THE sky was black as the mouth of hell and a banshee wind raged out of the north. In isolated cottages, families huddled close to their hearths and to one another.
They heard thundering hooves in the gale’s wicked blasts, sly laughter and silvery bells in its gusts and eddies: the gentry were abroad on their steeds of air and fire, and the atmosphere crackled with mischief.
Lights blazed from every window of the castle on the moor, although no mortal eye could see them. Inside the vast hall columns of gold and malachite held up a ceiling of deep lapis, and faerie lights glowed in lamps of hollowed pearls. Silk-clad dancers whirled across the marble floor to the sounds of harp and flute and silver bells.
When the music ended one woman slipped away and ran daintily up the stairs to the tower. She scanned the valley at the foot of the moor and spied a carriage coming up the old moor road. Lady Rowan’s lips curved in a smile.
“Ah, she has come!”
If she had the capacity for it, Lady Rowan might have felt sorry for the young woman inside the swaying vehicle. So young and fair. So much alone.
So unprepared for what was yet to come.
But in the Kingdom of Faerie youth was forever, there were merry companions, and death did not exist.
The carriage was almost at the crossroads. Lady Rowan’s smile grew. She gestured and light flashed from her fingertips. A wild wind blasted across the countryside, snapping dried branches from the trees and ripping signposts from their moorings.
Lady Rowan turned away, mischief dancing in her slanting, leaf-brown eyes. “And now—let the merriment begin!”
A ramshackle hired carriage rattled along the old moor road, buffeted by spiteful winds. It hit a rough patch and the vehicle careened wildly. Inside Phoebe Sutton clung to the strap and prayed. Earlier her hopes had been to arrive there before nightfall.
Now she hoped they would arrive in one piece.
She was hours overdue to take up her post of housekeeper for Lord Thornwood, a distant relation of her late father. By the pace of horses, the coachman is far more anxious to reach Thorne Court than I!
Certainly the wild Cornish countryside was no place for travelers on such an eerie night. The mad howling of the wind reminded Phoebe of every tale she’d ever read of lost travelers, pixie-led to their doom.
She leaned forward, intending to tell the driver to slow down, when the carriage lurched to an abrupt halt. Her bandboxes crashed to the floor. Thoughts of an injured horse or broken traces raced through her head. Phoebe opened the window and leaned out.
The rogue wind almost stole her bonnet. Invisible fingers teased the ribbons loose and ruffled her thick red hair. Phoebe clamped her hat down firmly.
“Coachman, why have we stopped?”
The grizzled driver leaned down from the box. “There be two tracks branching off from the road here, miss. Which of them to take is beyond my ken.”
“But . . . you said you knew the way!”
The man shrugged. “Aye. Gen’ally speaking. Come here once some years ago, I did. But look you, the signpost is gone! Likely blown clean away by this fiendish wind.”
On the heels of his words another great gust roared down the hills like a cavalry charge. The night was so wild, the atmosphere so disturbed that Phoebe imagined she could hear the faint jangle of harness and the drumbeat of phantom hooves, musical voices calling to her:
Come! Come with us, wild and free as the elements . . .
For a moment she was caught up by it, filled with a strange and overwhelming yearning. Then Phoebe shook off the strange fancy and concentrated on the diverging roads winding into the night like pale gray ribbons.
“Does nothing look familiar to you?”
“Not as I can say, miss. Might be I took the wrong turn earlier.”
Her heart sank. She’d been traveling for three days. She was cold, hungry and tired and it was clear the coachman wouldn’t budge unless she directed him—and she hadn’t a clue what to tell him.
She stared into the darkness beyond the glow of the carriage lamps, hoping to spot some sign of civilization. There was nothing at all to help her. The ancient moors huddled beneath their thick cloak of night, and phantom laughter echoed on the wind.
IN all the wild, black night, there was one place filled with light. The golden doors of the castle hidden in the hills were flung wide to welcome the glittering guests. Inside the ivory hall, tapestries woven from cloth of gold shimmered with ever-shifting colors and scenes. Fine lords and ladies danced to the sound of pipes and harp, or sipped their wine from jeweled cups.
They were beautiful and graceful, seemingly the most favored of mortals. But closer examination showed the delicate, elongated fingers and dark slanting eyes of faeries, the softly pointed ears and golden skin of elves.
Only one figure stood alone in the gallery above the hall, the only mortal within the enchanted walls. Jack watched balls of green fire whizz about the room, barely missing the revelers. It was a common prank among the younger elves, whose tricks veered from lightly amusing to spiteful and sometimes cruel.
He grinned as one fireball came too close and singed the silver hair of a dignified elf. Quick as lightning, the victim caught the ball of fire in his hand. When he released it the fire was gone and a tiny bat trembled on his palm. It squeaked with dismay and flew up and out the window, banished from the feast. The elf restored his hair with a careless gesture and continued his conversation.
Jack laughed again, then suddenly sobered. I am becoming more and more like them with every passing year. Worse, he cared less and less that it was happening. I am losing my humanity.
His beautiful surroundings were a prison for any mortal, like himself, foolish enough to trespass in the Kingdom of Faerie. There was a time when he’d been dazzled by the faerie glamour, the beautiful women so free with their favors, the endless merriment and mischief. But he’d grown weary of their reckless gaiety. He longed to return to the real, if imperfect world from which he came.
His dark head gleamed with fiery highlights as Jack raised his goblet and finished his wine. Staring into the empty silver bowl, he saw his eyes reflected back, blue as the sapphires rimming the cup.
His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. A mirror of my existence, he thought. All splendor and emptiness.
Setting the goblet down, he watched a couple exchange a warm glance, then vanish into a dark alcove. Other lovers were drifting away from the ball as well.
A ball of gold light whizzed through the air and hovered beside him. “Leave me,” he said, not bothering to glance up. “I am no good company this evening.”
“A fit of sullens, Lord Jack?”
He recognized the dulcet tones and leapt to his feet with a bow. “Lady Rowan! I beg your pardon.”
“As well you should!”
The glowing gold light vanished and a beautiful woman materialized beside him. Twinkling stars and miniature suns ringed her white throat and dancing lights shone in the depths of her slanting, leaf-brown eyes.
“You spend far too much time brooding,” she said with a tilt of her head.
He gave her a brief smile. “Unless you have brought a spell of merriment to enchant me, I’m afraid there is no cure.”
She placed her dainty hand on his arm. “Alas, I have not. Love is what I prescribe to bring you out of the doldrums. It is the best magic of all. Find a fair lady and give your heart to her.”
“Love? I don’t believe you know its meaning,” he said dryly, “so you will forgive me if I don’t take advantage of your wisdom.”
Lady Rowan shook her head. “Stubborn creature! Well, I have other news that might interest you. A carriage is lost on the old road. The signpost is gone, and the coachman does not know which road to take.”
He shrugged. “That is his affair. It is none of mine.”
Her mouth curved in a smile. “I appeal to your chivalry. The passenger is a young lady of quality, orphaned and alone.”
His dark brows shot together. “That is her affair. It is none of mine.”
“Ah.” Rowan’s voice was silken. “I held out the best part. Her name is Phoebe Sutton, and she has been invited to Thorne Court to take up her new life.”
Jack was clearly startled. “Has she now?” He looked away. “She would do best to avoid the place and seek her fate elsewhere.”
“Let us see what fortune has in store for her then.” Rowan made a graceful gesture and a crystal globe appeared resting on her outstretched palms.
“Should she go east, the carriage will lose a wheel. She will be severely injured and lose her senses.”
Jack gazed into the globe. The sparkling mist cleared and a scene appeared. A small, barren room, the slight form of a young woman on the bed, her hair a tangled mass of copper, her dark-fringed eyes blue and empty as a summer sky.
Jack felt a swift stab of pity. “So young and so lovely . . .”
“Yes. And so alone.” Rowan shook her head. “Why, if she disappeared, no one would miss her. Surely that must strike a chord with you, Lord Jack?”
“We all have choices to make,” he said frowning. “She should choose the center road then and go north.”
“Should she go north,” Rowan said, turning the globe, “the carriage will overturn into a ravine . . .”
Jack watched the scene form: the same girl tumbling from the broken carriage, pinwheeling down onto the rocks. She lay on her side, eyes closed and her hair fanning out like flames beneath the brim of her worn bonnet.
“And,” Rowan went on, “she will be killed instantly.”
He glared. “Are you saying that her fate is in my hands? What guilt you lay upon me!”
“I will repeat your own words back to you,” Rowan said. “ ‘We all have choices to make.’ ”
Jack wrestled with his conscience. In the end, he had to know: “And if I choose to come to her aid? What is her fortune, then?”
Lady Rowan vanished the globe with a gesture. “That is not for you to know, for once you choose to interfere, your fate is tied to hers.”
She winked, kissed Jack’s cheek and whirled away in her iridescent silks. A moment later she was just a spangle of bright sparks soaring far above the dancers.
He stood frowning after her. Could he trust that what she’d shown him was real? True, she had befriended him since his arrival, and his current situation would be far worse if she hadn’t championed him.
Still, she was a faerie. Mischief and meddling were born and bred in her.
This could be another elaborate jest, with myself as the butt of it.
Yet, what if what she’d shown him was true? He pictured the girl with the lustrous red hair as he’d seen her in the magic globe and felt a sudden pang.
At least I am still human enough to pity her.
That surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt any emotions other than boredom or anger. How long had it been since he’d left the shelter of the castle to venture out in the mundane world that had once been his home? Time had no meaning here and days ran into weeks all too easily . . .
But sometimes going back was too painful: it made him realize all he had lost through his youthful recklessness.
Still, the fading memory of the moors by starshine, of rich earth warming beneath the pale spring sun, tempted him.
Striding to the back of the gallery, Jack unlatched the latticed window. Jewels imbedded in the glass winked with colored lights as he threw it wide.
A powerful wind blew in, tugging at his thick hair and bringing tantalizing scents of wet earth, of tender seedlings ready to spring out of the dark, fertile ground and into new green life.
There was nothing in all Faerieland to compare with it. A fierce longing for the mortal world swept through him, far more violent than the windstorm that roared down over hill and vale.
Waves of emotion battered at him, and Jack fisted his hands. He felt in that moment that he would do anything to break the spell binding him to the Kingdom of Faerie. Anything to regain his freedom.
And so he made his choice.
Jack drew on the one power granted him. For a single second the air in the gallery burned bright blue. Then a flickering, gold flame launched itself out the window, riding the storm down to the dark valley floor.
THE coachman waited uneasily for Phoebe’s instructions. “Which way do ye ken I should turn, miss?”
Phoebe hesitated.
As she stared into the gloom, the captive moon suddenly broke free and sailed out from behind the clouds. Phoebe gasped as the countryside was revealed. A great open expanse of land rose up, all ebony and silver. Plunging ravines cut through it and stacks of weathered rock loomed ominously in the frosted moonlight.
Movement caught her eye. A light! Relief flooded her.
“Turn west,” she ordered the coachman.
He responded to the authority in her voice. The weary team of horses started forward with new enthusiasm, and off they went, following the light. It darted into a stand of trees, winking in and out among the dark trunks.
Phoebe wondered what dire errand had drawn the light-bearer out on foot on such a night and at such a late hour.
But the coachman muttered to himself. “Pixie-led, we are. Likely we’ll end up in a bog, or back where we started!” But having his instructions, he kept on.
Then, without warning, the light vanished as if the lantern had been blown out.
“Keep going,” Phoebe ordered. “There must be a lodging close to hand.”
Her faith was rewarded. They came upon a high stone wall smothered beneath a tangle of vines. The wrought iron gates stood wide—rusted open, she thought, and recognized the crest upon them.
Thorne Court, at last!
They passed inside the wall to a rutted gravel drive. The hedge on either side was overgrown, the verge thick with tall brambles that clawed and scraped the carriage doors. Phoebe was shocked at the neglect. A sense of foreboding came over her. If the grounds were so ill-kempt, what must the house itself be like?
At last the vehicle entered a cobbled court, and Phoebe leaned forward, anxious for the first glimpse of her new home. Thorne Court was revealed in all its Gothic splendor.
Three stories of carved stone rose up around a central courtyard, the towers and bays and massive chimneys all black with moss and the ravages of centuries. Gargoyles with outstretched wings perched on the eaves, as if ready to take flight. Phoebe fought an urgent desire to order the coachman to turn back.
Common sense came to the rescue. It was impossible, of course. The coachman was half-frozen, the horses were spent. And, had there been any other choice, she would never have come to Thorne Court in the first place.
She quelled her burst of panic. For better or worse I must put the past behind me and go through with it. This is the start of my new life.
The carriage rolled up to the massive front door and a groom shuffled toward the horse’s heads. As she dismounted with her bandboxes over her arms, the front door opened, spilling wan light into the courtyard. A silver-haired butler ushered her into the wide hall and took her cloak. The room was shadowed, but Phoebe had a quick impression of fine woodwork in need of a good cleaning, faded tapestries and a great deal of old dusty armor.
“Welcome to Thorne Court, Miss Sutton. I am Holloway.”
“Thank you, Holloway. I’m sorry to have kept you from your bed.”
“Not at all, miss. We expected that the inclement weather would delay your arrival. There is a cozy fire kept burning in the book room.”
He led her across the hall and opened the door. The room was dim except for the cheerful flames blazing in the hearth and a branch of candles on a side table. It smelled of ink and leather book bindings with a faint overlay of beeswax and the pungent green scent of turpentine.
“Please to warm yourself by the fire, Miss Sutton, while the footmen carry your trunks upstairs. I’ve rung for refreshments. No doubt you would like some hot tea,” Holloway said.
She flushed with embarrassment. “Thank you. I only have the one and my two bandboxes, which I left in the hall.” She had kept with her the third, which was packed with her dearest possessions.
“Very good, Miss Sutton. Your belongings will be unpacked and put away by the time you’ve finished your tray.”
He went out, shutting the door behind him. Phoebe held her chilled hands to the heat of the fire and examined her surroundings. Thorne Court seemed to be a well-run household, although the book room, like the hall, seemed in want of a good cleaning. There was a dullness to everything, as if covered with a fine haze of neglect. Well, I shall see that it’s soon set to rights!
The furnishings were masculine and of the best quality, with comfortable leather chairs and a wide desk by the window. Ancient maps were displayed in glass cases along one wall and the rest were filled with books.
Phoebe lifted her head to look up at the gold-framed painting over the fireplace and her heart turned over. She knew the man in the portrait: Gordon Tremaine, Lord Thornwood’s nephew.
The artist had rendered him just as Phoebe remembered from their last meeting. The thick dark hair, high cheekbones and strong jaw. Those intensely blue eyes that burned with inner light. He had also captured a keen intelligence in that sapphire gaze, and both humor and sensuality in the firm mouth.
Phoebe wrenched her gaze away. The painting conjured all the feelings she’d thought dead and buried. The thrill and anxiety of first love, the confusion and disbelief of loss and the sharp pain of betrayal.
She’d been ten the first time she’d set eyes on Gordon. He was two years her senior and carelessly kind to a young and lonely girl. She called him “Cousin Gordon,” trying to lay claim to such a highly superior (if slightly arrogant) being, who had dropped from some other marvelous world into hers.
He’d helped her sail leaves on the duck pond behind the village green and whittled a whistle for her. He’d even let her play Maid Marian to his bold Robin Hood, although he’d relegated her part to sitting in a leafy willow bower pretending to sew tunics, while he leapt about with a wooden sword, slaying rushes in lieu of the sheriff of Nottingham’s men.
She’d taken exception to that, and run off with his sword, tripping and accidentally breaking it. Gordon had threatened to thrash her; but instead he’d dried her tears with the hem of his fine linen shirt, then mended his sword and made her one of her very own out of scraps, wheedled from the handyman.
From that moment he’d become her hero.
After that first visit Lord Thornwood came down to Wickersham, one of his many estates, for the summer months with his nephew in tow. While her father, His Lordship’s cousin, and Lord Thornwood discussed their common interests in antiquities and folklore, Phoebe and Gordon had roamed the countryside together on foot and horseback, laughing and quarreling as children do.
She’d endowed him with every princely virtue, and as she grew to young womanhood, so did her fondness for him, until no other young man of her acquaintance measured up. Slowly, inevitably, that friendship ripened into love, and she’d accepted his proposal in a delirium of happiness.
Of course, Lord Thornwood and her father had thought them much too young to settle down. The plan was for Gordon to spend a year managing his uncle’s estates in India and see something of the world.
“If you both still feel the same when young Tremaine returns,” her father had told them, “I will not withhold my consent.”
“When I return,” Gordon pledged, “I shall come straight to Willow Cottage and ask you again, sir, for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
He’d kissed Phoebe good-bye and given her a necklace with an enameled rose and vowed when he returned to England he would exchange it for a wedding ring. Gordon had smiled and ridden away, taking her heart with him.
And that was the last time she saw him.
The pain of his betrayal came back, fresh and raw. The anxiety of not hearing from him, followed by the humiliation of his letter, saying that he would not be returning to England and releasing her from her promise.
Her stomach knotted as she relived it all. Gordon had stayed in India, Lord Thornwood had come down to shut up Wickersham and retired to his principal estate in Cornwall. Neither she nor her father had ever mentioned them again.
The door opened and Holloway held it wide to admit a sleepy maid with a serving tray. “Your refreshments, Miss Sutton. No, no, Dorcas, put it on the table by the fire.”
The woman set the tray down, bobbed a curtsy and left.
The butler had caught Phoebe eyeing the painting. “That was made of Master Gordon Tremaine when he was just turned twenty—or rather I should say, Lord Thornwood, as he is now.”
Phoebe was stunned. She wondered if she’d misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”
“Master Gordon was the late viscount’s heir. He ascended to his uncle’s dignities two weeks ago.”
Her thoughts were whirling. Gordon, master of Thorne Court? “I didn’t know,” she said, struggling for composure. “I’m very sorry to learn of Lord Thornwood’s passing.”
“He was carried off by a sudden illness,” Holloway said. “Fortunately, Master Gordon arrived in time to see him before the end.”
She felt the color drain from her cheeks. “Then he is here, at Thorne Court?”
“Yes, miss. He has made his home here since his accident several years ago.” The butler gave a discreet cough. “Will there be anything else, miss?”
She collected herself with difficulty. “No. No, thank you, Holloway.”
He withdrew, leaving Phoebe to sort out her disordered thoughts. Her gaze returned to Gordon’s portrait. So handsome. A young Prince Charming—and here I am, in the role of beggar maid.
She turned away and paced the room in agitation. This was her worst nightmare. To come face-to-face with Gordon after all that had gone between them! Unthinkable!
She stopped by a row of books, arrested by the titles. Her father had owned some of the same volumes, but she’d been forced to sell them all at auction. She reached for one. The Ballad of Thomas the Rhymer and Other North Country Tales.
Phoebe knew the story of how the queen of faeries had fallen in love with “True Thomas” and carried him off to the realm of faerie for seven years.
There was a soft click followed by a deep voice. “Perhaps you’d care to take a chair by the fire—if you are quite done examining my taste in literature?”
She whirled around, almost dropping the volume in her hands. A monstrous shadow loomed along the fireplace wall. Then she turned and saw a man framed in the open door to the terrace.
A tall figure limped forward into the radiant circle of candlelight, leaning heavily upon his cane. Gordon was dark, as she’d remembered, quite tall and broad of shoulder—but certainly no handsome prince.
In fact, he was the ugliest man she’d ever seen.
“GORDON?”
Phoebe’s palms were damp and her heart raced. She searched in vain for the boy she’d known in the man before her.
“One and the same.”
As he moved closer she noticed more details. His features were terribly distorted, the right eyebrow pulled up at the end by the purple scars fanning over his cheek and temple. The firm, generous mouth was yanked brutally down at one corner, the aquiline nose awry as if it had been broken and badly reset.
Only the color of his eyes was unchanged, a shock of vivid blue against his wind-burned skin. Cold as winter’s heart and without any glimmer of welcome.
She couldn’t think of a word to say.
There were no signs of the Gordon she’d once known in the man before her.
He examined her from under lowering brows. “You are not at all what I expected.”
“I might say the same of you, my lord.”
His mouth twisted. “You would not be the first person to be shocked by my appearance—although most have the grace to pretend otherwise.”
She flushed to the roots of her hair. “You misunderstand me. I didn’t expect to see you here. I . . . I thought you’d remained in India all these years. And until Holloway told me, I had no idea that you were now Lord Thornwood.”
“I returned two weeks ago, shortly before my uncle passed away.” He frowned down at her. “It’s been many years since I last saw you at Willow Cottage.”
Heat rushed to her face. “I was thinking of the first time we met, when you were a boy of twelve and carved me a whistle from a willow tree.” It was, in fact, still somewhere in her little box of childhood souvenirs.
Some unreadable emotion flickered over his dark face. “That boy no longer exists.”
He turned so she could see twisted, purple scars on his other cheek. “I am what you see today.”
She was taken aback by the extent of his injuries. Dear God, what fearsome tragedy has befallen him?
Phoebe realized she was staring and gathered her wits. “I was very sorry to learn of your uncle’s passing. Naturally, I do not expect to hold you to his promises.”
“Don’t be foolish. I fully intend to honor his intentions.”
“But . . .” She started to speak but he forestalled her.
“Spare me your thanks,” he said curtly. “When you know me better, Cousin, you will discover that I do nothing unless it serves my own interests.”
She eyed a cobweb and its magnified shadow wafting in the draft above the window curtains. “Perhaps you should interest yourself more in Thorne Court. This room is lovely, but in sad want of care.”
His brows shot up in surprise. “If you like, you may take that up with Mrs. Church, my housekeeper.”
“Housekeeper?” Phoebe frowned. “I came here with the understanding that I was to fill that position.”
He looked at her quizzically. “My dear Phoebe! Mrs. Church has no wish to retire—nor I to see her go.”
“B-but . . . your uncle hired me to run the house, yes, and sent my father’s bank a draft for an advance on my yearly salary.”
Phoebe removed a folded letter from her reticule and held it out to him. “If you look you will see that his postscript states, very clearly, that he has hired me to run his household.”
Gordon glanced at it and gave a sharp crack of laughter. “Good God! His abominable handwriting! You’ve made a bad job of interpreting it, my dear.”
Phoebe stiffened. “I am not your dear. It’s true that I had to guess at some passages. However his intent is quite clear.”
He gave the note back to her. “Correct me if I am wrong—and I feel quite sure that you will!—but I believe his words are that you might order the household as you see fit, with his very good wishes.”
After swiftly scanning the writing, Phoebe didn’t know what to say. Gordon was right. “But . . . I don’t understand. The bank draft . . .”
“Was an allowance, naturally. Your first quarter’s pin money. He invited you here as his kinswoman, not some sort of upper servant who must toil to earn her bread. When my uncle offered you a home at Thorne Court, it was to relieve you of such necessity.”
“I have no need of charity,” she replied stiffly. “At the time he wrote to me, I was companion-governess to . . .”
“To a cheese-paring woman of vulgar origins, with five children—who are, by all accounts, unmitigated hellions. Tell me you enjoyed that!”
She bit her lip. “I would be lying if I did.”
Phoebe was in shock, but not enough to lose sight of what was proper. “My relationship to the late Lord Thornwood was remote and to you even more so. I cannot accept your charity.”
He met her gaze with barely concealed impatience. “You are in no position to refuse. I cannot force you to stay; however, your allowance will continue whether you stay or go. Consider it my way of repaying a debt.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You were too young to know of it at the time, but your father once did me a very great service.”
She stared at him. If that was true, it was the first she’d heard of it. “What kind of service?”
He raised his eyebrows. “One, my dear girl, that your father, being a gentleman, would certainly not have discussed with you. My youthful indiscretions would surely have brought a blush to your cheeks!”
Phoebe didn’t believe his explanation. Her father had been a good man, but completely unworldly, lost in his books and his writings. Certainly not the type to whom a young man in trouble over a woman would turn to for advice.
“I find your explanation hard to credit, my lord.”
“Nevertheless, it is true.” Gordon pulled a chair forward. “You’re white as candlewax. Sit down.”
She lifted her chin. “I wish to stand.”
“Well, I do not.”
Phoebe sat.
He limped his way to the chair opposite her. Phoebe clutched the slim book in her hands and wondered if his peremptory manner was the result of pain. Every line on his face was deeply etched with it.
She wondered again what tragedy had struck him down, but it was something no lady would ask. A shiver ran up her back.
Whatever it was, it was terrible!
While she assessed Gordon, he did the same to her. She didn’t look as if she’d traveled three days and part of one night to reach Thorne Court. Nor as if she’d arrived to find her expectations stood on end, compounded by an uncertain welcome. He saw the shiver that ran through her.
“You’re cold,” he said. “This will help.”
He poured two tots of brandy into crystal snifters. The signet on his left ring finger glowed red as a hot coal. He wore no other jewelry, except for a curious bracelet that circled his entire wrist. His hands, she noted, were still beautiful. Strong and masculine.
Then he turned it palm up, and she saw the rest of his left hand, covered in a purple, ropey scar. It looked as if it had been dipped in molten metal.
She hid her stab of pity. He has pride, she thought, and it is stronger even than mine. He hates his infirmity. Perhaps that is why he glowers so. Or, she wondered, is it only the puckered scars that distort his features?
“There,” he said, handing her a cut crystal glass. “Drink that down, my girl, and you’ll soon feel better. And if you’re worried about the proprieties of staying here while you decide what you wish to do, let me put your mind at ease. You’ll have proper chaperonage in the eyes of the world. My uncle’s widow, the dowager viscountess, makes her home here. She’s rather eccentric and prefers to be called Lady Gwynn, as she was in her childhood. She keeps mostly to her own chambers.”
“I shall look forward to meeting her.”
His mouth twisted wryly. “I wonder . . .”
She accepted the glass from him and their fingers brushed. She felt the shock of his touch along the length of her arm. A silence fell, punctuated only by the fire’s crackle, the soft tick of the clock.
Gordon scrutinized Phoebe. She’d still been a girl at their last parting and now she was a woman in full bloom. The embodiment of the golden future he’d once believed would be theirs together. His jaw tightened and he contemplated his reflection in the brandy glass. It is like a strange fairy tale, he thought. She has become Beauty, and I have become the Beast.
Phoebe was lulled by the quiet and the brandy. It seemed as if they were suspended in time, touched by neither difficult past nor uncertain future. She looked away and her glance fell on a gilded mirror that captured Gordon’s face in profile. He was watching her, unaware that she could see him, and the expression on his face startled her. There was such longing and loneliness in it. Such aching tenderness.
The warmth that spread through her had nothing to do with the brandy. He does care for me, she thought with sudden, fierce joy. And she realized that for all her pretence, she had never stopped loving him.
She thought she understood. It was surely the consequences of his accident that had made him break off the relationship.
How could he ever think his scars would matter to me?
She turned to him to speak but his face was rigid again, his eyes as cold and distant as the stars. Had she only imagined that tenderness and longing? Or was his pride too great to let himself be open and vulnerable? Impossible to tell at the moment.
But hope blossomed in her heart. If he still cared, she would find a way around his pride. It would take time and patience, and she had both in good measure. Meanwhile, she’d start down the path she intended to follow.
“Forgive me if I seemed rude, my lord . . .”
“You will, if you persist in my lording me to death. You will call me Gordon, as you used to do.”
“I do appreciate your generosity, Cousin Gordon, however the promise was made by your uncle, not by you. I fail to understand why you are so willing to take me under your wing.”
“As I said, I inherited my uncle’s obligations along with his titles.” His voice turned harsh. “As for my being generous, disabuse yourself of that notion—I spend far more on my horses.”
That was the Gordon she remembered. Phoebe smiled. “That does put it in a different perspective.”
He set his glass down. “Good. Then say no more of the matter.”
Phoebe pressed on. “Despite your generosity, I can’t help feeling that I am not entirely welcome at Thorne Court.”
The flash in his eyes told him her shot had struck true. “I cannot control your thoughts and feelings, Cousin,” he said roughly. “I am having enough trouble dealing with my own.”
Her spirits rose. Now she was positive. He wasn’t indifferent to her at all—and that, she decided, was at the root of his manner toward her.
She smiled at him and he stared back, frowing, then rose and took the poker from its place. He moved a log and flames leaped in a shower of sparks. Phoebe noticed how careful he was to keep the worst of his scars hidden in the shadows. Not out of vanity or pride as she’d thought earlier, but to spare her feelings.
She wondered how she ever could have doubted him. She’d been too young and too hurt at the time to write to him. Too shaken to realize there could have been many reasons why he’d broken off their unofficial engagement besides no longer loving her, as she’d thought at the time.
“Earlier you said I was not what you’d expected, Cousin Gordon. In what way do I differ from your expectations?”
His smile was wry.
“This will perhaps come as a shock to you, Phoebe. In a letter to my uncle, your father described you as having become ‘a quiet, bookish girl, and much disinclined to marriage.’ ”
Phoebe bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I see! You thought I’d worn the willow for you and turned into a meek little spinster, content to sit in the corner with my nose in a volume of sermons.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid you were completely taken in!”
“Indeed!” A gleam of amusement flashed in his eyes. “I imagine your father was as well.”
She had to admit it. “My father lived his life between the pages of books—those he read and those he wrote. They were his world and he didn’t notice much else.”
Gordon shook his head. “That’s quite evident! My uncle, God rest his soul, was equally wrong in his judgement of you. He thought you would be happy at Thorne Court.” His face hardened. “He was wrong, Cousin. This is not the place for you.”
“Do you wish me to leave?” Phoebe looked up at him, her face a pale oval in the firelight.
He saw the dismay in her eyes, heard the catch in her voice. All the things he’d intended to say dried up in his mouth. “I have no intentions of sending you away—although I believe it might be better if I did.”
She lifted her chin. “Why do you say that?”
His gaze was steady and diamond hard. “There are many reasons. You are young, Phoebe, and very much alive. Thorne Court is ancient. Dying.”
She pretended to misunderstand him. “Only from lack of care,” she said, looking around. “Nothing a good dusting and polishing wouldn’t set to rights.”
“It’s difficult to recruit servants in such isolated country.” He watched her carefully. “And Thorne Court has a certain haunted reputation among the locals.”
“I have no fear of ghosts,” Phoebe said demurely.
“I’m glad to hear that, as I spend a good deal of time away.” He looked down at his glass. “You may find it lonely at times with only the servants for company.”
“I’ll be content with your library and your garden.”
“Will you?” Gordon’s smile was just a little crooked. “Frankly, I shall be amazed if you last a month!”
Phoebe smiled. “Prepare to be amazed.”
A light flashed in his eyes, but whether it was surprise or displeasure was hard for her to decide.
“Time will tell the tale.” He tossed off the last of his brandy. “No doubt you are longing for your bed. I shall take my leave of you.”
As he rose she leaned forward and touched his sleeve. “You won’t regret your generosity, Gordon. I’ll endeavor to make myself useful.”
“Mrs. Church will be glad for your direction,” he said curtly. “Meanwhile, make yourself free of the library and the house and gardens.”
Phoebe nodded. “Thank you.”
“When you’ve finished your refreshments, Mrs. Church will escort you upstairs.” He crossed to her side. “Until tomorrow, then.”
She thought for a moment he meant to take her hand. Instead he bowed, turned and made his painful way toward the door where he’d entered. There were remnants of his former grace in his movements, which made it all the more painful for Phoebe to watch.
He paused on the threshold and turned back. “You haven’t really changed, have you? Inside you’re still the same stubbornly determined little girl I first met almost seven years ago. One who preferred climbing trees and playing with a clumsy wooden sword to holding doll tea parties on the lawn.”
She arched her brow. “There’s no way I can win by answering. If I agree, I’m a hoyden and if I disagree I’m uncivil. But I admit that little sword became my most cherished childhood toy.”
“I’ve always wondered why your father let you keep it.”
Phoebe smiled.
“I said that I was playing Saint Michael overcoming demons, when I was really pretending to be Grace O’Malley, the pirate queen.” She bit her lip. “It was the only lie I ever told him.”
He studied her with a cool, appraising look. “And did you feel guilty for deceiving him?”
“Of course.”
He nodded. “I was sure of it. Welcome to Thorne Court, Phoebe. Sleep well.”
Phoebe was left alone with her thoughts and a burning curiosity. Beneath the pain of old hurts and disappointments the bonds they’d forged in childhood were still intact.
Whether there could ever be something more was the question.
“YOUR suite is here, Miss Sutton.”
Mrs. Church, a plump, efficient woman with snowy hair and rosy cheeks threw open the door at the end of the corridor and Phoebe entered a cozy sitting room. She had a quick impression of gracefully carved furniture and splashes of rich color.
Even so, Phoebe was aware of the same fog of neglect here that she’d noted below. Odd, when the servants themselves were neat as wax.
The housekeeper led her through to the bedroom, dominated by an enormous tester bed hung with velvet curtains lined in pale blue silk. The same fabric covered the deep bay window, where a writing desk stood.
An apple-cheeked maid of middle years closed one of the bureau drawers. “This is Elsie, who will be waiting upon you.”
The maid smiled and bobbed a curtsy. “I’ve just finished putting your things away, and there’s hot water in the pitcher, miss. If there’s anything else you need, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.” Phoebe glanced at the open wardrobe. Her few garments looked limp and lost in the cavernous space. Even her forest green riding habit, the best of the lot, looked distinctly shabby against the rich wood grain.
Phoebe set down her bandbox in the wardrobe and put the green leather book she’d brought up with her on the writing desk in the alcove. Her father had owned the same book among his collection. When she was seven she’d used it to press some violets, incurring a sad smile and gentle lecture on the care and treatment of rare volumes. She’d never been so careless with a book again.
She opened it at random and her breath hissed out between her teeth. There, on page thirty-five, were the pale brown imprints of five little violets. Her heart raced and her fingers trembled and she opened the book to the inside cover and read the name on the ornate bookplate there: AMBROSE SUTTON, ESQ.
Tears stung her eyes. So, the late viscount had been her benefactor here, too, buying up her father’s library. It comforted her to hold this little piece of her past, to know her father’s hands had held this book.
Phoebe blinked away her tears and stepped up to the bay window while she composed herself. The wind sang beyond the mullioned panes, rattling the glass. She parted the draperies and looked out.
Below lay a wide terrace and formal gardens but beyond the great hills rose up, primitive and untamed. She reached up to undo the talisman necklace her father had given her and turned to look the other way.
Such a startling and beautiful sight met her gaze that Phoebe didn’t even feel her unclasped necklace slip from her throat. Lights blazed atop the crest of the nearest hill, so brilliant against the darkness that she was dazzled.
She looked over her shoulder. “What is that place lit up so brightly, Mrs. Church?”
The housekeeper straightened a collar box on the chest of drawers. “What place would that be, miss?”
“It looks to be a lovely castle.” She could make out arched windows and a host of soaring towers, slender turrets and airy buttresses.
“There are no castles hereabouts, miss,” Mrs. Church said discouragingly. “Not even ruins.”
“Well, there is certainly something there,” Phoebe said crisply. “Come and see for yourself.” She realized her necklace was gone and knelt to retrieve it. The silvery stone felt cool as ice against her palm.
Mrs. Church came to Phoebe’s side rather reluctantly. Her look out the window was brief. She shook her head.
“Begging your pardon, miss, I see naught of any lights.”
“But . . .” Phoebe began—and stopped in surprise as she turned back toward the glass.
Darkness had swallowed the moon and the moor was only an ebony curve against the lighter sky. Phoebe frowned. “Nor do I see them now. How curious! I suppose it must have been a reflection of the lamplight in the window glass.”
The housekeeper nodded. “ ’Tis been a long and tiring day. Elsie will help you get ready for bed, and in the morning I’ll show you round the manor.”
Phoebe thanked her but refused the maid’s assistance. “Please, go and seek your own beds and sleep for what is left of the night. I shall do the same.”
Elsie hurried gratefully up to her room beneath the eaves, but Mrs. Church didn’t take Phoebe’s advice. She went in search of Lord Thornwood and found him with Holloway, down in the drawing room. It startled her to see them there: the room hadn’t been used in years.
Holloway held a taper to a branch of candles and flickering light danced over the shrouded furniture and chandelier.
Mrs. Church hurried to Gordon’s side. “I must speak with you, my lord.”
“Ah, Mrs. Church. Holloway and I were just discussing the need to take off the holland covers and prepare the parlor for Miss Sutton’s use.”
“Of course, my lord. I’ll set things forward tomorrow.” She shook her head. “But ’tis not of that we need to speak, my lord.”
Gordon scrutinized her keenly. “Something has upset you, Mrs. Church. What is wrong?”
“Oh, my lord! She’s seen it!”
“Seen what?”
“The castle on the hill!”
“The devil you say!” Gordon was rocked. He certainly hadn’t expected that.
“Oh, my lord, whatever are we to do?”
Gordon rubbed his hand over the twisted scars along his jaw. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “This changes everything.”
Mrs. Church nodded and burst into tears.
AS Phoebe undressed and bathed she was unaware of the drama she’d brought into the household. She hung her traveling clothes in the other side of the wardrobe, to be brushed and pressed in the morning, then took the pins from her chignon. Her hair tumbled down her back, bright as flame as she gave it a hundred strokes with her brush.
As she snuffed out the lamp, her thoughts circled back to the strange illusion she’d seen from the window. It seemed so real, that glowing castle on the moor!
She frowned, staring at the closed draperies and suddenly realized her conclusion was wrong. The bright light she’d seen at the window couldn’t have been the lamp’s reflection: the velvet bed hangings would have blocked it.
Phoebe tried to puzzle out what would have caused the illusion. There seemed to be no rational explanation. She was about to climb the three steps up into the bed when the wind died down abruptly. In the sudden silence of the room, she heard the sound of hoofbeats from beyond her window.
She blew out her candle and tiptoed through the dark room to the window. Pulling the curtains open a few inches, she looked out on the moon-frosted landscape. A cloaked figure galloped across the open parklands toward the wood that fringed them. She watched as horse and rider disappeared among the trees and waited while her bare feet grew cold.
Her patience was rewarded when they emerged on the moor. A moment later they vanished from view. The clock ticked the minutes away, but nothing else occurred as far as she could see.
Phoebe let the curtain drop and made her way through the darkened room to the bed. There was something wrong at Thorne Court. She felt it in her bones.
Curiosity was no match for the effects of her long journey. Snuggled beneath the covers, she fell quickly into dreams.
It was summer and she was dancing across the moor in sheer delight, freer than she’d felt in years. So light and free that her feet actually lifted from the ground. Suddenly she was flying through the air, soaring like a lark with the sunlight warm upon her back.
It was as natural as breathing. She flew and flew, filled with joy and wonder. Then a shadow covered her, and she froze in sudden fear. She began to fall, hurtling down while the sky turned black and the wind whistled past her. She couldn’t remember how to fly, and the ground was rising up to meet her as she plunged helplessly toward her doom.
Then miracle of miracles, a hand reached out, clasped her wrist. She was lifted up and away, cradled against a wide chest and the thunder of her rescuer’s heart echoed the wild beating of hers. She couldn’t see his face but she knew who’d saved her.
“Gordon!” she cried, but her words were lost in the rushing wind.
They flew together over the dark countryside, heading toward a distant glow. As they drew closer she saw it was a castle, its every window glowing like the sun.
She was set down gently on a marble terrace, where doors stood open to a vast, golden hall. Her blood stirred to the sound of harp and pipe and fiddle. Her companion bowed gracefully over her hand, his garments silks and velvets, a chain of sapphires around his throat.
“Good even to you, Phoebe Sutton. Will you join me in the dance?”
At the touch of his hand she was filled with happiness and delight. She dipped into a curtsy. “Indeed I will, my lord.”
He led her inside the hall in the glow of a thousand candles. Phoebe caught her breath in awe. The golden walls shimmered with their own inner light, and lamps of ruby and emerald and topaz hung down from the vaulted ceiling.
The center of the hall was thronged with the most beautiful beings she’d ever seen. Silks rustled and jewels winked as they swirled through the steps of an intricate dance. She gazed at them in wonder. They are like a band of angels, she thought.
Phoebe turned toward her companion. “Have I died? Is this heaven?”
Her words echoed around the room like crashing cymbals. A loud cry went up from the revelers, the dancing ceased and . . .
Phoebe awakened with a start.
Her heart bounded against her ribs and she was totally disoriented. She sat up with the comforter pulled up to her neck and looked around.
Slowly she recognized the outlines of the carved wardrobe between the windows and the slipper chair drawn up before the hearth. She was in her chamber at Thorne Court. The lovely castle filled with glorious beings had been nothing but a dream.
Her pounding pulse slowed and she realized the music still echoing in her ears was the singing of the wind beneath the eaves. Regret and a profound sense of loss filled her.
I never saw his face, she thought and felt bereft. She would have liked to stay in that beautiful place forever.
Then Phoebe shook off her disappointment. I am at Thorne Court, living in more luxury than I have ever known. For now, that is heaven enough.
IN the castle on the moor the revels were in full swing. Blue light flared and dimmed in the gallery and a tall form took shape.
Lady Rowan sat quietly, a crystal globe in her lap. She vanished it with a gesture and slanted a look up at the newcomer.
“A quick return, Lord Jack. Did your courage fail you?”
He’d caught a glimpse of the scene inside the globe before it disappeared: dancers weaving a circle around two people—himself and Phoebe Sutton. His eyes flashed with annoyance.
“What tricks are you up to now, Lady Rowan?”
“Why, what can you mean?”
“You seem to have an unusual interest in my affairs tonight!”
“My interest alights on many things,” she said sweetly.
Jack wasn’t fooled. There was definitely mischief afoot. He sat down beside Lady Rowan. “The mortal woman reached Thorne Court safely—as I’m sure you know.” He frowned down at her. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Her eyes shone with golden depths and her mouth curved in a beguiling smile. “What I want is your happiness.” She tapped his arm with her jeweled fingers. “One way or another.”
“I doubt your wish will be granted,” he said, his voice bitter as rue. “She saw the castle! Was that your doing?”
A frown etched her smooth brow. “No. That is very unusual. She has the gift of second sight. That changes things . . .” Lady Rowan led him to a bench where they sat down. “I am curious. What is she like, this human woman?”
“She is strong . . .” he said and stopped.
That wasn’t what he’d intended to say. It was true, though. Although she appeared to be fashioned of fine porcelain, Phoebe Sutton’s will was forged of tempered steel.
“She is also nobody’s fool.”
Lady Rowan sighed. “Unfortunate!” She toyed with her bracelet of stars and dazzling sparks of light leaped from it. “Perhaps you should have left her to her fate, after all.”
Jack scowled. His affection for Lady Rowan was sincere, but there were times when her attitude was so casual, so careless that it bordered on cruelty. Long though he’d lived among faerie folk, he realized now that he would never understand them completely.
“You are a cold creature, my lady, for all the warmth of your smiles. You speak of a human life as if it were nothing,” he said harshly. “Of less importance than the blown seedlings of a dandelion puff. But I cannot be so careless where mortals are concerned. I did what I thought best—and now I must live with the consequences.”
“Is it . . . remorse . . . you feel?” She turned the word over on her tongue, tasting its foreignness.
“I pity her sincerely.” His jaw tightened. “She thinks she has reached a safe haven!”
“Who is to say at this point?” Lady Rowan said. “Perhaps she has, and it will go no farther.”
“If you believe that, you are grasping at moonbeams. Once Phoebe Sutton arrived at Thorne Court, her future was set. She will be drawn into your web, like others were before her.”
Lady Rowan watched the emotions flit across his handsome face with interest and a puzzled curiosity. Lord Jack was always restive and out of sorts when he returned from the mundane world beyond the castle’s walls. Tonight, however, there was something more.
“And if she is, then you may ride to her rescue again, like Sir Galahad.”
Jack toyed with the silver bracelet on his right wrist. “In three weeks the seven years you bargained for me will be up. I shall be beyond helping myself, much less anyone else.”
She dismissed his concerns with an airy wave. “A lot can happen in three weeks. But I do not like your mood.”
She gestured and his gold and silver cup appeared in her hand, the sapphires like blue flame in the candlelight. “Nectar and mead, to ease your spirits.”
Jack took the goblet, saluted her with it and drank deeply. As he did so, that odd little light glowed again in Lady Rowan’s eyes. The feeling that he was caught up in some devious game of her devising grew stronger. He set the goblet down, but it was already too late.
Within the span of a single heartbeat her potion held him spellbound. Magic flowed through his veins, spreading a pleasant numbness. All the cold, empty spaces in him filled up with joy and merriment.
Jack laughed, his good humor restored. Why should he bother with the fate of one mortal woman? Phoebe Sutton was nothing to him.
Lady Rowan smiled, seeing the transformation in him. “Ah, that is more like it. I do not care to see you gloomy . . .”
She could not understand the lure of the mortal world: how could he yearn for the brief human existence where every joy seemed countered by sorrow, when he could remain young and handsome forever in the Kingdom of Faerie?
But there was no time to pursue the thought, even if she’d been so inclined. Jack rose, took her hand and bowed over it.
“Come, my Lady Rowan!”
She smiled and took his arm. They descended the marble staircase together and joined in the dance, and every care was forgotten.
PHOEBE awakened early after a restless night. She’d fallen back into strange dreams. This time there had been no shining castle, only a lonely place with damp, rocky walls that had funneled her down and down into darkness.
She went to the window and threw back the curtains. It looked to be a glorious morning. Last night’s wind and rain had given way before a beaming sun, and there were tiny patches of green visible in the gardens below her window.
A man rode toward the house, reining his mount in as he neared. There was no mistaking Gordon in the clear light. It amazed her that he could ride so well despite the results of his injuries, tall and strong in the saddle. Had it been him she’d heard riding out in the night or was he merely returning from a fresh morning’s gallop across the meadows?
Suddenly Gordon tipped his head back and glanced up at her window. For a moment Phoebe’s gaze locked with his. She waved and gave him a ghost of a smile. He returned a mocking salute and rode off toward the stableyard.
She scanned the bare and rumpled hills, searching for anything that resembled a castle. There was nothing to see except a tumble of dark stones at the summit of the nearest hill. There was no resemblance in their flat planes to the soaring turrets and bright Gothic windows she’d seen, but there was definitely something unsettling about them. Wisps of dreams stirred at the back of her thoughts, too insubstantial to grasp.
Phoebe turned away, pondering her odd dreams and the dazzling castle. Somehow they were connected. She was sure of it.
She put on her second-best day dress and swept her hair up into a coronet of braids and was ready to begin her first day at Thorne Court. As she tucked a stray wisp of hair in place, Elsie opened the door and peeked in. The maid’s mouth dropped in dismay.
“Oh, miss! I didn’t expect you up so early. Orders were to let you sleep as late as you liked. If only you’d rung, I would have brought a tray . . .”
Phoebe smiled to put the woman at ease. “Like you, I rise with the larks. I shall be taking my breakfast below most mornings.”
Elsie was disappointed. She made a little clucking sound of disapproval. “Lady Gwynn always takes a tray in bed, of a morning . . .”
Phoebe heard the disapproval in the woman’s tone. Oh dear, I’m starting off wrong with Elsie. I shall have to mend my ways.
Breakfast in bed was a luxury that hadn’t even occurred to Phoebe. The only time she’d had a meal tray brought up, she’d been nine and covered in chicken pox. But that bit of information would shock Elsie’s sensibilities of what was befitting a lady, so Phoebe smiled and kept it to herself.
“Perhaps toast and coffee in the morning, then,” she said.
The maid beamed. “ ’Twill be like old times, miss. After Master Gordon’s—that is, Lord Thornwood’s—accident, everything changed for the worse. There were no more grand parties or houseguests to stay at Thorne Court, and all the furniture was put into holland covers.”
Here was a servant more than eager to gossip, and Phoebe set her qualms aside. “It must have been terrible. How did it happen?”
“That’s the thing,” Elsie sighed. “No one knows but God. Master Gordon went out for a ride and his horse come back without him. A search party found him up on the hillside, half dead and looking as if he’d been struck down by a lightning bolt. When he finally came to his senses, he couldn’t recall what had happened to him.”
Phoebe bit her lip. “Such a terrible tragedy! His life was not so golden as I imagined.”
Elsie was in full spate now, excited to be the one to impart the story to the newcomer. She went to the bay window. “If you look out this side, miss, you can see the place where they found him.”
Phoebe joined her. “There.” Elsie pointed to the crest of the moor. “Do you see those dark rocks up at the top? The master says ’tis really a tomb of sorts, but I’ve never heard it called aught but the Faerie Stables.”
If she strained her eyes, Phoebe could make out several rough slabs of rock standing to form a wedge shape, with others laid over for roofing.
“A dolmen,” she said. “I’ve seen them in illustrations. Perhaps I’ll ride up there one day.”
A look of horror crossed Elsie’s face. “Never say you will, miss! ’Tis mortal bad luck to go up there.”
Phoebe managed to calm Elsie’s fears and change the subject. “I heard hoofbeats in the night. Someone riding across the park.”
Elsie reddened. “That would be the master. Can’t sleep. The pain, you know. He’ll have his horse saddled up and go for a long ride at all hours.”
“It seems like that would worsen his pain.”
“No, miss, he always seems the better for it when he returns.” The woman seemed anxious to be off this subject also. “The breakfast room is two doors past the book room, then turn right. You’ll see James at the door.”
Phoebe took the hint. Following the maid’s directions, she went down the staircase, admiring the intricate carving she’d been too tired to notice the previous night.
At the end of the long corridor a solemn footman opened the door to the breakfast room. Like the other servants she’d seen at Thorne Court, he was well past his youth.
The pretty parlor looked cheerful and inviting, all white wainscoting, with draperies of sprigged yellow silk flanking the bowed window. The tantalizing aroma of eggs, ham, bacon and coffee greeted Phoebe, but couldn’t seduce her across the threshold. Her feet seemed glued to the floor.
I am a coward, she acknowledged, afraid to see Gordon’s terrible scars by the glaring light of day.
It was not for her sake, but for his that she dreaded it. Phoebe was afraid of what he might read on her face. His intense gaze seemed to miss nothing. To a man of Gordon’s pride, pity would be worse than revulsion.
It was difficult to reconcile her images of him from the past with what he was now. In time I shall become accustomed to the changes in him, she told herself. Meanwhile I must do my utmost not to turn away.
She was aware of the footman watching her from the corner of his eyes. Best to get it over with quickly. A mental shake, a deep breath and she forced herself to enter the parlor.
It was empty except for the butler, busily checking the hot dishes on the sideboard.
Holloway greeted her with a bow. “Good morning, miss.”
“Good morning, Holloway.” She noticed there was only one setting at the table. “Has His Lordship been down to breakfast already?”
“No, miss. He has not returned from his morning ride as yet.”
After all her anxiety over this daylight meeting, Phoebe didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. She helped herself to ham and eggs from the sideboard and took her place while Holloway filled her cup.
She didn’t see Gordon come in from the corridor. He stopped on the threshold. In the warm morning light Phoebe’s hair was like a red-gold halo. She was so vibrant and alive in this house of dust and shadows it struck him like a blow. He had to look away a moment.
He’d pictured her here like this a thousand times. The reality of it was overwhelming. At least when I am gone she will be sheltered here.
Phoebe looked up suddenly, as if she’d felt him staring at her. She noted the lines of strain in his face, the deep shadows beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept at all.
“Good morning. How was your ride?”
“Excellent, thank you.” He ignored the food set out on the sideboard, but sat down beside Phoebe and accepted the cup of coffee that Holloway silently offered him.
“Which reminds me, I’ve left orders with Hugh to set one of the hacks aside for your use. There’s a nice little mare I think will suit you. I don’t advise you to leave the estate grounds, however, unless you take a groom with you.”
“I am not a novice rider,” Phoebe said.
Gordon nodded. “Exactly my point.” He remembered her galloping, neck-or-nothing, across the park at Wickersham. “Curb any temptations to explore on your own. Wickersham was tame country compared to the Devon moor. The land beyond the estate is both treacherous and unforgiving. A minor accident might cost you your life.”
“You’re just saying that to frighten me.”
His frown deepened. “There are many dangers awaiting the unwary out on the moor. Hidden smugglers’ caves, treacherous bogs that look like solid ground . . . none of them places where someone totally unfamiliar with the terrain should venture!”
His vehemence backfired. Nothing could have been more calculated to spur Phoebe to explore the mysterious moor. Especially the dolmen on the crest of the hill. She made a noncommittal answer and finished her scrambled egg.
She accepted more coffee. “Shall I meet Lady Gwynn this morning?”
“I’m afraid this is not one of her good days. Tomorrow would be better.”
“Very well.”
A strained silence fell. Holloway, good butler that he was, realized it behooved him to withdraw. He slipped away silently.
Gordon’s eyes were riveted on Phoebe, arrested by the proud lift of her head, the elegant curve of her throat. When he’d first set eyes on her at Wickersham, she was a sandy-haired girl, with invisible brows and lashes, and no hint of the beauty she’d become.
No, he amended. Her eyes were beautiful even then. As bright as stars and bluer than the sea.
And then, in her seventeenth summer, the tomboy had grown up into a young woman. She was certainly different from the society girls he knew. Lively and unaffected, with keen intelligence and a curiosity that went beyond gossip or the latest fashion.
And now she was here at Thorne Court.
If I were wise, I’d send her away. But, God help me, I cannot!
Phoebe’s cheeks flushed with color as she became aware of his scrutiny. She spread preserves on a wedge of toast and wished he’d look away. “Have I smeared blackberry jam on my face?”
“Why did you never marry?” Gordon asked abruptly.
She almost dropped her knife in surprise. “Why, I didn’t think marriage would suit me after all.”
“Was it because I ended our engagement?”
“Thus giving me a distaste for all men? I never thought conceit was one of your vices, Gordon!”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Phoebe.” He regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Are you saying that you sacrificed your youth out of duty to your father?”
“No,” she corrected gently. “Out of love.”
“That does your heart credit, Cousin, but not your head!”
The anger in his voice surprised her. Phoebe felt her color rising even more. “Acquit me of martyrdom. I was perfectly content at Willow Cottage.”
“With no desire to see the world—and take your rightful place in it?”
She lifted her chin. “None.”
“Little liar.”
She lost her temper. “In recent years my father was ill, with rapidly failing sight, and no more idea of how to keep house than a . . . a cat! Do you think it would have suited me to leave him in such a state?”
“No.” Gordon’s tone softened. “Your sentiments do you honor.”
Phoebe flushed. “In the end we all do what we must.”
She set down her fork. “You’re staring at me again. Is there a smut on my nose?”
“There is now.” He reached over and dabbed the corner of her mouth with his napkin. “There.”
He watched the faint flush of color tinge her cheeks. “I was merely wondering which of Wickersham’s likely prospects you’d turned down: Squire Dudleigh’s dashing son? The young curate? Or perhaps that sturdy yeoman farmer who watched you from afar with such mute admiration?”
She was startled and felt a warm blush rising up her cheeks. “You seem to have noticed quite a good deal more about the village and its inhabitants than I ever imagined.”
Gordon gave a wry smile. “I had no choice but to notice them. They were all looking daggers at me as you and I strolled along the village green. That was the day I first realized that . . .”
He broke off, frowning. “But that is all in the past. Tell me, did you sleep well last night?”
Phoebe wished he hadn’t changed the subject. She wanted very much to know what he’d felt then—and what he felt now. She managed a smile. “I slept like a babe in arms. Mrs. Church made sure I had every comfort and my suite is lovely.”
“Good. I hope you’ll find your new chambers as much to your taste.”
Phoebe set her cup down in surprise. “New chambers?”
“Yes. There’s a leak in the roof over your window,” Gordon said blandly. “I’m afraid repairs must start immediately. You needn’t concern yourself about it. By the time you’ve finished breaking your fast, your things will have been transferred to the Rose Bedroom.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t noticed any leaks this morning.”
He shot her an impatient look. “It is only visible from the outside. I noticed it as I was riding across the park.”
He excused himself and rose. “I must attend to business affairs today. We’ll meet again at dinner tonight. Meanwhile, Mrs. Church will show you over the house. If there are any changes you wish to make you have only to tell her.”
Phoebe didn’t buy his explanation of why her room had been changed. When she’d finished her meal she went upstairs and found Elsie hovering in the corridor.
“Your things have all been moved, miss. I’m to show you to your new room.”
“Ah, yes,” Phoebe said. “I understand there was a leak of some sort?”
Elsie blinked nervously. “I don’t know about any leaks, miss. But Mrs. Church has put you in the Rose Room.”
Mrs. Church was waiting for Phoebe in a magnificent room, all rose and gold and palest green. Phoebe checked the view out the window. Her suspicions were confirmed. This room was on the opposite side of the house from her previous bedchamber and overlooked the ornamental lake and woodlands.
No chance of seeing those mysterious lights from here, she told herself.
The housekeeper waited anxiously. “I hope it meets with your approval, Miss Sutton?”
Phoebe smiled to put her at ease. “It’s lovely. I’m sure I’ll be happy here.”
Mrs. Church relaxed. “Then all’s well. The master asked me to show you about, if this is a convenient time.”
“Very much so.”
They spent the next hour looking through various rooms and cupboards.
“Such a lovely spring day,” Mrs. Church said. “I thought to have James and one of the gardeners take down the draperies and pull up the carpets to beat out the winter’s soot and dust.”
This was just the opportunity Phoebe had hoped for. “Perhaps the book room would be a good place to start, since Lord Thornwood spends so much of his time there. And if you meant to set the maids to dusting and polishing the furniture, I have a wonderful recipe for restoring dull wood to its former glory. I’ll be happy to make it up for you.”
Mrs. Church took the hint. By lunchtime the library was transformed. The draperies had been taken down and aired out thoroughly, the wood paneling burnished and carpets beaten free of dust. Holloway had swooped up all the silver ornaments, taken them off to the butler’s pantry for polishing and returned them gleaming once more.
When almost everything was restored to its rightful place, Phoebe was finally allowed into the room to see their handiwork. She looked around in delight.
“How beautiful this room looks now!” she said.
Mrs. Church sighed and folded her hands at her waist. “Indeed it does, miss. It reminds me of old times. So hard it is to keep things up, what with the damp and drafts, and with only Dorcas and Elsie and James.”
“Good Heavens, yes!” Phoebe said. “I will speak to Lord Thornwood about hiring more help. Meanwhile, perhaps we could employ some local girls to help out with the daily work.”
Mrs. Church’s eyes went wide. “Lord love you, miss, the village is ten miles away. And I’d wager my year’s salary that not a one of the village girls would set foot in Thorne Court!”
It was Phoebe’s turn to be surprised. “And why is that?”
The housekeeper regretted her hasty exclamation. “Well . . . there’s always stories about old houses, miss.”
Phoebe let it go. After lunch she changed into her riding habit. She wanted a closer look at that place where she’d seen the castle.
As she exited her room she saw Elsie leaving one of the rooms at the far end of the hall with a basket of linen. The maid closed the door with her foot and hurried down the back stairs, not realizing that the door didn’t catch. It swung silently open and Phoebe went along to close it.
As she drew near she heard a woman singing. The tune was plaintive, the voice like an angel’s. She was drawn by its haunting beauty.
“Lord Jack did gallop up the hill, his broadsword by his side.
He rode up to the castle gates and they were opened wide.
A bonny lad, so bold and true, the bravest of all men
But seven long years did come and go, ere he was seen again.”
Phoebe peeked into the room. It was a large and sunny chamber filled with old-fashioned furniture. The pungent odor of turpentine filled the air and there were paints and sketches everywhere. Someone had attempted to make some sort of order to it, judging by the dozens of stacked canvases around the room, their faces turned to the wall.
Phoebe spied the singer, a small woman with delicate features, wearing a ruffled pink dressing gown. Her white hair was braided in a regal coronet atop her head and she sat with her back to the door, gazing out at the moor. She seemed to sense Phoebe’s presence, and her song ended in midnote.
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Phoebe said, stepping inside the room. “Please go on. You have a lovely voice.”
“I’m glad you liked it. That was ‘Lord Jack and the Faerie Queen,’ ” the woman told Phoebe. “Do you know it?”
“No, but I should like to learn it,” Phoebe said.
“I expect you will, in time.” She smiled and her hazel eyes lit with warmth. “I’m Lady Gwynn, and you are Phoebe Sutton, of course. Would you like to see what I’m working on?”
She lifted the sketchbook from her lap and held it up. Phoebe took in a quick breath. Lady Gwynn’s deft pencil strokes had captured a wide view of the moor, crowned by an airy structure of towers and turrets and crenellated walls
“This is the faerie castle on the hill,” she said. “Have you seen it yet?”
PHOEBE was jolted. “Then I wasn’t seeing things! There really is a castle!”
Lady Gwynn smiled. “Yes and no.” She gave a little wink. “Only those who are mad or have the second sight can see it.”
She lowered her voice and her thin white fingers wound around Phoebe’s wrist. Her grasp was strong despite her seeming frailty. “Don’t tell anyone else you’ve seen it. They’ll lock you away.”
Phoebe tried unsuccessfully to pry the clawlike hand from her wrist. Her heart was pounding. “Has Gordon seen the castle?”
Lady Gwynn stared at her a moment, then laughed. “Oh, yes. Gordon has most certainly seen it!” Her laughter grew wild and rather frightening.
Elsie came bustling back into the room carrying a glass of liquid. “Oh, miss! You oughtn’t to be here. Lady Gwynn is far too unwell today.”
“The door was open . . . I heard singing and followed her voice.”
“Aye, she sings like a nightingale. But always such sad songs.” She put her arm around the dowager’s shoulders and held the glass up to her lips. “Hush, now, Lady Gwynn. It’s time for your medicine.”
Lady Gwynn sighed and let go of Phoebe’s wrist. “Good-bye Miss Phoebe Sutton,” she said. “You must come again some other time.”
Elsie saw her to the door. “Pay no attention to anything odd she says, miss, when she’s having a bad spell. Her imagination sometimes plays tricks on her.”
But, Phoebe told herself, mine does not!
As she went out she heard Lady Gwynn’s crystalline voice pick up the threads of her song.
“Seven long years a prisoner in faerie halls he dwelled
And all that time his true love’s heart with salty tears was filled.
How can I free my bonny lad and bring him home to me. . .”
The plaintive notes were cut off abruptly as Elsie closed the door.
Something about the words was familiar and Phoebe was intrigued. She went to the bookroom, hoping she might find the ballad in one of the books from the late viscount’s collection.
She opened the door and went in a few feet, then stopped dead.
A sea change had come over it in her absence. The polished furniture, the gleaming glass and crystal and burnished brass were dull and clouded once more. Cobwebs wafted gently in the draft from the open door.
Phoebe fled the room and almost collided with Holloway in the hall.
“The book room!” she exclaimed. “Look inside! It’s as if nothing had been cleaned in there today.”
The butler peered in, then gave an apologetic bow. “Ah, yes. Dust is always a problem in these large, old country homes. Very difficult to maintain them,” he said blandly.
She stared at him while her mind worked furiously. Either he saw nothing amiss in the book room, or he was trying to convince her so. Phoebe composed herself.
“Yes, I suppose it must be so.”
Continuing along the corridor, she met Mrs. Church coming out of the drawing room. The holland covers had been removed and James was on a ladder, polishing the lusters in the chandelier. “Everything will be set to rights by this evening,” the housekeeper told her. “Master Gordon’s orders.”
“Perhaps you should save yourself the trouble,” Phoebe said. “I was just in the book room a few minutes ago. It looks just as it did last evening—as if all your work was for naught.”
“Damp and drafts,” Mrs. Church said complacently. “They are the bane of these old houses.”
Phoebe bit her lip. “So Holloway told me.”
She smiled as if nothing were wrong and continued out into the sunshine. Either I am losing my mind or they are all in some far-reaching conspiracy to convince me to doubt the evidence of my own eyes.
Everyone but Lady Gwynn. “I shall have to cultivate her acquaintance,” Phoebe said softly. There was something very wrong at Thorne Court, and she intended to get to the bottom of it.
She crossed through the archway to the stables, turning back to examine the house. Despite the brightness of the afternoon, the manor seemed to stand in self-made shadows. The windows were lusterless and the ivy-covered facade seemed to absorb the light.
She hurried down to the stableyard, glad to escape the closeness of the manor. She needed fresh air and exercise and a chance to be alone to think. Hugh, the head groom, was a white-haired man with skin as brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell. He greeted Phoebe with a smile.
“ ’Tis a long while since we’ve had guests to Thorne Court, miss. Quite like the old days, it is, before His Lordship’s accident.”
“You’ve been here a long time, then?”
“Oh, aye. Since I was a wee lad. ’Twas I who taught Master Gordon to ride. Lord, he was full of spunk, always neck-or-nothing.”
She let him reminisce awhile then changed the subject. “Lord Thornwood said there is a mare I might ride.”
“Aye. Daisy is a sweet-goer, with fine manners,” he told her.
He brought out a dainty bay mare with a white blaze on her forehead and saddled her up. “If you should get lost, miss, just give Daisy her head. She’ll bring you home safe and sound.”
Phoebe tried out the mare’s paces and was pleased to find that Gordon was right. They were well suited. “I can see that ye’ve a light touch, miss. You and Daisy will come to no harm together.”
She laughed and took the mare out through the gate. Soon they were galloping across the parkland in the warm sunshine, with the wind at their backs.
The ruins of an old cottage gave her an excuse to stop and explore and also to look back at Thorne Court from an excellent vantage point. Phoebe had a keen eye. It didn’t take her long to pick out Lady Gwynn’s chamber or the window of her former room. There was nothing wrong with the window as far as she could tell—nor with the slate roof above.
Using the old foundation for a mounting block, she swung herself back into the saddle. She had seen what she wanted to see.
The lights and the castle were real. Real enough that Gordon had changed her room so there would be no repetition of her seeing them.
But why? What are they hiding from me?
The wind sang and she imagined she heard the faint sounds of a harp in it, the ringing of silver bells. Shadows of dreams flickered through her mind. She glanced up to the swell of land above her, where the dark rocks of the Faerie Stables loomed.
There was no sign of any structure that she could have mistaken for a castle. Nothing but the wild sweep of moor extending as far as she could see. “It must be on the far side of the hill,” she said aloud, “and I am at too low an angle to see it.”
The wind grew chill and the back of her neck prickled.
Her fingers caressed the stone of the talisman necklace her father had given her shortly after Gordon had broken their engagement. “To comfort and protect you from harm,” he’d said when she lifted the intricate silver chain with its hematite pendant from the box. “It belonged to your grandmother, who had the gift of second-sight.”
She’d been pleased and had remembered that the silver-black stone, heavy from its iron content, was a charm against enchantment. It made a comforting weight in her hand now, and she no longer felt that strange sense of disquiet that had grown greater the closer she came to the Faerie Stables.
Phoebe looked across at the manor again, dozing in the sun as if under a sorcerer’s spell. She realized that she hadn’t seen the shining castle on the hill until her necklace had fallen off. Perhaps its protective aura had prevented her from seeing it till then. Her mind made a leap of intuition. Gordon’s accident and the Faerie Stables, Thorne Court’s haunted reputation, the vanishing castle—they were all connected somehow!
Her fingers knotted together. If only father were alive, he could help me. He would know what is wrong at Thorne Court!
But she had only herself to rely on now. And her father’s last manuscript tucked inside one of her bandboxes. Phoebe was sure she’d find some answers there.
“Come, Daisy,” she said. “Time to head back.”
She turned the horse around, intending to go back, but as they rode away sounds drifted to her on the wind. Golden harp notes, silver flutes. A faint, steady drumbeat that might be nothing more than her blood rushing through her veins.
It is coming from up there, she thought with a frisson of fear. From the Faerie Stables.
She shivered, but instead of heading back to the manor as she’d intended, she turned away and into the woods that marked the western boundary of the parkland.
Dark trunks patched with green lichen rose starkly from the barren ground. There was no sound at all now, except for the muffled thud of the horse’s hooves. She followed a path through the wood, touching the talisman that hung round her throat on its silver chain.
When they came out the other side of the woods into pale spring sunshine, Daisy laid her ears back and became fractious. Phoebe urged her reluctant mount on to where a tumble of rocks hid her from view of the house and reined in.
“I’ll leave you here and go on afoot.”
After tethering the horse, she started up the steep moor. It was a vast and lonely place stretching out toward the far horizon. An ancient, windswept land cut by scuffed trackways older than recorded time. She followed one that led straight to the dolmen.
It took a good half hour to reach her goal, and she arrived feeling overwarm and slightly out of breath. The stones that formed the prehistoric monument loomed dark and massive.
As she approached the dolmen, clouds scudded across the clear blue sky and the silence was eerie. No sighing of wind through the dried grasses, no rustling of small animals or cry of birds broke the stillness.
A small, stunted tree grew before the dolmen’s entrance, and Phoebe pushed the branches away to look inside. The scraping twigs brought a stinging shower of pebbles, stones and clods of dirt raining down on her head.
She brushed the debris from her hair and shoulders and walked between the huge upright stones with the great roofing slab overhead, uneasily aware that she was entering an ancient tomb.
Inside the air was chill, the atmosphere foreboding. The farther she went into the dolmen, the more uncomfortable she became. Especially when it continued on and on and the dim light was crowded out by deepening shadows. She stopped, deciding what to do.
It didn’t seem nearly so long a passageway from the outside, she thought. Perhaps it goes back into the hill itself.
Just as she thought of turning back, the darkness seemed to retreat before her, luring her on. She reached the end of the long structure and felt something slither around her neck. Phoebe jumped and brushed at it, then burst into laughter. It was only her talisman necklace. The clasp had come loose somehow. She picked up the chain and silvery-black stone and dropped them into her pocket.
She was immediately blinded by a sudden burst of light. Phoebe shielded her eyes against the glare. Where dark earth had blocked her way an opening appeared, leading out to a fantastic garden in the high bloom of summer.
Birds called merrily and colored butterflies flitted from rose to rose. She hesitated only a moment, then stepped through.
When Phoebe glanced back over her shoulder, the dark interior of the dolmen was gone. In its place a lofty castle rose, its white stone and flying pennants gleaming in the sun.
She looked around in wonderment. There were swans in the moat, splashing fountains in the extensive gardens and dragonflies flitting over the lush lawns.
But something looked very odd. It took Phoebe a moment to figure it out. There were no shadows, even beneath the trees.
Except for hers.
And the butterflies weren’t butterflies at all. She held out her hand and one of the slender sprites alighted on her fingertips. The dainty creature did a quick pirouette across Phoebe’s palm, then flew off in a shimmering blur of gossamer wings.
There was no doubt in her mind what had happened. Somehow she had passed over the threshold between the world she knew and the magical Kingdom of Faerie.
Phoebe jumped aside as a hare bounded past her, a laughing boy on its back. Other tiny creatures in acorn caps peeked out at her slyly from among the flowers. It was extraordinary.
“Oh, if only Father could have seen this!”
He had been convinced that faeries existed, although in ever-dwindling numbers. His theory was that they were an ancient, long-lived race gifted in some unknown methods that humans called magic, and that they had fled to the secret and inaccessible places of the British Isles where they lived hidden from mortal eyes. Gordon’s uncle had dismissed the idea. In his view, folktales and legends were fascinating stories conjured to beguile children and frighten the ignorant. The one belief both men shared was that the stories must be collected and preserved for posterity.
They were both partially right, Phoebe thought, but they didn’t carry their ideas far enough.
She realized that the Kingdom of Faerie was as real as her own, that they existed side by side occupying the same space, and certain spaces—like the Faerie Stables—were portals, leading from one to the other.
Phoebe stepped along a garden path, alert and wary. In the Kingdom of Faerie she knew, nothing was as it seemed to mortal eyes. It was possible to break their rules without intending any harm, but the wrong word or action could have far-reaching consequences.
And those who sipped or supped of faerie fruit were trapped forever.
The hair at her nape prickled. She spun around. A beautiful woman clothed in floating blue robes stepped forward, a tall and handsome man at her side. The diadems on their brows were crusted with jewels, marking them as royalty.
Phoebe had never seen such a dazzling pair. Despite their exquisite garments, their stately and graceful movements, there was something wild and inhuman in their eyes.
The woman smiled. “Welcome, Phoebe Sutton. We have been eager to meet you.”
Phoebe raised her brows. “I’m at a disadvantage, ma’am, since you know my name, and I do not know yours.”
“I am the Lady Rowan, and this is my consort, Lord Ash, king of all elves.”
“Rowan and Ash,” Phoebe said thoughtfully. “The names of sacred trees in the ancient legends.”
“Ah, you know the lore.” The king looked pleased. Phoebe curtsied and looked down. They were so beautiful she felt blinded by their splendor.
The king swept her an elegant bow. “Welcome to my realm, Lady Phoebe. I hope your visit with us will be joyful and long.”
His words struck her as ominous. “My visit is fleeting. But how do you know me?”
“We have been waiting for you.”
Lady Rowan held her hand out. A bubble formed, iridescent as a rainbow, then solidified into a crystal globe. In it, Phoebe saw herself, Lady Rowan and Lord Ash as they were now, standing in the enchanted garden. She had no doubt that if she looked at the little globe inside the larger one, she would see miniature versions of the same scene repeating endlessly, each one smaller than the last into infinity.
Rowan smiled. “I have a great interest in your fortune. That is why I summoned you here.”
Phoebe shook her head. “No one summoned me. I came today of my own free will.”
Rowan frowned. “You are very bold!”
“So are you, my lady, otherwise you would not have brought me to your castle last night in my dreams.”
“And very clever,” Rowan added.
Phoebe laughed. “If so, I would not be here, I’d be safely back at Thorne Court.”
“You are not welcome there,” Rowan told her. “But you are very welcome here. In the Kingdom of Faerie all is happiness and light. You have struggled long and hard, Phoebe Sutton. There are no struggles here as you will see, when you join us in the feast.”
She tossed the globe into the air and it winked out of existence. “Come, Pippin, my little page,” the queen of Faerieland commanded. “Our guest requires refreshments.”
A young boy with Rowan’s golden eyes and Ash’s coloring appeared bearing a silver tray. He was the same one who had been riding the hare, Phoebe noted. His feathered hat was an acorn cap, his tunic of oak leaves girded with a silver belt. A gleaming sword with a wickedly sharp tip hung from it.
The boy snapped his fingers and a silver tray appeared bearing three, intricately wrought golden cups. Their sides were studded all around with topaz and pearl.
Rowan lifted one goblet and held it out to Phoebe. “A refreshing drink of nectar and mead. It is my own recipe, distilled from wild roses and the juice of poppies. Come, Phoebe Sutton. Let us drink to your health.”
“Thank you, but I’m not thirsty,” Phoebe replied.
“Oh, but you are.” Rowan tipped her head to one side. “Very, very thirsty.”
In an instant the warm June sun changed to the molten bronze disk of a torrid August day. The air was scorching. Stifling.
Phoebe’s mouth grew dry as a husk. A film of sweat formed on her upper lip. She wanted that cup of cool liquid more than she’d ever wanted anything before.
She looked down and gasped. Her plain riding habit had become a gown of green cut velvet slashed with ivory silk. Emeralds and diamonds winked on her fingers, sparked at her wrists.
“You see how easy life is here for those mortals who join us,” Lady Rowan said. “Take the cup and drink.”
Oh, how Phoebe wanted that cool cup!
Her hands reached out and touched the bedewed metal. Her fingers wound around the cold stem as if they had a will of their own. She knew exactly how the nectar and mead would taste, so deliciously cool and refreshing.
Once she drank it there would be an end to pain and struggle and sorrow. She would feel nothing but ease and joy and merriment. She could stay in this country of the beautiful forever.
The cup of mead and nectar focused all her concentration. The great pearls rimming the cup glowed like moons, the topaz like captured sunlight, offering ease and delight.
Phoebe struggled against the urge, but her thirst was too desperate, her desire to quench it too strong. As her left hand reached into her pocket for her protective talisman, Phoebe’s right hand took the cup and still she struggled against her thirst. She’d read the old legends. She knew that mortals who ate or drank within the Kingdom of Faerie were kept captive for a hundred years.
And still she wanted to drink from the fateful cup.
She took the goblet and raised it to her lips.
A furious masculine voice ripped through the air like thunder. “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”
The cup was dashed from Phoebe’s hand with such violent power that the jewels were ripped from their settings.
Lady Rowan looked past Phoebe and her slanting eyes grew wide. “Lord Jack!”
Before Phoebe could turn the world around her shrank to a pinpoint of light and winked out. She felt herself falling into blackness.
“WAKE up, Phoebe! Oh, my dear, my darling girl. Wake up, for the love of God!”
Phoebe felt the brush of fingertips at her temple and fought her way through engulfing blackness. When she opened her eyes, a nightmarish face loomed over her. She recoiled instinctively.
Then she realized she was lying outside the entrance to the Faerie Stables, propped up in Gordon’s arms. She didn’t know exactly how she’d gotten there, but she had enough sense to realize how her shrinking from him had hurt.
“I . . . I didn’t recognize you for a moment,” she stammered.
It was too late. He’d already seen the revulsion in her eyes. His features hardened to stone and his voice was cold and angry.
“You little fool! Didn’t I tell you to keep off the moor? What the devil did you think you were doing?”
She sat up and rubbed her aching temples. “I . . . I went out for an afternoon ride.”
“Yes. Five hours ago! We’ve had search parties out since Daisy returned to the stable without you.”
“Five hours?” She was surprised to see the sun setting in the distance. It had been the middle of the afternoon when she’d ridden away from Thorne Court. “What happened?”
“I found you up here behind the rocks, unconscious. Can you move? Are you in pain?”
She wiggled her feet and hands, but when he touched the back of her head she gave a little cry.
“Ow! That hurts.”
Gordon’s hand came away streaked with blood. “Hold still.” He lifted her head gently and cursed beneath his breath. “You’ve got a great knot and a nasty gash.”
Phoebe vaguely recalled a cascade of small rocks and stones when she entered the dolmen—but surely not any large enough to cause damage.
He smoothed her tumbled hair back from her cheek. “Tell me what happened.”
Her memory was returning in brief flashes of remembrance. “I went inside the dolmen. There was a light . . .” She tried to grasp the bright, elusive memories dancing through her mind. They fragmented and dissolved like colored mist. “Was it just a dream?”
He frowned, his eyes a fierce blue blaze against his tanned skin but his hands were gentle as he bound her head with his linen handkerchief.
“Tell me about it.”
She was still groggy. “There was a castle. Gossamer-winged faeries so tiny I could hold half a dozen on the palm of my hand. A lady came. Lady Rowan . . . and Lord Ash. She offered me a cup of nectar and mead . . .”
He froze. “Tell me at once—did you drink from it?”
“No. I thought if I did, I could never leave. Then I heard your voice and . . . and I woke up here in your arms.”
“Thank God for that!” He picked up a long-barreled gun. “Cover your ears and I’ll signal to the other search parties that you’ve been found.”
He fired a shot into the air, then reloaded and fired another. The sharp reports rolled across the moor like thunder. “There. That will have the men coming on the run.”
Phoebe was glad she’d covered her ears. The powerful report made her head ache. Gordon knelt down beside her again. “It’s getting late and you need that cut attended to. It’s best we start back to the manor. Are you well enough to ride?”
She nodded and Gordon lifted Phoebe in his arms. He limped through the dried grass and withered stalks of last summer’s wildflowers with her head cradled against his chest. She closed her eyes and pretended, just for a moment, that seven years had not gone by, that she and Gordon were in the meadow beyond Willow Cottage in happier times.
Phoebe felt the steady beat of his heart beneath her cheek and was comforted by it. Had she imagined the brush of Gordon’s lips at her temple, the desperation in his voice when he’d called her his “darling girl?”
Gordon lifted her up to the saddle. After making certain she could hang on safely, he led his horse away from the Faerie Stables. All the long way back to Thorne Court Phoebe watched his painful progress. She was filled with guilt. If she’d done as he’d told her, she wouldn’t have been hurt or caused so much trouble for everyone.
Wouldn’t have had that strange dream . . . was it a dream?
Before she knew it she was back at the manor and bundled up in her own bed. Mrs. Church bandaged Phoebe’s head, while Elsie bustled about plumping pillows and generally driving Phoebe to distraction.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to sit with you, miss?” she asked for the tenth time.
“Perfectly sure,” Phoebe answered. “A short rest and I’ll be as good as new.”
Elsie wasn’t happy about leaving her, but gave in. “You have only to ring and I’ll be there in a trice.”
Phoebe had no intention of napping, and once she was alone she lay awake, trying to sort out the day’s events. At the time the dream had seemed so real. It was hard to believe that she’d imagined the secret entrance in the chamber tomb, the lovely winged sprites.
As for the lovely enchantress and her magical potions . . . Lady Rowan—was that her name?
There was a knock at her door, and she made her voice sound sleepy. “Come in.”
A wave of guilt and regret ran through her as Gordon entered, his limp more pronounced, his scarred features gaunt and etched with pain.
He approached the bed. “Elsie said you were still awake. I wanted to speak with you, if you are up to it.”
“So serious! Am I in you black books?” Phoebe tried to make a joke of it, but her voice cracked just a little. “I’m sorry to have caused such an uproar,” she added. “You have every right to be angry with me.”
“I’m not angry—not with you.” He stood looking down at her with a strange expression on his face. The roses had fled her cheeks and she looked wan and fragile.
She saw the bleak look in his eyes and her heart pounded so hard she thought it might shatter like glass. “You’re sending me away,” she said.
He didn’t bother to deny it. “It’s for the best.”
“No. That’s not true.” She still loved him. She always had and always would. And the tragedy was that he loved her, and would never admit it.
The question was why?
“Why did you never return for me?” she asked. “You owe me that much, Gordon. Did you fall in love with someone else?”
“No! I’ve never stopped loving you.” The answer was wrested from him, just as she’d intended.
“Then why? Was it because of your injuries? Did you think so little of me? That my love for you was so slight your injuries would make a difference?”
“They made a great difference to me,” he said curtly.
“But was that the reason?”
He looked away. “There were many reasons.”
The finality in his voice was like a vault door slamming shut. She closed her eyes against a sudden rush of pain and disappointment.
“You’re tired,” he said abruptly. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.” His voice gentled and he brushed the back of his hand lightly over her cheek, as if he couldn’t resist the chance to touch her. “Rest well, Phoebe.”
“I won’t leave,” she said fiercely. “You can’t force me to go.”
His face was infinitely sad. “No. But I can leave Thorne Court. I must!”
She watched him go out, still feeling the warmth of his touch upon her face. Still mourning what might have been between them, if fate and his damnable pride had decreed otherwise.
The door opened again but it was only Elsie. “I’m that glad you’re awake, miss. I was brushing the mud from your riding habit, when these came rolling out of your pocket. I didn’t know where you would want me to put them.”
Phoebe held out her hand and Elsie dropped what felt like two pebbles into her palm. They were smooth and cool against her skin.
She examined the items in her hand: a glowing topaz lay winking up at her beside a very large and lustrous pearl.
THE moment the maid was gone, Phoebe tossed back the covers and hopped out of bed. She hadn’t been hallucinating from a blow to her head. The faerie castle was real, and the dolmen was the entrance to it.
She reached into the wardrobe and took down one of her bandboxes. Her special items were still inside. The whistle Gordon had made for her when she was ten; two striped agates he’d found and given her when she was twelve; a silver and coral teething rattle that had been hers; and her mother’s prayer book with a cover of green Moroccan leather.
She lifted the items out and removed the divider. Beneath it was a thick, rectangular package, wrapped in her best silk shawl.
Phoebe opened it and took out her father’s last manuscript. She traced her finger along the title: Thomas Rhymer, Tam Sin and Less Fortunate Mortals in the Kingdom of Faerie.
This was the work her father considered his crowning achievement, written in the final months of his life. She hadn’t yet read it.
In the weeks after his death it had been too painful for her to look at that wavery, beloved handwriting with its crossed-out words and phrases and cramped margin notes. It still was.
She let her fingers drift over the inked lines. She planned to transcribe the pages into a clean copy as she had done with all his previous works, in hopes of publishing it one day. Her father had paid to have the other volumes printed and bound, so there was no source of income for her in the stack of white sheets.
But, she thought with satisfaction, there is a good deal of knowledge here.
Phoebe had a strong intuition that she might find the answers to the riddles she was seeking in the manuscript. She already had a good grounding in folklore from copying over her father’s work and from listening to him discuss it with the late viscount.
She frowned down at the dedication: . . . most respectfully to John Tremaine, 5th Viscount Thornwood, my kinsman and friend—in hopes he may find the key to his great dilemma in these pages.
When she’d first read those words weeks ago, they made no sense to her. Now she had a faint glimmer of understanding.
Phoebe knew the legends of Tam Sin and Thomas the Rhymer, humans who’d been carried off by the faerie queen to be her lovers. She’d presented “True Thomas” with a silver apple, which when eaten gave him the gift of golden eloquence, and had released him after seven years.
But Tam Sin had not been let go so easily. His true love had to fight for him, pulling him from the faerie queen’s horse and holding him as he shape-shifted until her love and strength broke the spell and set him free.
As she set the stack down on the writing desk, the pages slid sideways. One fell on the floor. She knelt to retrieve it and recognized the Thorne crest at the top.
It was addressed to her father and written in the late viscount’s sprawling hand. She scanned the lines, her heart beating faster with every word.
Dear Ambrose,
You have always believed there to be a kernel of truth at the heart of every folktale and hoary legend. To me such tales were mere stories spun to amuse or frighten. I was terribly wrong. This is the tale of a cynic who became a believer overnight—to my great and everlasting sorrow.
There is no one else to whom I can relate my story without being thought a raving madman. I charge you not to tell another living soul. If you will swear to this, read on, my cousin and old friend. The story I will relate to you involves my nephew and heir, young Gordon Tremaine.
He is not gone abroad as expected, but is with me at Thorne Court. He claims to have found an entrance to another plane of existence inside the old dolmen on the moors. In fact, a door to the Kingdom of Faerie. And for his boldness, he has been most cruelly punished.
Come to Thorne Court as soon as is humanly possible. My nephew’s fate is in your hands . . .
She turned to the next page but it was missing. She glanced back to the top of the letter to check the date. It was written a mere two weeks after she and Gordon had last parted.
She frowned down at the date. Shortly afterward her father had gone away from Wickersham, ostensibly on a matter of research. He’d packed Phoebe off to Brighton and left her in the care of Sir John Malory and his good wife, saying it would be good for a young woman to move in society and learn how to go on, before she settled down.
Phoebe had enjoyed attending the assemblies and parties, but it was Gordon who filled her heart and mind. I shall know much better how to carry on in society when he returns, she’d thought at the time, but it will be good to get back home to Wickersham.
When she and her father returned home, everything was changed. He’d come back from his trip exhausted and silent. A few days later she’d received Gordon’s letter, ending their relationship.
Phoebe bit her lip. Everything was falling into place now. Everything except what had happened to Gordon, and why he was so intent on sending her away. And that meant he felt she was in danger.
She sighed and looked at the stack of manuscript pages. There were over six hundred, all heavily crossed out and rewritten, with cryptic abbreviations and tiny notes cramming the margins. It would be tough going, but she would persist until eventually she’d read them all, for the knowledge they held would provide the key that unlocked the riddle of Thorne Court. Her happiness—and Gordon’s—depended upon it.
PHOEBE read until her head throbbed and her vision blurred. She put the manuscript back inside its hiding place, frowning.
The early chapters were about mortals who had inadvertently trespassed—or been lured—into the Kingdom of Faerie. Some were bound to remain there for seven years, some for a hundred and some for all eternity.
She didn’t understand the difference yet, or quite what these stories had to do with Gordon, but sooner or later she’d find the link. And if she couldn’t read, she might as well see what she could find out from Gordon himself.
She dressed for dinner, putting on her mother’s pearl earrings and the enameled heart that Gordon had given her. She found him in the drawing room, staring bleakly out the window. He turned when she entered and frowned.
“You’re not fit to be up yet. You should be resting in your bed.”
“My nature is too restless to play the invalid. Will Lady Gwynn be joining us tonight?”
“No. She has not been well today.”
“Perhaps you should send for the doctor.”
He shook his head. “As you have surely guessed, her problem is not a weakness of the body, but of the mind.”
“Oh?” Phoebe cocked her head. “Seeing castles and lights where none exist—things of that nature?”
Gordon looked annoyed. “I see you have already made her acquaintance.”
“Briefly. I saw nothing that made me feel she would be incapable of joining us for dinner.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. “It would be most improper of me to discuss her condition with you.”
“Well, that puts me in my place!”
“I would certainly hope so.” His cool expression did nothing to take the sting from his words.
Holloway announced dinner, and Phoebe let Gordon escort her into the dining room. A velvet pouch hung from her belt, with the topaz and pearl inside it, wrapped in a piece of silk. Her plan was to let a good dinner and glass of port mellow Gordon’s mood. Then, when he least suspected it, she would produce her evidence.
She applied herself to the soup course but barely tasted it. Her mind was so full of questions and thoughts and plans there was no room for much else.
As the dessert course was served, Gordon’s perpetual frown deepened. Phoebe was distracted, and she avoided looking directly after him. He watched her over the rim of his glass.
She cannot bear to look it me. Small wonder, when I can scarcely bear to look at my own reflection in the shaving mirror.
He set down his fork and broke the silence. “You are very far away. Where have you gone, Phoebe?”
She was so deep in thought that she actually jumped when Gordon spoke. Although she knew they’d dined on fine porcelain by candlelight, she couldn’t have said what they’d eaten.
Phoebe offered an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I was woolgathering.”
“Then you must make amends by carrying a bit of the conversation. I cannot do it all alone, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve been dull company tonight.” She lifted her glass and finished her wine while she decided if she should broach the subject most on her mind.
“Does your head still ache? I warned you that the moors were dangerous.”
“I am used to taking care of myself, you know,” she replied. “I roamed the hills and woods near Wickersham without suffering more than a few scratches or a twisted ankle.”
“You did not take very good care of yourself today.”
She had no good answer for that. At least not yet. “I’ll go upstairs early this evening. I’m reading a new book about Tam Sin and Thomas the Rhymer and how they were taken away to live among the faeries. I recall you were fascinated by the old ballads of mortals who were trapped within the faerie realm.”
Holloway was pouring wine into her glass and almost dropped the bottle. Gordon remained calm. “I have more pressing matters to occupy my time these days.”
He turned the conversation to other subjects and Phoebe bided her time. “I’ll remove to the drawing room and leave you to your port.”
“I won’t be long,” he said.
Phoebe smiled and rose. He still thinks he can force me to leave. She wondered how he would react when she produced the faerie gems.
James opened the drawing room door and she went in. Candles blazed, teasing muted rainbows from the cut crystal; but between the pendants cobwebs stirred, and the room’s rich fabrics and furnishings looked drab and dull in the light of the leaping fire.
It’s no wonder the local people think that Thorne Court is haunted, she told herself. She’d never heard of a house being subject to a faerie spell before. If the enchantment is broken, would it all be restored to the way it should be?
Phoebe strolled up and down the chamber, admiring the porcelains on the table and shelves and the paintings that were hung one above the other until they covered almost every inch of one wall. Landscapes and portraits in oil and watercolor were stacked between the chair rail and picture rail, some by well-known painters and others she didn’t recognize.
A series of three small but dramatic oils in simple gold leaf frames caught her attention. They were stunning. Lovely and eerily haunting. None were signed and she wondered if they were the work of Lady Gwynn.
The first painting made Phoebe’s heart skip a beat. It depicted the Faerie Stables with a long view into the interior of the dolmen. The intricate pattern of leaves and shadows upon the huge mossy stone gave the impression of vague faces, but she couldn’t be sure—they seemed to be changing even as she watched.
It’s just the flickering of the candles that made it seem so, she told herself. Still, something about the painting made the hairs rise at her nape.
And the second . . .
Phoebe moved closer to it, her breath catching in her throat. Here it was, exactly as she’d seen it last night: a deep lapis sky aswirl with stars, and the castle on the hill, ablaze with light. It was a thing of great power and beauty, and rather frightening. She took a step back in alarm.
The third was a rendering of Thorne Court—not the crumbling, black facade, smothered in ivy as it was now—but a stately manor of sparkling windows and creamy limestone that gleamed golden in the sunlight. It gave an impression of warmth and security, of family and honored traditions.
She leaned closer. For an odd moment, she’d imagined she saw a figure moving past one of the painted windows. Then there was movement at one side of the frame. Her heart turned over. She saw herself and Gordon walk into the painting, two children beside them, a boy and a girl.
Phoebe realized the paintings were not the work of Lady Gwynn, nor of any mortal hand. They were wrought by faerie magic.
The painting became more than a flat surface, it became a door to another dimension. She was compelled to reach out her hand, to touch the canvas and see if it would really go through the frame and into that other world beyond. To see if she could step inside it . . .
The door opened and Gordon entered. “No! Phoebe!”
She started and whirled around, feeling dizzy and a bit disoriented, as he limped toward her. The drawing room looked dim and insubstantial as fog.
Gordon pushed past her, his scarred face was knotted and dark with fury, his mouth twisted like a grotesque mask. He yanked the framed canvases off the wall without ceremony and pitched them into the blazing fire.
“Gordon, no! Oh, what have you done?”
Phoebe blinked away as tears from the acrid smoke gusted out from the fireplace. Gordon stood between her and the leaping flames as the ornate frames and exquisite paintings charred and blackened, his face like stone.
Phoebe awoke from her daze. She couldn’t bear to see such amazing works of art destroyed. Grabbing the poker, she caught the frame of the castle painting and drew it forward toward the hearth. Gordon reached down and grasped her wrist in a hand of steel. The poker dropped to the hearth with a clang.
“Leave it!” he said savagely as he pulled her to her feet.
She stood there, white-lipped and silent, staring at him. When the red and orange flames danced over the surface of the paintings he finally released her.
His hot anger had congealed to a cold fury. “Listen and listen well! Do not meddle in things that don’t concern you.”
“Whatever affects you, affects me as well! Let us take the gloves off. I know more than you guess. That after you left Wickersham you came here and somehow stumbled into a world that wasn’t yours, with tragic consequences. I know that the service you claim my father rendered you somehow helped you gain your freedom. What I don’t know is why you turned away from me then and why you turn away from me now!”
He went white beneath his tan. “You know just enough to have it be a danger to you,” he said. “Don’t go poking about, Phoebe. I won’t have you harmed.”
“Then, for God’s sake, tell me what happened to you.” She touched his sleeve. “I’ve seen the castle. I’ve met Lady Rowan. I know that it’s real.” She held out the gems.
Gordon was silent a moment. “I will tell you this much. I was at the dolmen where I found you, and saw a fox run inside with something in its mouth. A fox kit, I thought, and followed. It was Lady Rowan’s little page boy. I set him free and went with him into the Kingdom of Faerie during a faerie rite, which no mortal is permitted to see. For that I was put under a spell of one hundred years away from the mortal world. Lady Rowan intervened because I saved her page, and instead I was given two choices: eternity in their world—or seven years in mine, during which I might find a way to break the spell. At a price.”
“I chose what I thought was the easier way.” He held out one scarred hand, touched his ruined face with the other. “Tell me, do you think I chose wisely? Was it was worth the price?”
She looked up at him with her heart in her eyes, saw the terrible pain that was his daily lot. “Only you can decide that, Gordon. But I will share your life if only you let me.”
He flung himself away from her. “Do you think I want you drawn into the same hell that I inhabit? Do you? And by God, they are trying to lure you in.”
She looked down at the marks on her wrist inadvertently left by his strong grip, then at the crackling flames and curls of burnt canvas flaking away to ash. “That is my decision,” she answered. “I chose to be wherever you are. Together we can find a way to break the spell that binds you.”
She lifted her head. He was staring down at her blindly.
“Oh, my love,” he said softly. “My precious girl. I would die first, rather than bring harm to you. Don’t you understand that?”
“I don’t care . . .”
“Ah, but I do. There are matters you don’t know about and can’t understand, Phoebe, and that is why you cannot remain at Thorne Court.” He leaned down and kissed her, the briefest touch of his mouth against her lips, then turned and left the room.
Phoebe was panicked. She paced the drawing room, willing herself to be calm and not succeeding very well.
I won’t go, she vowed. He can’t make me. Whatever dangers there are we will face them together. I’ll go to him now, make him explain everything . . .
But even as she thought it, she heard the galloping of hooves and knew he had left the house.
PHOEBE went up to Lady Gwynn’s room. The door was unlocked and the dowager was propped up in a chair before an easel, painting by the light of an oil lamp. “Come in, child. I’ve been waiting for you. Did you like the new paintings in the drawing room?”
“Who painted them?” Phoebe asked. “Was it you?”
“Oh, no. My style is quite different.” She waved a hand at the canvases that now faced forward into the room. There were only three subjects, shown in every possible season and quality of light: Thorne Court, the Faerie Stables, and the castle on the hill.
They were the works of a genius. A mad genius. But there was no likeness at all to the works that Gordon had destroyed.
“Then where did they come from?” Phoebe demanded.
“A clue for you, my dear, from Lady Rowan. And a reminder to Lord Jack. He has so little time left.”
A chill wrapped itself around Phoebe’s heart. “Lord Jack? Who do you mean?”
“Why, Gordon, of course. Lady Rowan gives mortals nicknames. She calls him Lord Jack because he fell down the hill. And when you are taken away to live with the faeries, your name will be Lady Jill.”
A shiver ran up Phoebe’s spine. “I have no intention of letting anyone take me away from Thorne Court.” She stood beside the older woman’s chair. “You know what happened to him.”
“And much more . . .”
“Do you know if there is any way to break the spell?”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Gwynn said. “She gave him seven years to find someone to take his place. But Gordon refused.” Lady Gwynn shook her head. “He has always been stubborn, like all the Thornes.”
“He wants to send me away,” Phoebe told her.
“It would be wise of you to go.”
Lady Gwynn suddenly lost interest in their conversation. She ignored Phoebe, picked up a paintbrush and began daubing at a half-finished canvas. Phoebe saw she’d get nothing more from Gordon’s aunt at the moment. She slipped away to her own room to finish hunting through her father’s manuscript.
Elsie was waiting there for her and wouldn’t leave until Phoebe was undressed and her hair brushed out. The moment she was gone Phoebe set to her task. There had to be a way to free Gordon.
She scanned the handwritten pages until her eyelids drooped and the candle sputtered out.
Phoebe dreamed . . .
She was back in the faerie garden, in the perfumed air of a summer night. Crickets sang and lights glimmered along a curving path, leading down to a moonlit lake. She floated along it in her gossamer gown, her heart filled with joy and longing.
She came to a rose bower hung with silk and slipped inside. The air was fragrant with the spicy scent of damask roses. She smiled when she saw her lover waiting there.
“Beloved!” he said and pulled her into his arms. His scent, his voice, the hard muscles and planes of his lean body were all as familiar to her as her own. This was where she belonged, wrapped tight in his embrace.
His mouth skimmed hers and her heart fluttered in response. He took the kiss deeper and she swayed against him. The heat of passion blazed between them. She burned with desire, her body melting against his like molten metal.
He swung her off her feet and lowered her to the sumptuous cushions, covering her face with kisses. “Gordon . . .” she breathed, and touched his ruined face with infinite tenderness. “Foolish Gordon. How could you think I wouldn’t love you? I fell in love with you the moment I first set eyes on you. And I will never stop loving you.”
His mouth claimed hers again, this time with mounting hunger. His hands caressed her skin. He pressed his lips at the hollow of her throat, over the soft swell of her breasts. She had never felt so joyous and alive. So loved.
His hands moved slowly, sensuously down her body and she arched against him with need.
“Make love to me, Gordon,” she said softly. Urgently. She struggled against the constricting clothes that kept their bodies separate.
“All in good time,” he whispered. He took the blood-red rose from her hair and trailed the velvet petals along her jaw, down the elegant curve of her throat. Her breath sighed out in pure pleasure. The fabric parted and she felt the rose brush the tip of her breast. Heat poured through her and her limbs grew heavy with languor. She floated on a wave of intense pleasure that deepened as his mouth moved down and claimed his prize.
He was a skilled lover, drawing her deeper into his sensual web. Teasing and caressing, his hands gliding down her body until she was wild for more. But something was wrong. Something was missing. Even as his lips skimmed her body and his hands worked their magic, she was aware of it. She wanted him. Him!
She wanted more than his passion, she wanted his love.
He looked down at her sadly, as if reading her thoughts. “No,” he said. “No!”
She felt a sharp pain in her breast. The rose had a hidden thorn, and a red scratch followed the soft curve of her breast.
As a drop of blood welled up, the bower dissolved . . .
Phoebe found herself back in her bedchamber tangled in the sheets, her blood roaring in her ears and her arms achingly empty.
She cried out in frustration. It had seemed so real! She could still feel the warmth of his hands upon her skin, the weight of his body against hers.
Her sense of loss was deep and shattering. Phoebe sat up and lit the candle on her nightstand. She gasped and pressed a hand to her heart. The coverlet was splashed with drops of blood!
She touched them and her heart thudded against her ribs.
The spots weren’t stains of blood at all, but a scattering of scarlet petals.
IN the opposite wing of the house Gordon awakened to find his arms empty and a scarlet rose stretched across his linen sheet. He cursed and flung it away.
This was magic at work. More of Rowan’s doing, he said. Cursing, he rose from the bed. Up till now he’d fought for every remaining minute in his own world. Only the pain had ever driven him to seek respite in the Kingdom of Faerie. But now there was not only himself to consider, there was Phoebe.
He buried his face in his hands. Phoebe’s flowery scent still lingerd on them.
“Damn you, Rowan! Damn you and your fiendish schemes. I won’t let you draw her into them.”
PHOEBE hesitated in the darkness outside Gordon’s room. The seductive dream, she was sure, had been sent by Lady Rowan. But why?
There was a light on in Gordon’s room. She tapped on the panel and waited for his response.
“Enter.”
Phoebe opened the door and slipped inside. Gordon stood at the window in his dressing gown.
He looked up in surprise. “Phoebe! I thought you were Holloway.” He took in her disheveled hair and nightgown. “What the devil does this mean? You have no business here.”
“Oh, but I do. Unfinished business.”
He came toward her and she opened her hand and let the petals fall around her bare feet. For a moment they were frozen in time, then he pulled her into his arms and crushed her against his chest. He put her away from him gently.
“Phoebe, darling, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I do. I love you, Gordon. Don’t turn your heart away from me again.”
“I never have.” But his face became stern again. Taking her face between his hands, he kissed her roughly. “Go back to your room, Phoebe, for the love of God.”
She raised her chin. “I’m not a child, to be dismissed!”
His smile was rueful. “No, you are not. And that is the problem.”
She stepped forward and wound her arms around his neck. “Make love to me, Gordon.”
He wavered, then swept her into his arms once more. She sighed and lost herself in his embrace. The passion that had been denied so long burst into flame, consuming every other thought. Wildfire burned through his veins, ignited in hers. She opened her mouth to his kiss, gasped at the touch of his hand upon her breast, the sudden flood of sensation that swept everything else away.
His hands moved down to her waist, smoothed the light fabric of her gown over the soft swell of her hips. She moaned against him, moved instinctively to curve her body into his. He groaned and swept her up into his arms. He was incredibly skilled, incredibly tender, and she was as responsive to him as she’d been in his dreams. The heat built up, feeding their desire until it burned white and hot inside them.
She wasn’t prepared for the suddenness, the fierce bright glory of it. And as she shuddered and surrendered to it, she heard him call out her name.
They kissed afterward, then made love until they were sated. Phoebe’s heart was overflowing with happiness. She drifted off to sleep with her head on his shoulder. Everything would be all right now.
PHOEBE awakened to find Gordon standing over her. He was dressed for riding and his face was filled with anguish.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”
He leaned down and brushed her lips with his. “Good-bye, Phoebe. God keep you safe.”
“But Gordon! Where are you going?”
He didn’t reply. She stood in the doorway listening to the sound of his booted feet as he descended the staircase. Then she ran back to her bedchamber and dressed for riding.
If I’m quick, I can reach the stable ahead of Gordon. His lameness will slow him down.
The side door was latched but she slid the latch open and went out into the bright moonlight. The wind was cool and fragrant with the scent of the damp green promises of spring. She heard Gordon’s voice.
“Is the chestnut saddled and ready, Hugh?”
“Aye. Saw the signal from your window, milord. Here’s yer lantern.”
“I don’t need one. The moon is bright and I know every cursed inch of the way.”
“Be sensible now, Master Gordon. Wouldn’t want ye to take a tumble and break yer head.”
“It might be better if I did,” Gordon answered.
“Never say that! God speed to ye, sir, and bring ye safely home.”
Gordon didn’t reply.
A moment later a wooden gate creaked open and Phoebe watched Gordon ride through. He rode sedately until he was well away from the house. Then he urged the bay forward and cantered off in the moonlight.
Phoebe felt a cold certainty that he wasn’t coming back ever again.
She slipped inside the stable while Hugh lit his pipe.
She had Daisy saddled and bridled before Hugh knew she was back in the stalls. She stood on a bench and swung herself up into the saddle just as he came around the corner.
“What the dickens! Miss Sutton, what are you doing?”
“I’ve no time to explain,” she told him. “Do not try to stop me, as you love your master!”
While the old man stared at her, wide-mouthed, she kicked her heels. The mare raced over the cobbles, her iron shoes sending sparks from the stones.
The moon was so bright there was no need of a lantern. She rode as she had never done before, narrowly missing a foxhole in her mad dash. She had seen Gordon nearing the northern boundary of the parkland. Phoebe prayed the wind and the sound of his own horse’s hooves would obscure the sound of the mare’s pounding feet as they raced across the turf.
She saw his mount picketed ahead.
The horse whickered softly and tossed its head. Phoebe patted its neck and went along the path as quickly and silently as possible. When she reached the end of the woods she finally saw Gordon. He was near the stone marker at the edge of his property, heading toward the moor and the dolmen.
There was a flash of intense green light and Gordon vanished into thin air. While she stood stunned and staring, a tiny ball of golden light formed where he’d been. It zig-zagged swiftly up the steep hill to the Faerie Stables and then it, too, vanished into the night.
Phoebe reached up and removed the talisman necklace her father had given her. Suddenly the dark hill was ablaze with light. There was the faerie castle blazing where the dolmen had been, shining and glorious, dimming the moon and stars.
As real as she was.
With her pulses pounding, she walked into the shadows of the dolmen and left the mortal world behind.
IN the castle on the hill, where light and laughter reigned, discord entered with Lord Jack’s arrival. The dancing ceased and the music fell silent. He strode toward the dais where Rowan and Ash sat on their thrones of gold, scattering revelers by the sheer power of his anger.
“You go too far,” he said fiercely. “The mortal woman is not yours, to do with what you like.”
“Nor is she yours,” Ash said sternly.
“A pity,” added his queen. “Perhaps you would be happier with a human companion.”
“Is that why you have played your tricks upon her? In the misguided opinion that it would make me happy to betray her into sharing my exile? If so, you do not know me—even after all this time.”
Phoebe stepped through the doorway on the heels of his words. She was in the vast hall of her dream, where columns of gold and malachite held up a carved lapis ceiling, but the lanterns were hollow rubies, casting a scarlet glow.
A sudden hush fell over the assembled courtiers and they parted to let her through. Lady Rowan lifted her head. “Well! Here is your fair lady come, Lord Jack, to rescue you.”
The man standing before the dais turned to face Phoebe. Not “Lord Jack,” but Gordon, as he should have been, without the cruel scars that marked him in the human world. He stood tall and splendid in his rich silk garments, but his face was like a storm cloud.
He stepped forward to block her way. “No! Go back while you still can. This is no affair of yours.”
“It is,” she said, smiling up into his eyes.
She held out her hand where the gems glowed on her open palm and addressed the queen. “I have come to return what is rightfully yours, Lady Rowan—and to claim what is mine.”
“He is mine!” Rowan exclaimed. “You see the silver circle bound around his wrist, symbol of my protection.”
“A symbol of your cruelty,” Phoebe said. “What did Gordon Tremaine do to make you punish him so grievously?”
Lord Ash’s voice came like thunder. “He intruded upon a faerie rite that no mortal may see and live—and yet you see he has survived.” He turned a wrathful look on Rowan. “By my wife’s decree!”
“How could I not intervene,” his queen said, “when he saved my pretty page boy from the jaws of a hungry fox?”
She looked at Phoebe. “Little Pippin is dear to me, but a naughty, adventuresome creature. He stole a faerie steed and slipped away into the mortal world. Had it not been for Lord Jack’s intervention, he might have been eaten. And then Lord Jack, he whom you call Gordon Tremaine, brought Pippin back to Faerieland, thus stumbling into forbidden territory. For his noble action, I intervened and saved him from my husband’s wrath.”
Phoebe was angry. “And in your gratitude, you made him lame and scarred? May I be preserved from such graciousness!”
To her surprise, Rowan looked abashed. “Even such as we are constrained by the rules of our kingdom. A compromise was the best I could effect. In these halls of Faerie, Gordon Tremaine is honored as Lord Jack, free and undamaged. Only in the mortal world does he suffer. The choice of worlds has always been his.”
“Let him go! Free him from your spell.”
Lady Rowan shook her head. “It is beyond my power.”
Gordon stepped between Phoebe and the queen. “I will not have her involved in this. Set her free and wipe her memory clean!”
But Rowan gazed down at him solemnly. “That, too, is beyond my power.”
Phoebe smiled. “But not beyond mine.”
Lady Gwynn’s ramblings had given her the clue, but it was her father’s lifework that had provided the key. “There is one way he may escape his servitude—if some other mortal steps forward to take his place.”
She held out her wrist. “Remove the silver band you forced upon him. I will accept it in his place.”
“Is this of your own free will?”
“It is.”
“Why?” the king interrupted.
Phoebe smiled. “For a reason even you would understand. For love.”
Gordon stepped forward and barred her way. “I refuse your offer. Go back, Phoebe, while you still can.”
Lord Ash rubbed his jaw. “Why should you refuse if her offer is sincere? If freedom is so great a boon, why not seize it now?”
Gordon’s voice was controlled fury. “Because I value honor more.”
Rowan smiled. “Do you love this woman?”
“More than my life.”
The faerie queen’s smile grew. “Then your magic is indeed strong and it has won your freedom!”
Lord Ash waved his hands. There was a great grinding of stone on stone. The graceful columns began to crack and twist as bits of gold rained down from the ceiling. Rowan cried out as a lantern fell, smashing into iridescent shards at her feet.
Ash gave a mighty roar of anger. “Foolish mortals!”
He threw his arms wide. Lightning flashed from his hands and thunder roared. The vast hall trembled. A burst of green fire shot from the elf king’s fingertips. Gordon sheltered Phoebe in his arms as the castle and all the beautiful faerie hosts vanished.
When the sound and fury ended they stood heart to heart on the deserted moor, their arms wrapped tight around each other.
Phoebe stared in surprise. Where the Faerie Stables had once stood was nothing but a tumble of broken rock. She looked at Gordon and her eyes sparkled with tears of happiness.
She laid her palm against his face. “Oh, my darling!”
Gordon looked down at his hands. The silver runic band had vanished from his wrist. He stood strong and whole once more, the mass of twisted purple scars healed and gone.
“I am restored,” he said wonderingly.
He pulled her closer and kissed her soft lips. “You saved me, Phoebe—and put yourself at risk to do so.” Gordon was still shaken.
“Just as you risked yours for mine.”
“I didn’t care what happened to me, as long as you were saved. I couldn’t bear to see you trapped inside the faerie world with me.”
She touched his cheek. “I would have joined the faerie world willingly, if it meant eternity with you.”
Gordon sighed against her hair. “My wonderful, beautiful Phoebe! How thankful I am that my uncle invited you to Thorne Court—although I fully intended to send you away.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t have gone. I’m still as stubborn as I ever was. And I sensed, from that first moment in the book room, that there was still something between us and that you still cared for me.”
“I never stopped loving you. I was furious with Rowan for sending you dreams and visions, trying to lure you into her realm.”
“Is that what you thought she was doing?”
He raised his brows. “Wasn’t she?”
An odd little smile played on Phoebe’s lips. “We women—of any world—have more in common than you know. She was fond of you and wanted you to be happy. I believe it was all a test. A test of love. Lady Rowan knew you would do whatever you could to protect me and that our love would break the spell in the process.”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “It begins to make sense now. So that is the reason she interfered . . .” Gordon looked grave. “I wonder what has happened to them.”
Phoebe smiled up at him. “Why, I believe you still have a tendresse for your beautiful faerie queen. Don’t worry, that was more of Lord Ash’s trickery. His way of saving face with a grand, magical gesture.”
“Then you believe the castle and the faerie folk still exist somewhere?”
“Oh, yes. In some far corner of these isles where they are unlikely to be found. Land’s End perhaps, or far across the Irish Sea.” She had a sudden premonition. “Or just beyond that meadow, invisible to our eyes.”
“I’m glad,” Gordon said, “despite everything. They don’t think as we do. They live by their own rules, which are very different from ours.” He cupped Phoebe’s face between his hands and kissed her. “I asked you once before, long ago. Will you marry me, Phoebe?”
“I will.” She laughed. “And soon, before you change your mind again.”
His blue eyes held hers. “I never changed my heart. You are, and have always been, my own true love.”
They kissed again as the sun rose, chasing away the shadows that covered the land. Thorne Court shone fresh and golden in the light of a bright new dawn.
And faintly, faintly, from the flower-strewn meadow, came a woman’s light laughter, and the chime of silver bells.