Shadow Spell, Page 23

  “You’ve done your penance,” she said out loud, stepped back, turned.

  And her father smiled at her.

  “So here you are, my princess.”

  “What?”

  A bird sang in the mulberry tree, and the roses bloomed like a fairyland. She loved the gardens here, the colors, the scents, the sounds of the birds, the song of the fountain as the water poured into the circling pool from a jug held by a graceful woman.

  And loved all the odd corners and shaded bowers where she could hide away from her siblings if she wanted to be alone.

  “Lost in dreams again, and didn’t hear me calling.” He laughed, the big roll of it making her lips curve even as tears stung her eyes.

  “You can’t be here.”

  “A man’s entitled to take a pretty day off to be with his princess.” Smiling still, he tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. “It won’t be long before all the lads in the county will start coming around, then you won’t have time for your old da.”

  “I always would.”

  “That’s my darling girl.” He took her hand, drew her arm through the crook of his. “My pretty gypsy princess.”

  “Your hand’s so cold.”

  “You’ll warm it up.” He began to walk with her, around the stone paths, through the roses and the creamy cups of calla lilies, the aching blue of lobelia with the sun showering down like the inside of a broken pearl.

  “I came just to see you,” he began, using that confidential voice, adding the sly wink as he did when he had secrets to tell her. “Everyone’s in the house.”

  She glanced toward it, the three fine stories of brick, painted white as her mother had wished. More gardens surrounded the large terrace, then led to a smooth green lawn where her mother liked to have tea parties in good summer weather.

  All tiny sandwiches and frosted cakes.

  And her room there, Meara thought, looking up. Yes, her room right there, with its French doors and little balcony. A Juliet balcony, he called it.

  So she was his princess.

  “Why is everyone in the house? It’s such a bright day. We should have a picnic! Mrs. Hannigan could make up some bridies, and we can have cheese and bread, and jam tarts.”

  She started to turn, wanted to run to the house, call everyone out, but he steered her away. “It’s not the day for a picnic.”

  For a moment she thought she heard rain drumming on the ground, and when she looked up, it seemed a shadow passed over the sun.

  “What is that? What is it, Da?”

  “It’s nothing at all. Here you are.” He broke a rose from the bush, handed it to her. She sniffed at it, smiled as the soft white petals brushed her cheek.

  “If not a picnic, can’t we have some tea and cake, like a party, since you’re home?”

  He shook his head slowly, sadly. “I’m afraid there can be no party.”

  “Why?”

  “None of the others want to see you, Meara. They all know it’s your fault.”

  “My fault? What is? What have I done?”

  “You consort and conspire with witches.”

  He turned, gripping her shoulders hard. Now the shadow moved over his face, had her heart leaping in fear.

  “Conspire? Consort?”

  “You plot and plan, having truck with devil’s spawn. You’ve lain with one, like a whore.”

  “But . . .” Her head felt light, dizzy and confused. “No, no, you don’t understand.”

  “More than you. They are damned, Meara, and you with them.”

  “No.” Pleading, she laid her hands on his chest. Cold, cold like his hands. “You can’t say that. You can’t mean that.”

  “I can say it. I do mean it. Why do you think I left? It was you, Meara. I left you. A selfish, evil trollop who lusts for power she can never have.”

  “I’m not!” Shock, like a blow to the belly, staggered her back a step. “I don’t!”

  “You shamed me so I couldn’t look upon your face.”

  The sobs came now, then a gasp as the white rose in her hand began to bleed.

  “That’s your own evil,” he said when she threw it to the ground. “Destroying all who love you. All who love you will bleed and wither. Or escape, as I did. I left you, shamed and sickened.

  “Do you hear your mother weep?” he demanded. “She weeps and weeps to be saddled with a daughter who would choose the devil’s children over her own blood. You’re to blame.”

  Tears ran down her cheeks—of shame, of guilt and grief. When she lowered her head, she saw the rose, sinking in a puddle of its own blood.

  And rain, she realized, falling fast and hard.

  Rain.

  She swayed a little, heard the bird singing in the mulberry, and the fountain cheerfully splashing.

  “Da . . .”

  And the cry of a hawk tore through the air.

  Connor, she thought. Connor.

  “No. I’m not to blame.”

  Drenched by the rain, freed by the cry of the hawk, she swung out with the shovel. Though she took him by surprise, he leaped back so it whooshed by his face.

  A face no longer her father’s.

  “Go to hell.” She swung again but the ground seemed to heave under her feet. As it did she swore something pierced her heart.

  On her sharp cry of pain, Cabhan bared his teeth in a vicious smile. And he spilled into fog.

  She managed a shaky step forward, then another. The ground continued to heave, the sky turned and turned over her head.

  From a distance, through the rain and the fog, she heard someone calling her name.

  One step, she told herself, then another.

  She heard the hawk, saw the horse, a gray blur speeding through the mists, and the hound streaking behind him.

  She saw Boyle running toward her as if devil dogs snapped at his heels.

  And as the world spun and spun, she saw with some amazement Connor leap off Alastar’s bare back.

  He shouted something, but the roaring in her head muffled the sound.

  Shadows, she thought. A world of shadows.

  They closed in and swallowed her.

  She swam through them, choked on them, drowned in them. She heard her father laugh, but cruelly, so cruelly.

  You’re to blame, selfish, heartless girl. You have nothing. You are nothing. You feel nothing.

  I’ll give you power, Cabhan promised, his voice a caress. It’s what you truly want, what you covet and crave. Bring me his blood, and I’ll give you power. Take his life, and I’ll give you immortality.

  She struggled, tried to claw her way through the shadows, back to the light, but couldn’t move. She felt bound, weighed down while the shadows grew thicker, thicker so she drew them in with every breath.

  Every breath was colder. Every breath was darker.

  Do what he asks, her father urged her. The witch is nothing to you; you’re nothing to him. Just bodies groping in the dark. Kill the witch. Save yourself. I’ll come back to you, princess.

  Then Connor reached for her hand. He glowed through the shadows, his eyes green as emeralds.

  Come with me now. Come back with me. I need you, aghra. Come back to me. Take my hand. You’ve only to take my hand.

  But she couldn’t—didn’t he see—she couldn’t. Something snarled and snapped behind her, but Connor only smiled at her.

  Sure you can. My hand, darling. Don’t look back now. Just take my hand. Come back with me now.

  It hurt, it hurt, to lift that heavy arm, to strain against binding she couldn’t see. But there was light in him, and warmth, and she needed both so desperately.

  Weeping, she lifted her arm, reached out for his hand. It was like being pulled by her fingertips out of thick mud. Being dragged a centimeter at a time, and painfully, while some opposing force pulled her back.

  I’ve got you, Connor said, his eyes never leaving hers. I won’t let you go.

  Then she felt as if she exploded, a cork out of a b
ottle, into the clear.

  Her chest burned, burned as if her heart had turned into a hot coal. When she tried to draw in air, it seared up into her throat.

  “Easy now, easy. Slow breaths. Slow. You’re back now. You’re safe. You’re here. Shh now, shh.”

  Someone sobbed, wrenching, heartrending. It took her minutes to realize the sounds came from her.

  “I’ve got you. We’ve got you.”

  She turned her face into Connor’s shoulder—God, God, the scent of him was like cool water after a fire. He lifted her.

  “I’m taking her home now.”

  “My house is closer,” she heard Fin say.

  “She’ll be staying at the cottage until this is finished, but thanks. I’m taking her home now. But will you come? When you can, will you come?”

  “You know I will. We all will.”

  “I’m with you now, Meara.” She heard Branna’s voice, felt Branna’s hand stroke her hair, her cheek. “I’m right here with you.”

  She wanted to speak, but nothing came out but those terrible, tearing sobs.

  “Go with them,” Boyle said. “Go with them, Iona. It should be the three with her. I’ll see to Alastar. Take the lorry and go with them.”

  “Come soon.”

  Meara turned her head enough to see Iona running for Boyle’s lorry, climbing behind the wheel. Running through the rain, through the mists while the world rocked back and forth, back and forth like the deck of a ship in a storm.

  And the pain in her chest, in her throat, in every part of her burned like the fires of hell.

  She wondered if she’d died. If she’d died damned as the father who wasn’t her father had said.

  “Shh now,” Connor said again. “You’re alive and you’re safe, and you’re with us. Rest now, darling. Just rest now.”

  On his words, she slipped into warm sleep.

  17

  SHE HEARD VOICES, MURMURING—SOFT, SOOTHING. SHE felt hands, stroking—light, gentle. It seemed she floated on a warm pallet of air with the scents of lavender and candle wax all around. Bathed in light, she knew peace.

  Murmuring became words, garbled and indistinct, as if spoken through water.

  “It’s rest she needs now. Rest and quiet. Let the healing do its work.” Branna’s voice, so weary.

  “She’s some color back, doesn’t she?” And Connor’s, anxious, shaky.

  “She does, and her pulse is steady again.”

  “She’s strong, Connor.” Now Iona, a bit hoarse as if from sleep or tears. “And so are we.”

  Then she drifted again, floating, floating into comforting silence.

  Waking was like a dream.

  She saw Connor sitting beside her, eyes closed, his face illuminated by the glow of the candles all around the room. It was as if he’d been painted in pale, luminous gold.

  Her first conscious thought was it was ridiculous for a man to be that handsome.

  She started to say his name, but before she could speak it, his eyes opened, looked directly into hers. And she knew by the color, the intensity of the green, more than the candlelight illuminated him.

  “There you are.” When he smiled the intensity faded, and it was only Connor and candlelight. “Lie still and quiet, just for a moment.”

  He held his hands over her face, closed his eyes again, as he skimmed them down, over her heart, back again. “That’s good. That’s fine now.”

  He removed something from her forehead, her collarbone, leaving the faintest tingle behind.

  “What is that?” Was that her voice? That frog croak?

  “Healing stones.”

  “Was I sick?”

  “You were, but you’re doing well now.”

  He lifted her a little, removed stones from under her back, under her hands, put them in a pouch and closed it tightly.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “Oh, near to six hours now—not long in the grand scheme.”

  “Six hours? But I was . . . I was . . .”

  “Don’t look for it yet.” His tone, brisk, cheerful, had her frowning. “You’ll be a bit foggy yet, and feel weak and shaky. But it’ll pass, I promise you. And here, you’ll drink this now. Branna left it for you to drink—and all of it—as soon as you woke.”

  “What is it?”

  “What’s good for you.”

  He propped her up on pillows before taking the stopper from a slim bottle filled with red liquid.

  “All of that?”

  “All.” He put the bottle in her hands, cupped his own around them to guide it to her lips. “Slow now, but every drop of it.”

  She prepared for medicine, and instead sipped the cool and lovely. “It’s like liquid apples, blossoms and all.”

  “That’s some of it. All now, darling. You need every drop.”

  Yes, more color in her cheeks now, Connor thought. And her eyes were heavy, but clear. Not blind and staring as they’d been when she’d succumbed to Cabhan’s spell, when she’d lain lifeless on the wet grass.

  The image flashed back into his mind, made his hands shake. So he pushed it aside, looked at her now.

  “You’ll have some food next.” It took every ounce of will to keep his voice steady and carve a little cheer into it. “Branna’s made up some broth, and we’ll see how you do with that and some tea first.”

  “I think I’m starving, but I can’t really tell. I feel I’m only half here. But better. The drink was good.”

  She handed him back the bottle; he set it aside as carefully as a man placing a bomb.

  “Food next.” He managed a smile before he laid his lips on her forehead. Then simply couldn’t move.

  She felt him tremble, reached for his hand. He gripped hers so hard she had to bite back a gasp. “It was bad?”

  “It’s fine now. All’s well now. Oh God.”

  He pulled her to him, so tight. He’d have pulled her inside him if he could. “It’s all right now, it’s all fine now,” he said over and over, to comfort himself as much as her.

  “I don’t know how he got past the protection. It wasn’t strong enough. I didn’t make it strong enough. He took the necklace from you, and I never believed he could. He took it away, and stole your breath. I should’ve done more. I will do more.”

  “Cabhan.” She couldn’t quite remember. “I was . . . turning the manure. The compost. And then . . . I wasn’t. I can’t see it clear.”

  “Don’t fret.” He brushed at her hair, at her cheeks. “It’ll come back when you’re stronger. I’ll make you another necklace, a stronger one. I’ll have the others help me, as what I did with the other wasn’t enough.”

  “The necklace.” She reached up where it should have hung around her neck. Remembered. “It’s in my jacket. I took it off, didn’t I?”

  As she struggled to remember, Connor slowly eased away.

  “You took it off?”

  “I was that mad. I took it off, stuffed it in my jacket pocket. I snapped at poor Mick—and everyone else as well, so Boyle . . . Yes, Boyle sent me out to the compost pile. I put on one of the barn coats, left my own jacket behind.”

  “You weren’t wearing it at all? And the pocket charms I made you?”

  “In my pocket—in the jacket I left in the stables. I didn’t give it a thought because . . . Connor.”

  He stood abruptly, and in his face she saw only cold rage.

  “You took it off, left it behind because I gave it to you.”

  “No. Yes.” It was all such a muddle. “I wasn’t thinking properly, don’t you see? I was so angry.”

  “Because I love you, you were angry enough to go out, without protection.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of it that way. I wasn’t thinking at all. I was stupid. I was beyond stupid. Connor—”

  “Well then, it’s done, and you’re safe enough now. I’ll send Branna up with the broth.”

  “Connor, don’t go. Please, let me—”

  “You need the quiet now to finish the
healing. I’m not able to be quiet now, so I can’t be with you.”

  He went out, closed the door between them.

  She tried to get up, but her legs simply wouldn’t hold her. Now she, a woman who’d prided herself on her strength, her health, had to crawl back into bed like an invalid.

  She lay back, breath unsteady, skin clammy, and her heart and mind spinning with the consequences of one careless act done in temper.

  When Branna came in with a tray she could have wept with frustration.

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “Connor? He needed some air. He’s been sitting with you for hours.”

  Branna arranged the tray—an invalid’s tray with feet so it would sit over the lap of the sick and the weak. Meara stared at it with absolute loathing.

  “You’ll feel stronger after the tea and broth. It’s natural to be shaky and weak just now.”

  “I feel I’ve been sick half my life.” Then she looked up, cleared her own frustrations enough to see the fatigue and worry in Branna’s eyes. “I’m poor at it, aren’t I? Never been sick more than a few hours. You’ve seen to that. You always have. I’m so sorry, Branna. I’m so sorry for this.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Eyes weary, hair bundled up messily, Branna sat on the side of the bed. “Here now, have some of the broth. It’s the next step.”