Chapter Twelve

Sage danced and danced. The faces of his many partners became a blur. And while he danced, Marianne searched. He watched her from the dance floor, catching glimpses of her moving through the crowded clusters of matronly women and hopeful debutantes as they gossiped along the sidelines.

At several moments during the course of the evening, Sage had doubts as to whether or not Miss Green would make her promised appearance at the Carutherses’ ball. Nearly an hour after Marianne’s incident with Charlotte Smythe, Miss Green’s stunning red hair caught his eye as she entered the ballroom. She scanned the dance floor. When she spotted him she smiled.

A chill crept up his spine at the sight. It was a predatory smile, to be sure. The knowledge that she had demon blood worried him, but he rallied himself, knowing the only path to save Marianne might lie within this woman’s grasp. He would not give up until the spell cast over Marianne was broken.

The song ended just as Desmonda Green advanced into the room. She found her way through the small crowd until she stood in front of him.

“Shall we dance?” she asked, a seductive smile taunting her rouge-colored lips. The sight did little to arouse him. Instead, he thought of Marianne’s spirited smiles and how differently these two women compared.

“I believe my card is full,” Sage replied.

She laughed, taking his response as the teasing comment he’d intended it to be, but somewhere inside he’d been quite serious. He did not wish to dance with her. The mere thought chilled him. There was only one woman he wished to dance with, but a quick glance round the room revealed she was nowhere in sight.

Desmonda lifted a hand in invitation as the musicians prepared the next piece. Sage took her hand, leading her onto the dance floor.

“I thought you didn’t wish to be seen with us,” he whispered into her ear before they parted to perform the moves of the dance.

“Miss Grey is not here, is she?”

“Hereabouts.” Again he searched the room, but noticed no sign of her.

“There is someone I want you to meet.”

Sage’s gaze lifted to the ceiling before returning to her. “I’ve heard this before from my brother.”

“I know of only one way to help you, Mr. Merriweather, and I cannot do it alone. We’ll need his assistance if you wish to break the curse.”

“Anything to help Marianne,” he muttered. “When do I meet him?”

“No,” Desmonda said, frowning. “You misunderstand. Michael can help you, not Marianne.”

Sage stumbled on a step, but quickly recovered. “And what of her curse?”

“Forgive me,” she said, at a moment where she could lean close to him. “I know of no way to bring back the dead.”

“She’s not dead,” he protested, disliking the way those dreaded words lodged in his throat.

“But she is,” Desmonda said. “This limbo will last a year. After that, her body will cease to breathe. Her spirit will travel into the afterlife. She will finally be at peace.”

He stopped dancing. The couples around him tripped as they nearly collided. But he didn’t move, just stared at her.

“Perhaps there is somewhere else we might speak?” Desmonda forced a smile to her lips as she glanced at the dancers around them. The unwanted attention seemed to make her nervous, but Sage could barely focus on anything other than her last words echoing in his mind…her body will cease to breathe…her spirit will travel into the afterlife…she will be at peace…

Desmonda tugged on Sage’s arm, awakening him from his dazed state.

“My apologies,” he said, as he noticed several sets of curious eyes staring at him. A shiver crept along his spine, as thoughts of his ancestors’ fear of discovery flashed in his mind. Did the dancers overhear his conversation? They looked at him oddly, just now. Did they suspect he was a witch?

Reluctantly, he grabbed her hand and resumed the dance. No need to draw further attention themselves. Relief flickered across his partner’s features as she relaxed back into the dance.

They performed the rest in silence, each with a forced expression of pleasure to ease the curiosity of any onlookers. When the music finished, he strode from the dance floor, her hand on his arm as he led her to the refreshment table. After he acquired drinks for them both, he found a quiet corner where they could speak in relative privacy. On the way, he kept searching the sea of faces for Marianne.

“There is a spell to break Marianne’s curse,” Sage said firmly. “Wherever there is dark, there is light. It’s a lesson my aunt instilled in us since we were very young.”

Desmonda shook her head gently. “If there is a spell, I know not of it.”

“You must know someone who can help us. What of this man? This Michael? What sort of magic does he possess?”

“Michael knows of demon magic,” Desmonda said. “I’m certain he can break the curse set upon you.”

“Is he half-demon, like you?”

“No.”

“And if he cannot break the demon’s spell?”

“Then he can teach you how to use your magic.”

“No. I won’t accept that possibility. This is not my magic.” Sage’s voice lowered to a growl as he glanced briefly at his fingers. The memory of fire springing from them would haunt him for the remainder of his days. “But, for lack of a better word, my infection is not the reason Basil sent me to you. We were to help Marianne.”

“Then I apologize, Mr. Merriweather. I have failed to assist you,” Desmonda replied with a frown. “I did search, thoroughly, but all I found were myths and legends. Stories. The curse set upon her will reach its conclusion a year after it was cast. Then her body will wither and die. Her soul should be pulled into the ever after.”

“Should be? You do not know?”

“I know of no one who has suffered this curse. All I know is the spell used to cast it. It was a lover’s spell, used by the ancient spellcasters to discover what was called their beloved. My mother discovered a tale that claimed if the beloved was not discovered within a year, the cursed would sleep for a hundred more and awake reborn. Most likely it means after a year her body will die, and in a hundred years her spirit will be reborn.”

“How does a beloved awake one cursed?”

“The lover’s token from one who is true will undo what was once done.” Desmonda’s gaze lifted as she read the spell from her memory.

“Sounds rather cryptic.”

“Most spells are written in such a way to stay hidden from discovery of those who are not magical,” Desmonda explained. Sage understood. For centuries witches practiced their magic for the good of mankind, to cure the sick and discover truth in the world. But not all magic was perfect, nor were all witches of good heart. Occasionally, a witch might use a spell for nefarious purposes. Those few witches who turned to dark magic were the reason people hunted them throughout the world. And since there was no way to differentiate between a light and dark witch by appearance alone, the witch-hunters killed them all.

“So Marianne needs her lover’s token,” Sage replied, staring at the floor. “And what is that? A ring? A lock of hair? What?”

“It is but a story associated with the spell,” Desmonda said. “It might mean nothing more than legend and lore. Without a specific spell or a potion, I don’t believe we can help your Marianne.”

At that moment, Marianne’s ginger ringlets came into view. She stood at the edge of the area where the dancers performed a waltz. Whom was she watching so intensely? His gaze roamed over to the couples swirling around to discover the familiar visage of David Fernsby.

The man Marianne loved.

“…tomorrow, I know he will help cast the circle to perform the spell.” Desmonda was speaking, but Sage had no memory of what she said. His attention focused solely on Marianne as she stared woefully at her beloved.

“I know I can help you, Sage,” Desmonda said, touching his arm.

Sage flinched at the contact. He pulled his arm away from her, taking a step back to ensure she did not touch him again.

“I prefer never to be touched by a demon again,” Sage snapped, rubbing his arm.

Desmonda’s eyes widened.

Guilt assaulted Sage. Desmonda was not the demon who hurt him. He looked away. “My apologies. I—”

“No need,” Desmonda interrupted. “I understand most interactions with demons are not…pleasant.”

Sage said no more of the subject. Flashes of fire-lit eyes and hideous laughter still haunted his daytime thoughts to say nothing of the dreams he suffered at night.

“Meet me in two days. At dusk,” Desmonda said, deciding to abandon the subject of demons. “At the church in Highston. Michael and I will await your arrival.”

“Very well,” Sage said.

With a brief nod, Desmonda Green took her leave of him. As soon as she walked away, he turned his attention back to Marianne.

She loved Fernsby. But did he love her? Sage vowed he’d have the answer before the end of the night. His gaze strayed to Mrs. Watson who, as luck would have it, was currently dancing with Mr. Fernsby. There was his source of information. Sage could always guarantee on Mrs. Watson’s knowledge of famous gossip, even not-so-famous. He would discover her secrets before he approached young Fernsby. No need to frighten the poor fellow off. Marianne would never forgive him for that.

Marianne…

His attention returned to the forlorn young woman standing on the sidelines, watching her beloved dance with another woman. The sight pierced Sage’s heart.

With a disgruntled sigh, he set the glass of sherry on a nearby table and went in search of something stronger to drink.

****

His methods of questioning differed from the average interrogation. Being a well-renowned rake, Sage always found seduction to be the perfect method of discovering what he needed to know.

Mrs. Watson was no different from any other woman of his acquaintance. After he approached, begging to have a private audience with her, she found no hesitation in locating an empty chamber on the upper floor. Sage had barely closed the door before she was pressed against him, her mouth attached to his, her arms clutching at his shoulders like dragon’s claws.

There was, however, one complication he hadn’t foreseen.

He did not wish to seduce or become seduced by Mrs. Watson.

“Harriet.” Sage pushed her gently away. She suffocated him.

“What, my dear? Cannot wait for even a few kisses?” she asked, plunging her hand to his trousers to press her fingers against his flaccid member. “Well, this is an odd state of affairs at present. It can be remedied, I assure you,” she added with a wink. Her fingers began working the buttons on his trousers as she knelt down in front of him.

“Not necessary, Harriet.” Sage grabbed her arms to pull her back to her feet. She stood, looking at him curiously. He took several steps back, allowing distance to speak for itself. “When I said I have questions, I meant just that. Questions.”

Mrs. Watson smiled, and then followed to where he stood near to the bed. “Of course, my love.” She pulled his head down to hers, nibbling on his ear and whispered, “Afterward, I’ll answer any such questions you put to me.”

And then her hands roamed to the buttons of his shirt.

****

Watching Mrs. Watson dance with Marianne’s alleged fiancé did little to improve her sour mood. Seeing Sage approach the woman afterward, then leave the room with her sent it spiraling further downward.

Was it true? What Charlotte claimed about them? That Sage planned to propose to Mrs. Watson? He never mentioned the woman’s name aloud, nor any other woman in particular, come to think of it. So how could it be he planned to marry her? One would assume he’d at the very least talk of the woman he planned to wed.

Marianne chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, debating her course of actions. She’d already witnessed Sage speaking to Desmonda Green. The reason for their visit to this event was completed. So what purpose did he have leaving the room with Mrs. Watson? Why hadn’t he come for Marianne and told her what information Miss Green had to convey?

Perhaps he…

Marianne’s heart skipped a beat.

Perhaps he planned to propose to Mrs. Watson at this very moment.

Her feet were moving before she completed the thought in her head. She must stop him. Of all the women she knew—he knew—there surely must be a better choice than Mrs. Watson.

She’d glimpsed him ascending the stairs after he departed the ballroom. Wondering if he perchance took the woman to the same room where he spoke privately to Marianne earlier, she quickly took to the stairs.

Upon entering the room, she thought it empty. Then she heard a noise from her left and turned. Movement on top of the bed caught her attention.

Two people in various states of undress were writhing about on top of the coverlets.

Marianne froze.

In the past several months of her condition, she’d seen many things she was certain would make her sister swoon if she ever discovered. One of them was occurring right before her eyes. As a spirit, she had access to any such room, and the bedchamber was one of which she’d been mightily curious.

Truly, the sight of a couple making love had only created more controversy in her mind. Questions abounded, such as what did it feel like to be kissed so thoroughly? To be held with such passion? And why were people in such a hurry to strip down beyond their unmentionables if it appeared the very act itself was painful rather than pleasurable?

Marianne had seen the faces of the participants when they reached their conclusions. They contorted in rather pain-filled visages. She couldn’t understand why they seemed so sated afterward.

The couple currently preparing for the act appeared in a state of hurry as the woman ripped the man’s shirt from his chest. He tried to capture her hands, but she was too quick about it, and then she was kissing him quite thoroughly.

With all the movement between them in the shadows of the canopied bed, Marianne could not identify them until she heard Sage’s voice.

“Stop, Harriet,” he said.

Marianne gasped, then her hand flew to her mouth to smother the sound.

It was too late. He heard the noise.

Sage sat up, his surprised face appearing in the light of the candles.

“What are you doing here?” he asked Marianne, his voice rather breathless.

But she could not respond. She was stricken by the sight of him in bed with Harriet Watson. And she didn’t have a moment to say anything, since Harriet obviously thought he was questioning her.

“I’m making love to you, silly man,” she giggled. “Why else would you seclude me in an empty bedchamber?”

Marianne stepped back.

Sage attempted to stand, but Mrs. Watson’s hands gripped his shoulders, drawing him back into the bed, back to her. He struggled for a moment, prying her claws from him until he was able to stand. His disheveled appearance might have amused Marianne at one time, long ago…before her feelings for him…changed, matured.

Instead, she was struck by two things rather simultaneously.

One…

An enormous amount of skin was revealed through the opening of his shirt as it hung at an angle unbuttoned across his chest. Marianne had difficulty removing her gaze from that particular area of his body. This was not the first time she’d seen him without his shirt, but that did little to stop her from gawking. There were lines, definition of muscle tone, something Marianne did not have on her body. Were men supposed to have such rigid bumps on their abdomens? She had assumed the bellies of men and women rarely differed. A belly was a belly, after all. Her own belly was rather soft, gently rounded. The last couple she’d witnessed in the bedchamber both had rather paunchy bellies, nothing that could compare to the view she currently witnessed.

As if he recognized the ogling of his clearly toned belly and chest, he straightened his crooked shirt, his fingers flying to refasten the buttons. The movement snapped her from the imaginings of what else he might have on his body worth taking note, and her gaze returned to his face.

Guilt shone in his eyes. In fact, he reminded her of a little boy who was caught at something he was told not to do.

Revealing number two…

Marianne loved Sage. She loved him. There could be no denying it.

The sight of him in another woman’s bed created horrible emotions that twisted inside her soul.

Jealousy sang through Marianne. It poured from her fingers and toes, ate at her heart, clenched her stomach so tightly she thought she might be ill.

“This is not what it may seem…” Sage’s voice trailed off. He swore softly when Marianne took another step away from him.

“Well, my love, what is it then?” Mrs. Watson asked, again assuming he spoke to her. “We were about to get closely reacquainted. You haven’t shared my bed for over half a year now. I was beginning to believe you lost interest.”

Marianne’s gaze flashed to the woman who sat with her bare feet dangling over the edge of the bed. Her bodice had slipped revealing soft, creamy breasts, the nipples puckered.

Sage moved forward, bringing her attention back. She stood her ground, however, since if she took another step away she’d step into the wall. He dipped his head low to reach her ear and she closed her eyes as she imagined the feeling of his breath across her cheek.

“You shouldn’t be here, Marianne,” Sage whispered.

Marianne nodded. He was right. She shouldn’t be here. She should have minded her own business. If he felt the need to lie with a woman, who was she to interfere? She was nothing to him. Nothing. Oh, well, perhaps she judged too harshly. She was a neighbor. A friend. But nothing more.

And she was interfering. A pesky nuisance. The meddlesome little red-headed brat who always messed about underfoot when no one wanted her.

And it was clear Sage did not want her.

“I-I-I,” Marianne stuttered, shaming herself further by revealing her lack of poise, sophistication. The knowledge that Sage slept with women, numerous women, should not shock her. Perhaps it did not shock her, since in the past she had teased him relentlessly over his pursuit of women. What else could she expect from the Merriweather Rake? But to see it so clearly right before her was another matter.

“Marianne,” Sage whispered placing his hand on the wall above her, leaning over, his face so close all she could see was the blue of his eyes. So near again she imagined if she had substance she’d feel his warm breath on her skin. So close that her gaze darted to his lips with the desire to kiss him so he’d forget all those other women and think only of her. She was finding it difficult to breathe.

“I-I-I…”

She was a fool! Why could she not speak?

Tears sprung. Shameful tears. Tears of weakness, anger and hurt. Yes, hurt. Pain-filled her chest as she faced the knowledge that Sage would never kiss her like he kissed those other women. He’d never hold her. Caress her. Strip the clothes, even her unmentionables, from her body to lie naked in a bed. She’d never discover what happened to create such agonized expressions while screaming into the night. She’d never know what it was like to make love to him.

Marianne turned away. Then she took one last step into the wall and vanished.