“I need a charm, witch.” His reply was smooth but soft, commanding.
Caroline nodded; her lips pressed shut. She took his hand and pulled him inside. The feel of his skin always shocked her: it verily hummed with power. For a moment she was caught up in the consideration of whether she wanted him or the power he commanded. With a glance over her shoulder, her eyes grazed his darkly beautiful countenance, and she had her answer.
Darcy was tall, taller than most of the men of her acquaintance and it forced him to duck beneath most doorways. Her eyes were drawn to his considerably well-muscled arms and chest, which seemed to strain the very fabric his clothes. His hair was thick and black and tended to be tied back in a loose manner, as was the custom of Northern nobility while Southern nobles like her brother wore their hair short. It was his eyes, though, that could capture without so much as a vague effort; they were a deep blue and they shone cold with ambition. Caroline was affected, but she would not let him know by even the merest of sighs.
She led him through the chamber to the wall where her fingers danced over a series of stones, a magic combination to a door that should not exist. Moments later, a section of the wall slid aside, and they disappeared into the passage. The wall sealed behind them, and Caroline began to shed her heavy outer robes. She pointed to a spot near the chamber’s entrance, and Darcy stood back and allowed her to work as he watched her with care. Could he value her female form through her thin blue shift like she had appreciated his?
She gathered a small clay bowl, a black candle, and some herbs. Finally, Caroline approached him, a silver dagger in her hand. She dropped into a deep curtsey before him.
“My lord, what is it that ye wish?”
“The heart of a girl.”
“Then ye might use this dagger to cut it out of her.”
He grabbed the front of the gossamer gown and pulled her roughly to his level, paying no mind to the delicacy of her garb. Their noses met as his eyes flashed a fierce, hot anger. Caroline had seen that sort of rage in her patron many times but had never had it directed at her. For a moment, she was frightened, though she was careful not to show it. She remembered herself. She was Caroline, Right Honourable Lady of Netherfield, younger sister of Lord Charles, and Loyal Servant to the Mighty Fates. Fear was not one of her weaknesses.
“Speak no ill of my future bride, Lady Caroline. I would be loath to tell your dear brother of your somewhat unorthodox religious practices.”
“Ye would not dare.” She narrowed her eyes. “After all I have done on thy behalf!”
A slow, dangerous leer spread over Darcy’s mouth and Caroline became wary. She so rarely challenged him. A chill slithered down her spine while a sour taste settled on her tongue.
“You have no proof of your efforts in assisting me with ascertaining my fortune or position. I am High Lord Darcy; you are but a witch. Who will your ignorant brother believe?”
“Hopefully, his own blood, sir!” Caroline spat out her response.
He shoved her back, and her gown tore down the front as she tumbled hard onto the stone floor. Pain rent through her small body as it absorbed the shock of the impact upon the cold rock. Her eyes went wide as she stared up at him. What compelled her to take this kind of treatment from him? This was not the first time the question crossed her mind.
“Cross me not, Caroline. I own you. We both know this to be true.”
Fury bubbled up through her, colouring her world red as her love seeped into hate. The love would return eventually, but sometimes she found it difficult to know the difference between the two. She rose with care, smoothed her tattered gown, and suppressed a shiver against the chill in the night air.
“So ye do, my lord. I am thy servant.”
He grinned in his triumph and trailed a finger between her exposed breasts before he put his lips against her throat and trailed his tongue along the pulsing vein. He nipped at her skin before meeting her eyes once again. “As I was saying, I want a girl.”
* * *
“’Tis a pleasant surprise to see ye here on Bishop's Hill, my beloved,” George said, his green eyes alight, clear evidence that he was overjoyed to see Elizabeth. A thrill of joy tumbled through her.
“It should not be a surprise at all. I often visit ye while ye tend the flock.” Her voice carried a pout that did not touch her lips. She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “Cheesman, you may go.” The footman shrugged and made his way down the hill.
“Aye, but this is twice in one week.” George laughed, his whole body jostled with merriment as she held up her basket for his inspection. He took it, his fingers lingering upon hers for a moment, then he whispered a few words to Soter, his dog, who obediently went about watching the sheep like a cat with a bird. Whatever could he have said? He gave the animal a fond glance and removed his frockcoat to spread it over a large, flat-topped boulder for Elizabeth to sit upon. He took the spot beside her on the ground then doled out their feast.
After they had had their fill of food and a little too much wine, George laid his head upon her knee, sighing as she stroked his red curls.
“I cannot wait ’til we are married, my beloved. A few more sheep at market, and I shall have enough to build our house.” Warm pride filled his voice, which evoked a sense of protection in Elizabeth. He would take care of her. She would have a good life with the man she had loved since she was old enough to know how. “Shall ye like a house here upon Bishop's Hill?”
Her eyes grew wide. “But, George, surely ye have not made so much at market!”
“Nearly. I have a good flock, and they pay well. I promised ye a house, my beloved, and I shall not rest until I have given ye a grand home here where we first found love.”
Touched, Elizabeth bent and pressed her lips to George's forehead. When George spoke of their love, he always struck Elizabeth with awe. They had a safe, tender love, which filled them with comfort and joy, and both counted the moments until they could be one always.
“I love ye, my dearest.” Elizabeth threaded her fingers through his.
“And I ye, my beloved.”
