What was that?”

“If I were to wager a guess?”

“Please.”

“I believe by summoning something powerful through you, perhaps pieces of it are left behind – in you.”

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“It’s not bad. It’s a blessing. Imagine what you could do if you learned to control it. I imagine you’d put me to shame.”

Constance laughed, darkly, and shook her head, turning her face away. “Lunacy.”

“You know it to be true. I know you do.”

Constance sat up in bed, meeting his gaze steadfastly. “There is nothing special about me.”

“Ah, but you don’t really believe that, do you? There’s magic in you, yet, dear Constance.”

She looked away, her brow furrowed. She was a whore; a dreg of society. What right did she have to think highly of herself?

“Magic. I find that word hard to stomach.”

Alisdair smiled, looking off at the window, his hat still settled on the table there. “Had I not met you, I might feel the same.”

Constance scowled at him.

Alisdair smiled, pointed a finger toward the table, and his hat slid off and skitted across the carpet as though someone had thrown it. Constance startled, stepping back from the hat as though it were a rat scampering across the rug. She’d seen this before, but it was no less unnerving a second time.

“How’d you do that? Tell me! It’s a trick, isn’t it? It must be.”

Alisdair gently took her hand. He was strangely serene. “I’ve been able to do that since the first night you came to my estate.”

He turned to face the room, as though searching for something. He fixated on the wardrobe doors and flicked his finger. One of the doors creaked open, as gently as though pushed by a lazy cat.

Constance swallowed, thinking of those masked faces, chanting around a man who could conjure such things. “Do they all know? Do they know you can do these things?”

“Not yet, no. Only you do.”

Alisdair touched the skin of her bare arm and she shivered, shirking away from him. “Why would you show me this?”

He took a deep breath. “Because you asked. And strangely, I trust you.”

He crossed to the now open wardrobe, pulling the doors wide to investigate within. A moment later, he’d pulled the red dress from its hanger and was laying it across the bed before her.

“Sadly, it fades with each passing day. I am an act of nature with you as my altar before me. I feel this power surging through me, humming just under the skin. Then you leave, and as each day passes, the sensation fades. When you returned this month for the second full moon, the power of that rite almost overwhelmed me. Don’t ever tell anyone, but I nearly fainted at your feet.”

Constance remembered the way the altar grew hot beneath her; how Alisdair settled his hands there as it hummed.

She swallowed. “How long will you need me, then?”

“Until I get it right.”

Constance searched his face. He winked at her, then stooped to pick up his hat. “Come. I’ll dress you.”

She stared at him a moment, waiting for explanation, but Alisdair simply tossed his hat onto the bed. Then he slipped out of his coat, folding it neatly beside the hat. He smoothed out the sleeves of the dress, unfastening the last of the buttons down its back.  She moved to the foot of the bed, and stood beside him. Without a word he untied the knot at her waist and pulled the robe open, revealing the underthings beneath. She wore short knickers and a waist length, short sleeved chemise. He took in the sight of her and the energy of the room shifted instantly.

She knew this dance, the deliberate shift of conversation to something more intimate – something physical. She hadn’t expected it throughout their conversation, but now that he looked down at her body, she braced herself for what was to come. Despite the chaos she felt in his company, she didn’t protest.

He let his hand trace the line of her hip, back to the slope of her buttocks, then seemed to remember himself, making quick work of slipping the robe off her shoulders. He tossed it aside and reached for the dress. The dance had begun, and the next step was hers. Constance stopped him with a hand at the front of his trousers, pressing firmly against the shape beneath. He wasn’t wholly soft when she touched him, but he swiftly became hard. He inhaled sharply, turning his face up as his body responded to her. She pressed her nose to his jaw, then kissed the ridge there, slipping the tip of her nose up along the line to his ear, smelling the hint of the pomade in his hair.

“Constance -”

The word stilled in his throat and he smiled, then gasped as her hand moved with increasing pressure. He pressed his hand over hers, letting her touch him. His breath caught and he stiffened, taking hold of her hand. He held it in his, firmly, but gently.

“I can’t, love.”

She searched his face, confused. Why had he taken off her robe? “What do you mean?”

“I can’t. It’s for my work.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “I’ve seen your work. I’d say this is the main part, is it not?”

He exhaled through his nose in a half laugh. “For me it isn’t.”

“Rubbish.” She took her hand from his and touched him again, still hard in wait of her touch. He inhaled sharply, his shoulders rising, and again took hold of her hand. His eyes remained closed a moment as he rode the sensation back.

“I can’t. I must remain celibate. It’s for the ritual.”

“Not experiencing pleasure is for the ritual?”

“Yes. They say if you save such acts for ritual, it makes them stronger.”

“You must be mad.”

He chuckled, shifting himself under the fabric of his trousers. “Perhaps. You’ll think me far madder when you know how long it has been.”

She let Alisdair help her into her dress, fastening the buttons up the back as she held her long hair aside, but the idea wouldn’t leave her. “Well, you must have at some point.”

Alisdair shook his head.

“Not even by yourself?” She met his gaze and he blushed. Constance felt her chest tighten at the sight. She smiled back.

“Well, how powerful you must be,” she said, chidingly.

He chuckled. “You have no idea. That’s why I asked for you to remain celibate during the month as well.”

Constance furrowed her brow. “What’s this, then?”

“Celibacy? It’s when you don’t have carnal relations -”

“No, what’s this about asking me not to work?”

“Yes. It was for the ritual. Once I realized I would have you back, I -”

“Alisdair, I didn’t hear anything of the sort. And besides, a girl has to work to feed herself.”

Alisdair stopped and stared at her a moment. “I paid for your room and board. Far more than that, in fact.”

Constance smiled. “It did little good, then.”

“Are you telling me you’ve been seeing men all this time?” His demeanor had shifted. The gentle but stern way about him was giving way to something sharper, something jagged around the edges.

Constance looked him in the eye, fearlessly. “I am.”

Alisdair snatched his hat from the bed and was across the room to the bedroom door. The lock clicked audibly at his touch, and he was down the hall in five strides.

“Alberta Grisholm!” He bellowed, and the sound summoned every girl in the place to the landing.

“Yes, My Lord.”

Berty was huddled behind the bar downstairs, conspiring with the bartender over something or another when Lord Alisdair marched down to meet her. She scrambled to the end of the bar and curtsied again, but when Alisdair met her there, Berty seemed to shrink to half her size.

“Did I or did I not pay you for Constance’s room and board?”

“You did, sir. Of course.”

“And did I or did I not give express instructions that she not be required to work?”

“Well, I can’t rightly control the girls, m’lord. She’ll do as she pleases.”

“Were you told of my wishes?”

Alisdair glanced up the staircase to where Constance stood, stuck halfway down the stairs, watching the unfolding below. Constance shook her head, too shocked to speak.

Alisdair turned his attention back to Berty. “No. Not told. And did you make this woman pay for her meals this past month? Or the month previous for that matter?”

“Of course no –”

“Yes.”

All the girls startled, then snickered as Henry Peele, the curly haired bartender, spoke on Constance’s behalf. He continued. “Every single one, sir.”

Alisdair brushed the top of his hat, as though distracted, but when he spoke, his words carried such subtle ferocity as to chill her bones.

“My dear Berty. You were paid one hundred pounds -”

Every girl in the place gasped. Constance just stared, dumbstruck.

“- to tend to this treasure of mine. That sum should have paid for room and board for years. I thought this was just a friendly visit, but I realize now, I’ve come to collect.”

Berty shook her head, vehemently, backing away. “I don’t have it, m’lord. I’ve nothing to give you!”

Berty’s voice was shrill with fear. Alisdair continued, just as calm. “That money was for Constance. Where is it?”

“I lost it.”

He took a deep breath and looked at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He settled his hat atop his head as the door to the bar opened and a young woman slipped inside, tugging her shawl up around her shoulders. “Berty?”

Henry Poole touched his fingers to his lips, signaling for the girl to be quiet.

“As I see it, Mrs. Grisholm, you owe me one hundred pounds -”

“I’m so sorry, sir. I don’t have it!”

“- and if I don’t receive my money when I return in exactly one month, I’m going to shut this hovel down.”

Constance clutched the railing, taking two steps down. “No, Alisdair. You can’t do that!”

He wriggled his hat atop his head until he was satisfied with his appearance. He’d taken on an almost foreboding air, but it melted when he turned to look at her.

“I can, and I intend to.”

Constance rushed down the remaining steps and moved toward him, drawing close enough to speak low. “No, Alisdair. Please. These girls need this place. We need it.”

“Nonsense. This place is a rat’s hole. You can make your trade -”

“You don’t understand. It’s not safe out there for us! Rat hole or no, this place keeps up safe. You don’t know what it’s like. Girls don’t stand a chance. You can’t shut it down -”

Suddenly Constance caught sight of her reflection; holding onto Alisdair’s lapel, her chin pressed to his shoulder in intimate exchange. She quickly straightened, remembering herself.

Alisdair took a deep breath, then glanced down the bar to Henry Poole, his mop of rusty curls flopped slightly to the right this evening. Alisdair shared a nod, then turned to Berty.

“I stand corrected. The Keg and Barrel is temporarily under new management.”

Alisdair leaned across the bar and shook Henry’s hand. The Irishman’s face grew ruddier than Constance had ever seen it. “What, sir? Yer jokin me?”

Alisdair then leaned into Berty. “Have my money by the time I return, or you lose the place permanently. Am I understood?”

Berty swallowed. “Yes, m’lord. I’m sorry, m’lord.”

Alisdair turned to face Constance. “Would you attend this evening?”

Her eyes went wide, but she didn’t speak. The girl by the door called for Berty again, but Berty was too frazzled to greet her, slipping past the bar and into the back room. Hilda hustled down the stairs to meet the girl by the door.

“You’re welcome to bring your male friend – the bodyguard fellow.”