Magic In The Storm, Page 3

  And then he stopped, snatching his hands away as if they were burned by her skin.

  Three

  Fury flared in Lady Tatiana Vallentyn’s breast.

  “Vallentyn! What are you doing here looking like a chimney sweep? Where is Miss Hayden? Where have you been?” Tatiana wanted answers, now.

  Jonathan turned around and slowly descended the two steps he had just taken up the broad staircase. His face was streaked with soot, as were his hands and clothes.

  “I beg your pardon, Mother. I was just on my way upstairs to get cleaned up. There was a fire and I was forced to leave Miss Hayden in order to attend to it.”

  He stopped speaking abruptly, his eyes widening. “Is she not here? She said she would return to the abbey when I left her.”

  Tatiana gritted her teeth together in a vain attempt to control her anger. “Fool!” she spat. She turned from him and accosted the footman who was standing at attention just inside the front door.

  “Has Miss Hayden returned yet?” she asked.

  He clasped his hands together in front of him to stop them from shaking so obviously. “No. No, my lady. I have not seen her.”

  Tatiana turned once more, rounding on her son, who was looking like an idiot with his mouth hanging partially open.

  “I don’t understand,” he said helplessly. “She said she knew her way back. We were just about to return when I was informed of the fire. She said she would continue on by herself.”

  “And why were you on your way back so early? Why were you not courting her like I told you?”

  “I took her on a tour of the estate and we, um, conversed. She seemed to be getting a bit tired, however...”

  “Conversed? I sincerely hope you didn’t bore her to tears by prattling on about your farm?”

  “No! We spoke of other subjects as well. Of, er, my plans to enter parliament, the new enclosure laws and the Corn Laws. I believe she is quite interested in such things.”

  Tatiana didn’t believe her son for a minute. He clearly believed he was telling the truth, however—either that or he had suddenly attained the ability to hide his true feelings from her. She decided to let him go on this point.

  “Then you should have seen her safely into the house before going off on your foolish errand.”

  “It...” Jonathan wisely stopped before attempting to defend himself. He had learned well not to antagonize her any more than was necessary, she thought with satisfaction. All but one of her children had learned that valuable lesson when they were young, and that one child had been banned from the family home, never to be spoken of.

  “Yes, Mother. I am sorry. I did not stop to think,” Jonathan said, hanging his head, both to show his guilt and to avoid looking into her eyes.

  She knew his tricks, but this time she was not going to allow him to get away with them. Too much was at stake here.

  “You are an imbecile, Jonathan. A worthless idiot. I give you one simple task, and you cannot even handle that,” she hissed. He flinched and held his arms protectively over his chest as her words cut into him. “This girl needs soft words, not talk of enclosure laws. You must court her. If you don’t, it will be that much more difficult to convince her to marry you. Need I remind you that you must marry someone with clout in order to make your mark in Parliament?”

  Tatiana allowed her voice to soften. “You will be great, Jonathan. You will be powerful. But you need the contacts that Devaux and this girl can give you. There is no one who can ease your way into the upper echelons of Parliament better than Devaux.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Jonathan stared down at the floor. She knew what he was thinking. She could sense his dissatisfaction, his unhappiness. Eventually, he would be grateful. Once he became powerful among men, he would thank her for making it possible. He would understand.

  She softened her tone even further, stroking him gently with her words. “Go then. Get changed and cleaned up. You will need to look your best this evening in order to continue your wooing of Miss Hayden.”

  He sighed softly and dropped his arms back down to his sides. “Yes, Mother.” With a small bow, he left her presence and went up to his room.

  “You,” she said to the footman, “I will take care of you now. Join me in the solarium.” He bowed low and, quaking, followed her as she continued on her way toward the back of the house.

  <><><>

  He couldn’t. He couldn’t heal her.

  Morgan sat back. If he healed her, he would be putting his life at risk.

  This woman was a stranger, even though he felt as if he knew her. But what if she told someone that he had healed her leg with his hands? They would come and find him—they could even put him to death. His entire family would be in danger then.

  He looked once again at the girl who sat crying quietly. She was being so brave, but her agony tore at his heart. He could sense how much effort she was using to control herself, and deal with the pain. Never had he seen a girl behave with such strength in a situation like this. Surely, she wouldn’t tell anyone?

  The wind whipped around both of them, swirling around the small clearing. The storm was approaching quickly.

  The young woman raised her face to him, her green eyes overflowing pools of pain. Reflecting the green of the thrashing branches overhead, they somehow pulled Morgan deep into them. They pleaded with him to do something, to help her. He could not bear to see her hurting in this way—but the fire that raced through his veins was not just one of compassion. He was drawn to her as he had never been drawn to anyone before. She sparked feelings in him—feelings he didn’t quite understand, but without a doubt, he knew he had to help her. He had to heal her—no matter what the consequences.

  He ran a hand down her soft cheek once more, this time reveling in the flames that surged through him as he did so. “It will be all right,” he said softly.

  Then, placing his hands once again around her leg, he focused his eyes on the broken bone and concentrated. Slowly, his magic began to build again. It moved from all parts of his body, like a tingling sensation, to converge in his hands. His palms grew hot with magical heat binding the bone back together.

  The girl gasped as her leg heated and healed. He saw her eyes come back into focus as she relaxed now that the pain was gone. He watched, fascinated, as she wiped away the tears from her face, leaving muddy streaks down her soft, white cheeks.

  With his eyes still fixed on her face, Morgan ran his hands a little further up her leg and then along the other. His hands still tingled as he felt her slender, shapely limbs. Never before had his hands felt like this after mending bones – usually the magic went away immediately, but he had never mended a stranger’s bones before—perhaps there was something different in that.

  Or perhaps it was her.

  With a gasp, she quickly freed herself from his touch, curling her legs underneath her and moving her skirt down to cover herself again.

  “I am checking for other breaks,” Morgan said, sitting back. It was the truth, but it had also been extremely pleasant feeling her legs. He could not deny that.

  “There are none, thank you,” she said gently, but firmly. Then she paused as if about to say more. “How, how did you...?”

  The wind whipped her hair into her face, and she had to stop speaking to remove it from her mouth.

  Morgan looked up at the sky and silently thanked the wind for coming to his aid. He could not risk her learning any more about him—already he had done too much. There was no doubt that there would be repercussions from his actions.

  “There is no time for that,” he said, standing up and moving away from her. “You must return, quickly—before the rain comes,” he said, fervently wishing that he could ask her to stay. But there were too many reasons why she couldn’t.

  He moved to her horse and stroked the animal’s nose, looking into its eyes to calm its fright. Then, with practiced ease, he felt down each of its legs, checking for injuries.

  When he turned around
, he saw that the young woman had managed to stand up, if a bit unsteadily. He noted the confusion clearly mirrored in her face as she realized that her leg would take her weight.

  “Who are you? Why do I feel as if I know you? Have we met?” she asked, approaching him slowly and trying to secure her long hair back at the same time.

  Morgan nearly dropped the reins in his hand. She felt it too?

  “Have you ever been to these parts before?” he asked.

  “No, never.”

  “Then we could not have met. But,” he paused and took a few steps closer to her, “I feel it too—as if I know you, but I don’t. I couldn’t.”

  She reached out and put a hand on his arm. Looking up into his eyes, she held his gaze for a moment and then said softly, “Please, tell me who you are.”

  “My name is Morgan, but...” another flash of lightning arced overhead, catching his attention.

  That was odd. He had told her his name without intending to do so.

  The roll of thunder immediately followed the lightening. He shook his head and pushed aside his confusion. There wasn’t time for this—the storm was nearly upon them. “You really must go.”

  He reached out and wrapped his hands around her slender waist, lifting her easily. As if they’d done this a hundred times before, she rested her hands comfortably on his shoulders. Her skin felt warm through the thin material of her dress, and he was tantalized by her sweet smell... elusive, unidentifiable, but reminding him of the first wildflowers of spring. A fierce desire to hold her close to his own body overwhelmed him.

  A strong gust of wind blew directly in his face. Yes, he agreed silently with it, he had to resist these traitorous urges. Already he had placed himself in jeopardy by healing her. How much more stupid could he be?

  He placed her gently on the saddle. Whispering softly in the mare’s ear, he gave it a slap on the rump and then watched as the horse took off in the direction of the stables.

  Morgan stayed where he was, concentrating on the sky, willing the storm to wait until the girl reached the abbey. Yes, he had recognized the horse as one belonging to his brother, Jonathan, Lord Vallentyn.

  He turned in the direction the girl had gone and found her straining to look back at him. She was... enthralling, but he did not have the time to wonder who she was or why she was visiting his family.

  He took a deep breath, savoring the prelude of the rain in the air. He could still sense the lingering anticipation of his destiny—or whatever it was. But now, it had changed. There was still tension charging the air, but no longer did he feel as if something was coming. In fact, that sensation was almost entirely gone.

  Had he missed it? Had his chance come and gone? Was he doomed to live in this forest forever?

  No, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, believe that to be true.

  Four

  The wind lashed around Adriana as she rode to the stables. She wasn’t sure if she was directing the horse or if it was following orders from the mysterious man she had met in the woods. He had certainly said something to the horse. Was it possible that he could communicate with animals as well as heal bones?

  Adriana nearly laughed at her fanciful thoughts. Men could not heal bones with a touch. Nor could she know a man she’d never met. But she did know him. Everything about him had been familiar and comforting. How could this be? She needed to think this through, but of much more immediate concern was the storm overhead, and the slate–colored clouds looming ominously. She needed to get back to the abbey quickly.

  Much to her amazement, she made it to the house just before the storm broke. The moment she was inside, there was a great crack of lightning followed immediately by a booming of thunder that shook the old stones of Vallentyn Abbey. Rain pelted down from the sky in relief.

  Adriana looked out from the doorway and took a deep breath, smelling the wonderful, fresh smell of the first raindrops hitting the ground. She was tempted to go back out into the storm—to be a part of it, to feel the cool water against her warm skin. She took a small step forward, wondering if she actually dared to go back out.

  A large dog came and stood very close to her. He looked as undecided as she felt, only he stood with one paw in front of her. It was as if he was intending to block her from leaving the house.

  “Adriana! What do you think you are doing? Where have you been?”

  With a start, she turned around and saw her guardian, Lord Devaux, bearing down on her from across the great hall. She stood up taller and moved away from the door, toward the staircase in the center of the hall. All thoughts of going out into the storm disintegrated like dust at her feet. Her guardian, worse than the harshest governess, was here to see that she did not do anything daring or fun.

  “I was out riding. If you will excuse me, sir.”

  He stopped her at the bottom of the stairs and narrowed his little blue eyes at her as he did every time she returned from being out. What he was thinking when he did that? Was he looking for some evidence of misconduct?

  If so, then he was, once again, to be sorely disappointed. She smiled at him, secure in her innocence.

  “Lord Vallentyn returned nearly an hour ago and was concerned that you had not returned before him. Where have you been?” he said, his voice high with annoyance.

  The large oak door closed behind them with a boom that echoed through the medieval hall—shutting out the storm, shutting out her freedom.

  Adriana flinched. Her precious moments of liberty were gone, but she would hold onto whatever she could—she had to.

  “I was enjoying the fresh country air,” she said in a firm, but quiet voice. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to change and put away my sketchbook.”

  He took a step back, eyeing her sketchbook with distaste. “See that you hide it well. We do not want anyone seeing that rubbish.”

  Her guardian knew so well how to hurt her. She would not give him the satisfaction of showing it, however. She turned away from him and began up the stairs, her pace slow and dignified.

  Her steps quickened after she reached the top of the stairs. By the time she reached her room at the end of the long corridor, she was nearly running.

  Throwing open the double doors that led from her room out onto the balcony facing the back of the house, she allowed the storm to blow the hurt and tension from her mind and body. The curtains framing the door flew out behind her as the wind and rain gusted in.

  Adriana did not mind. She stood just inside the door watching the magnificent storm play out as if solely for her own enjoyment.

  Taking a deep breath of the cool air, she closed her eyes and allowed the wind and rain to wash over her.

  Freedom. This is what it would feel like. Like the wind and the rain going wherever it willed, like a bird soaring over the land, like the waves of a briny ocean. Freedom was the knowledge that she could leave any time, or stay and do whatever she wanted. Freedom, however, was not something that Adriana had—only something she longed for with every ounce of her being.

  Enjoying the feel of the storm, she could pretend that, for the moment at least, it was hers.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw again the black, piercing eyes of the man in the wood. Morgan. She shivered at the memory of the fire in those eyes when he had held her leg and mended the bone.

  Quickly, she spun around and grabbed up her sketchbook. With a few quick strokes of her pencil, she captured those eyes before they faded from her memory. Filling in the dark pupils, she stared at them as they stared back at her.

  The fire was there. His eyes looked at her with an intensity that sent a rush of heat through her.

  That same fascination, and the deep feeling as if she knew him, overcame her as she stared into his black eyes in the center of her white sheet of paper.

  The eyes needed a face.

  She sketched in Morgan’s features around his eyes. His slightly curving eyebrows, his long straight nose and his mouth. She drew his mouth very slowly and carefully, making his b
ottom lip full and his top lip thin.

  She imagined what it would be like to kiss those lips. They would be warm and gentle. She looked again at what she had drawn, and noticed a slight smile to his lips. Yes, he was a kind man. And set now in his face, his eyes showed him to be thoughtful as well.

  She drew the outline of his face, shading in his high cheekbones and strong chin. And then his hair. He had long, wavy black hair. Adriana’s pencil took many long curving strokes in drawing his hair, reveling in its thick softness.

  She added the lines of his neck and the top of his shoulders. They were broad shoulders. Strong shoulders. Perfect for relying on. She knew he would care for her and make her happy.

  She sat back and studied her drawing. Yes. She had captured the man with her pencil. In careful lettering she added his name, “Morgan” to the bottom of the page and then the date, 5 May, 1815.

  She was very pleased. She had never drawn a person before, only inanimate objects and nature. Storms were a passion of hers, as were sunsets, violent seas and swift rivers.

  It depended on her mood what she drew or painted. When she was happy, which was not too often, she painted sunrises and sunsets with a beautiful blending of all the muted colors. When she was angry, it was a storm or a violent sea that flowed onto her canvas with its grays, blues and black. When she was feeling trapped in her London prison, she drew large open spaces—fields to run free in, beaches to splash through the cool water, rolling meadows and hills.

  Painting freed her. Only in her paintings did she truly live. She did not care if her guardian was right and she had no talent. When she looked at her paintings or drawings, she felt the same feelings she had when she created them. Somehow, she felt as if she were there, wherever it was that she had painted.

  Never before had she drawn a person. She looked at the man in her drawing. That he had known just what to do to make her calm unnerved her, but she had known somehow, from the minute she had seen him, that he would.