Page 36 of Magick in the Night
“Lady Blackburn,” Gabriel snapped. “You were seen heading toward the Ashcombe road. Where is she?”
Dabney gaped at him. “Good God, man, I haven’t seen Miss Ash— your wife, Lady Blackburn, since Sunday service! I was on my way home—what business have I with her?”
For one searing instant, Gabriel’s temper flared hot enough to burn through reason. Then the truth struck him like a blow.
Dabney was telling the truth.
If Dabney’s appearance in the area was no more than coincidence, then someone else had Eliza—someone who’s motives and intentions were entirely beyond his ken.
He staggered back from the carriage, every muscle taut with dread.
The rose. The distraction. The timing. And all he could think of was Helena’s talk of the curse, of the unhappiness, tragedy and grief that had marked every generation since. And he’d allowed himself to be deceived, to look only at the most obvious answer when really the truth was something far less apparent.
Who could have taken her?
Without another word, he swung into the saddle and wheeled his horse toward the forest road. The rose had been real enough. And there was only one place to find it.
“I’m coming for you,” he vowed. “Hold fast, Eliza.”
The wind swallowed her name, carrying it into the trees.
And somewhere ahead—lost to him, alone in the gathering dusk—Eliza did not answer.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
The hearth was cold. No one had been in the cottage for days and the chill had settled deep in the aged wood and stone. Eliza sat in the center of the room, her wrists bound tightly behind the back of a chair, her shoulders aching from the strain. The rope bit into her skin each time she shifted, but she dared not sit still. Stillness invited despair, and despair was death.
Outside, the storm—quite unusual so early in the year—had begun in earnest. The wind moaned through the cracks between the shutters, carrying with it the scent of snow and the faint pinging of ice as it struck the windows. By morning, Dunrake would be buried, and so would she if she did not find a way out.
She had been a fool. All the talk of the curse, all of Helena’s rambling about it over the years, and she’d assumed that simply marrying him would be enough—after all it was further than anyone else had gotten. She’d assumed then that she’d be safe under Gabriel’s roof, beneath his protection. But she should have known better. The curse did not need magic to do its work. All it required was envy, malice, and the endless willingness of men to believe the worst of women like her.
Her mind worked furiously, testing the knots that bound her wrists, the give of the chair beneath her. It was solid oak, old but sturdy. Her fingers were numb, but she could still feel the fibers of the rope beneath her skin. If she could twist her wrists just so, perhaps she could loosen one. The thought was fragile as a candle flame, but it was all that stood between her and hopelessness.
A sound outside—a footstep on the threshold. Eliza froze, her breath catching in her throat. The latch lifted with a slow, deliberate scrape, and the door opened to admit a gust of icy wind—and a man’s silhouette against the pale wash of moonlight.
Reverend Mullins stepped into the room. In his hand, he carried a bucket from their small well.
He closed the door carefully behind him, setting the latch with the same care he might have used closing a prayer book. His expression was calm, almost serene. The only color in his face came from the wind, a faint flush that made his eyes seem all the paler.
When he paused in front of her, he lifted the bucket and tossed the contents over her. The icy water made her gasp in shock.
“Good evening, Lady Blackburn,” he said, his voice smooth and low. “I fear you find yourself in rather uncomfortable circumstances.”
Eliza’s voice was hoarse when she regained her breath enough to speak. “You—why are you doing this?”
He smiled faintly. “I am doing only what must be done. You should not take it personally. You have, after all, played your part quite admirably.”
She stared at him, confusion and disbelief warring with fear as she tried desperately not to shiver from cold. “What are you talking about?”
“Restoration,” he said simply, stepping closer. “This land has long been blighted by your family’s wickedness. For generations, the Ashcombe women have seduced and destroyed the men of Hawthorne blood—of which I am, albeit not legitimately. The man who was my father, the man who was to wed my mother, strayed from her the moment he saw your grandmother. In her wickedness, she stole what should rightfully have been mine.”
“You talk of my wickedness, but what of your greed? That’s what this is, after all. Greed. Covetousness. You are angry because Gabriel has what you think should be yours,” she said. Of course, acknowledging his own sins would never occur. Those eager to cast stones rarely looked in mirrors.
“It’s not about greed or coveting! It’s about what is right… what is fair. What I am owed and what would have been mine but for your wretched family,” he spat the words with such force that white spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.Like the foaming of a rabid dog. “Witches, every one of you. And now you’ve ensnared another—poor, misguided Gabriel Hawthorne, who has made himself a laughingstock before God and man by marrying you.”
Eliza’s stomach turned. “You’re mad.”
