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FARFUR RUSHED INTO the house with a happy howl. He followed the familiar hint of underworld sulfur intermingled with upper world sandstone and fresh grass – a stark reminder of rolling green hills and valleys dotted with plump sheep and crabby goats – in essence, home.
Hurtling across floorboards polished with linseed oil, he skidded through an open door and into a room lit by globes of witch lights floating near the ceiling. His claws dug into the carpet to skim between the center table and the legs of the Old-Witch-Who-Teases who sat on the sofa.
He came to a jarring halt at the far end of the room, inches from his master’s knees. “Wroof!”
“Grace, why did you let these wild things inside the house?” the Witch-Who-Hates asked.
He shut her out and focused on his master whose gaze was fixed toward the doorway. Bartos arrived with the Witch-Who-Heals – they had both halted at the drawing room entryway as if barred by an invisible barrier.
“Why so glum?” Farfur asked Bartos. “The master’s back!”
“I wish to stay here,” his friend replied.
A wave of worry swept up Farfur’s spine. “Why?”
In response, Bartos sent him a glimpse of the Black Tower where Sax, a shape-shifting barguest, had terrorized the hellhounds.
Grief seeped into Farfur’s belly and slithered down his legs to curl his claws. He understood his friend’s misgivings. He had been there when the church guard attacked, when Sax betrayed them, and would never forget his friend’s shivers as Bartos, injured, lay against Farfur’s back. “Sax is dead and you are healed.”
Bartos glanced at the Witch-Who-Heals in answer.
For months, Farfur, too, had been content to stay with her. She fed them regular meals, encouraged them to race across the countryside for the sheer joy of it and allowed them to sleep beside her warm, witchly legs that generated an unexpected sensation he could only describe as “safe.”
Since about the time the God Well splashed them, however, a new longing had erupted in Farfur that he had not even shared with Bartos. He had begun to yearn for his master to return and claim Farfur. Somewhere deep within, an incredible idea had taken root. One that said Farfur belonged to the master, and more astonishing still, that the master belonged to him.
“He has come for us.” The tremble in his voice spoke of a tenuous hope. He studied his master’s angular face, the darkness of his black eyes, and recognized the sorrow in his soul. Farfur shifted closer to the warlock whose commands he now wanted to obey, even if not compelled by magic.
His master’s fingers were inches from Farfur’s forehead. On impulse, he leaned toward that hand, drawn by an alien desire to feel his master ruffle his fur as the witch once had with Bartos. As his master’s fingertips brushed Farfur’s forehead, the hand clenched and pulled away.
Farfur’s tail drooped and he slumped to the ground.
Then another physical disturbance assaulted his senses. He raised his head to sniff out this new trouble. It emanated from his master, whose scent shifted from his normal underworld sulfur to a familiar musky perfume of desire.
Was the Coven Protectress back? Hackles raised, he sprang to his feet with lips furled to flash his fangs. He growled a throaty warning as he searched for the Witch-Who-Kills, the only one who had ever made the master smell this way.
* * *
“SILENCE.” DEWER GRIPPED Farfur’s neck fur, but his gaze was rooted on the young witch in the doorway. The Honorable Grace Elizabeth Adair, stealer of hellhounds and witch-healer extraordinaire, had returned home.
Even though he had been expecting her, girding himself to meet her, convinced his long-distance infatuation would die a quick death the moment he laid eyes on her again, his pulse still sped up. Since he handed Merryn his heart on a platter and she flung it into the gutter, along with his dignity and poise, he had learned his lesson about craving unattainable women.
It took him more months than he cared to count to regain his sense of self. Still, try as he might, he could not tear his gaze from Grace Adair’s mesmerizing gray-green eyes, moist full lips and a bosom that was properly covered but as lush as he recalled from his last brief glimpse of her.
His blood hummed in response.
In search of a distraction, his focus seized on the bristling hellhound at Miss Adair’s side. Bartos. It was good to see him alive. An unexpected bolt of pleasure struck Dewer’s heart. He had tried numerous times to heal this hound and failed miserably. Yet, this witch had accomplished what he, with his vast knowledge of hellhound physiology, could not.
Positioned protectively in front of the young lady who personified the be that prefaced witch, Bartos’s left hind leg did indeed look completely healed. His scrying had not been mistaken in that estimation.
“Grace,” her mother said in a curt voice. “This is Mr. Devlin Chase Dewer. Mr. Dewer, my daughter, Miss Grace Elizabeth Adair.”
The stark introduction did not do justice to the young lady in the doorway. She stood with her left knee slightly bent, ankle provocatively tilted. She had raised her chin and head, emphasizing an exquisite neck, while her wide eyes observed him with direct, inquisitive scrutiny.
“He is here to reclaim his . . . beasts,” her mother said.
In Baroness Mandell’s hesitation over the word “beasts,” Dewer heard “demons.”
Her snub of his hellhounds slid off his back like a bead of oil. It wasn’t her first insult since his arrival. He had been here for forty odd minutes – feels like a month – awaiting this enchanting creature’s return home. All that while, Lady Mandell refused to be seated, as if admitting him into her home was an affront she could not take sitting down.
The baroness’s upright stance had meant Dewer must also remain on his feet. Not a terrible inconvenience as he had sat more than stood since leaving Wales yesterday morning. For the last five minutes, however, Lady Mandell had been shifting from foot to foot; suggesting their Napoleonic standoff would end shortly with either his departure or her capitulation by taking a seat and thus allowing him to do so as well.
“I have sent for a fresh pot of tea,” the old witch on the sofa said. Lady Mandell’s mother was apparently oblivious to the baroness’s intention to discourage their guest lingering.
Dewer was glad of the tea idea. He may not need to sit, but he was thirsty, for the raven-haired vision in blue in the doorway left his mouth as parched as a desert.
It was hard to mistake the family resemblance between these three females. All had high cheekbones, tall statures and a natural sensuality that age had not appreciably diminished. All similarities ended on the visual plane.
Miss Adair seemed intrigued by his presence, but wary. Well she should be. Thief.
Her mother, Baroness Mandell, had been itching to toss him out since he first stepped into her home. Harridan.
The eldest witch was the most approachable. Unfortunately, she was currently leaning forward to entice Farfur with a crumpet. Crumbs littered the Persian carpet between his feet and hers, as she made atrocious smacking noises from between pursed lips. Definitely Dotty.
Dewer took hold of Farfur’s scruff again, to ensure Dotty, his only ally in the room, would not lose her fingers if the hellhound decided to accept her insanely ill-thought-out offer of a treat.
“We must leave for London forthwith, Grace.” A negligent flick of the Harridan’s hand, and the crumbs on the carpet vanished. “I hope your morning visit with your cousin was elucidating and makes Mr. Dewer’s visit timely.”
So, that is why Harridan permitted him to enter her home. She wants the hellhounds gone. Excellent!
Grace’s full mouth firmed, her hands clenched and that tempting ankle straightened, signifying that no matter her mother’s preference, Dewer was not about to depart with his hounds without protest. The young witch’s stormy gaze met his in a battle cry that tightened his chest muscles. He repressed the urge to smile with relish at the looming fight.
“Grace, we must go to London.” Dotty gave up befriending Farfur and popped the crumpet into her mouth. She then eyed the hound with a sly gleam as she licked her lips with blatant enjoyment.
Farfur whined ever so softly. Dewer only sensed his frustration by the vibration under his fingertips. A pang of compassion stirred. He released his hold and held his hands at his back. It would not do to become attached to a hound he intended to use to achieve his aims in London.
Especially if what the Warlock Council told him yesterday proved correct. If so, Farfur might not live long enough to ever enjoy a crumpet. Dewer was unwilling to lay his heart on the line again, not for a hellhound, and never again for a witch.
All he wanted was to regain control of his property. Unfortunately, he could not simply take them from the lovely Miss Adair. In a moment of pique, he had unwisely gifted the hounds to her. To get them back, she must willingly gift them back to him. Convincing her to do so would obviously be a challenge. Besting this witch might also be pleasurable.
“Grandmamma, why the sudden need to travel to London?” Miss Adair asked.
“Your father is in trouble,” Dotty said.
“We shall discuss Baron Mandell later.” Harridan hissed the words in an undertone to Dotty.
“What has happened to Papa?” Miss Adair’s brow furrowed as worry crept across her breathtaking face.
Dewer’s enjoyment skidded to a halt and he frowned. “Is there anything I may do to assist, my lady?”
The baroness flashed him a suspicious glare. Well she might. Like Farfur’s soft whine at losing his treat, the offer to assist had left his lips before he could pull it back. It was unlike him to want to help anyone, never mind a witch’s family, and certainly not the baron, who was a human.
Only a fool offers something for nothing.
His mother’s favorite axiom. “I journey to London and would be in a position to convey a message to the baron.”
“That will be unnecessary,” Harridan said. “My mother exaggerates the matter. Your father is well, Grace.”
“Oh, good.” Miss Adair’s attention returned to Dewer and he basked under that heat. Like sunrise warming a cold dewy landscape. “Sir, are you rejoining society?”
She sounded surprised, and was that a hint of pleasure? He shook off that improbable speculation. Still, these were her first words to him since approaching the drawing room doorway. She and Bartos were still positioned on the other side, as if hesitant about coming in.
While her mother’s animosity had left Dewer unmoved, Miss Adair’s standoffishness made him yearn to lure her closer. He offered his most enticing smile. “Good morning, Miss Adair.”
She stepped into the room then, as if she had been waiting for his attention. Though he had not detected one finger twitch, the doors silently swung shut behind them. Excellent control. This was a witch in command of her magic.
“You have been in Wales a good long while, Mr. Dewer.” She stopped directly across from him, with the center table between them. Bartos sat at her heel. “Rumor has it, sir, that you were tending a bruised...” she hesitated as if searching for the correct word.
“Character,” Harridan offered.
“Soul!” Dotty proclaimed.
“Heart.” The audacious Miss Adair breathed the word as if she were kissing it.
That silly organ fluttered in his chest like a schoolgirl enthralled by her first impassioned attachment.
“What entices you back into society’s arms, Mr. Dewer?” Miss Adair’s focus was on him alone; her gray-green eyes a siren’s call.
The room faded, relegating the Harridan to Hell and Dotty to Bedlam. Dewer cleared his clogged throat so he could speak. “Two distant cousins died unexpectedly due to recent floods, and it appears an earldom has fallen to me.” He tapped his breast pocket, behind which his assaulted organ was thumping furiously fast. This woman should come with a danger sign. “I have received a Writ of Summons from the House of Lords.”
“Oh, how wonderful.” Dotty clasped her hands. “We will have to call you Lord something or other. What is to be your title, sir?"
“Earl of Tempest, ma’am.”
“How appropriate,” Harridan said in a tinder-dry tone.
At that cut direct, heat stormed up his neck and burned his ears. His fingers twitched to lash out with a spell.
Let it pass.
He had successfully employed that particular mantra for months, whenever his rage rose to Olympic proportion. Instantly, his temper, and ears, cooled.
“Indeed.” Miss Adair’s lips tilted up in a lazy smile.
Heat again scorched his ears, for a different reason.
Farfur whined and he absently ruffled the hound’s ear. The hellhound instantly quieted, shuddering beneath his touch.
Miss Adair’s gaze dropped to where he was petting Farfur and Dewer re-clasped his hands behind his back.
With a heavy sigh, Farfur slumped against Dewer’s leg.
Miss Adair’s attention thankfully shifted to her mother. “Why must we rush to London, Mama?”
“We shall discuss the matter after Mr. Dewer’s visit,” Harridan said in a not now tone.
“The River Thames is rising, which is playing havoc with your papa’s dams,” Dotty said, “and his fish are dying. He wants you to fix the problem.”
That bizarre list of complaints left Dewer mystified. The baron had dams? Why were fish dying? How could Miss Adair rectify such issues? The only part that made sense was that the Thames was rising. The exceptional amount of rain the country had experienced for the last couple of years, and especially this spring, had resulted in rising river waters all across England. He had in fact, benefited from that overflow.
“Ah, that’s why I was shown the eel,” Miss Adair said.
“What eel?” Dotty asked.
“Never mind the eel,” Harridan said. “We do not require your assistance, sir. Grace, gift the hounds back to Mr. Dewer. They will not be permitted inside a public coach.”
“I hate public coaches.” Dotty sat back and folded her arms in a mutinous posture. “The seats are hard, people are noisy and it is always crowded. Before you ask, I refuse to sit up top.”
“No one is asking you do that, Mama.” The Harridan sounded agitated. An improvement from coldly lethal or disdainfully dismissive.
Miss Adair approached the sofa and lounged beside her grandmother. There was no other way to describe that languid recline as her entire body caressed that lucky seat. “Are you traveling to London all alone, Mr. Dewer?”
His blood was rushing through his veins again and he used a finger to loosen his over-tight cravat. Why had the room become so inordinately warm? A quick check confirmed the hearth behind him was still unlit. The Harridan was not trying to burn him out. He faced the beauty, took a calming breath and said, “Yes, I travel alone.”
“No servants riding inside the carriage?”
“They could always ride up top.” Dotty’s gray-green and slightly hazy eyes lit up as she pinned him with a speculative gaze as disconcerting as her granddaughter’s.
He sympathized with how Farfur must have felt after that crumpet was eaten.
“We will not impose on Mr. Dewer.” Harridan hissed the words like a grass snake rebuking the gardener.
Dewer could have kissed her. Finally, someone with sense. He could not travel to London in Miss Adair’s company. Not if he wished to safeguard her virtue. As well as his.
He took a cautious step back and Farfur, who had been leaning against his leg, fell across his feet, trapping Dewer in place. “Miss Adair, I must concur with your mother. It would be unwise for us to travel to London together.”
“Absolutely!” Harridan said in fervent agreement, just as Dotty said, “What a splendid idea.”
“I accept.” Miss Adair said.
In a panic, Dewer re-played his words. What had he offered?
The door opened and a maid brought in the tea service.
Dewer welcomed the interruption. It gave him time to devise a suitable rebuff for the brash Miss Adair. He had not offered her an invitation to ride in his carriage, yet here he was, scrambling for a way to un-invite her. If he was not careful, she would seduce him ere he ever reached London and that would definitely put a spoke in his plans.
The maid placed the tray on the center table and left, closing the door softly.
He was rummaging for the right words when Miss Adair held up her hand. Not to him but to her mother who had opened her mouth as if to protest. Bless you.
“If time is of the essence, Mama,” Miss Adair said, “then what choice do we have? Papa took our carriage. The dogcart will not survive a journey to London. Even if we enhance the cart’s strength, the trip would be uncomfortable. And,” her seductive gaze swung toward him like the barrels of twin cannons, “Mr. Dewer, with my mother and grandmother accompanying us, there is sure to be no impropriety in our traveling together.”
Her last breathy words made him picture them on their way to London, alone in the privacy of his vehicle, and in an entirely improper manner.
“Riding in Mr. Dewer’s carriage will be far less strenuous than flying or racing across the countryside,” Dotty said. “I am no longer a young chicken, Margaret.”
He immediately imagined a chicken on the opposite carriage seat watching him cuddle Miss Adair. His imaginary self jerked away and his imaginary Miss Adair tumbled out of his embrace and landed on the carriage floor.
Laughter tickled Dewer’s chest. He kept it contained, refusing his lips permission to twitch. He could not remember a time when he had wanted to laugh like this. There had been little joviality in his life. Sadness settled into its usual spot, smothering his good humor.
“Such frank talk of transformation is inappropriate in mixed company,” Harridan said through clenched teeth.
Odd how he seemed to be in constant agreement with Harridan. He, too, had a dislike for discussing Wyhcan magic in public. Though, in his case, it was because warlocks were disdainful of transformation spells.
Not that a warlock was unable to cast such a spell, but rather saw transforming oneself as unwise. A Wyhcan’s magical abilities were severely restricted while in an altered state. When Dewer was five, his father had imparted that last bit of wisdom before he died.
Besides, animals only had three practical uses. As meat to be eaten, used for hunting or bonded with as a familiar to amplify a warlock’s power. His gut clenched as that last thought regurgitated an old grievance. Unlike every other warlock who had reached his majority of four and twenty, Dewer had yet to bond with a familiar. The Warlock Council’s obstruction of him being mentored by another warlock had prevented him from learning how.
He shrugged aside that old complaint. These past several months had taught him one valuable lesson. Best to cling to the facts of life rather than hope for something that could never be.
Fact: All witches hated warlocks
Fact: All Callington witches held a grudge against him because his mother tried to kill their beloved Coven Protectress and had killed her brother and parents.
Fact: Though Miss Adair might be playing a tempting game, her elders would balk at being confined with him all the way to London.
“Give over, Margaret,” Dotty said. “We must leave soon and should not squander our magical strength on building a new carriage. The battle ahead will likely be difficult enough without creating trouble where none is warranted.”
“What battle?” Miss Adair asked, that tiny worry line returning to distress her exquisite forehead.
Dewer silently echoed the question. Did this have something to do with the baron’s dying trout?
“He is a warlock,” Harridan said in a hiss.
Here it comes. He forgot the trout and held his breath as the tide turned. The hounds were almost his.
“Our coven will disown us if we are seen to collaborate with him by journeying to London in his company.” Harridan glared at Dewer with utter loathing.
He resisted the urge to hug her, the only woman in the room showing sense. Of course, they could not travel together. It was unthinkable. He treasured his privacy, and as for enjoyable traveling companions, witches were at the bottom of his list.
“That is pure nonsense, Margaret.” Dotty gave a scornful shrug. “Morwena is your sister and head of our coven and the Coven Protectress is your niece. Our coven would never go against you, and you know it. You are simply grabbing at any excuse to avoid this perfectly sound solution to a troublesome problem.”
Dewer’s ears perked at the mention of Merryn. Beside him, Farfur sat up with a soft growl. Bartos, too, seemed to watch Dewer with concern. On the sofa, Miss Adair’s pupils narrowed with keen interest as her focus returned to him.
So, this family was intimately connected to the Coven Protectress and her aunt. Just as well they would not be traveling with him then. For if, along the way, they uncovered his real reason for going to Town, it would make the Callington Crisis appear like a veritable picnic.
“London is a three-day journey at least, assuming we stop for meals and rest at inns each night.” Harridan pointed to Dewer as if he were Lucifer come for tea in her drawing room. “We would be trapped with him the whole while.”
Dewer breathed out a quiet sigh of acceptance. Facts never let one down. Considering Harridan had yet to allow him to be seated, she would not stomach traveling in his company.
“If you prefer, I will sit beside him, Mama.” Miss Adair gave him an appreciative glance.
Dewer’s next intake of breath hitched in his throat.
“You will sit on the opposite seat in the farthest corner from him.” Harridan clasped a hand over her mouth as if that were the last thing she had meant to say. Then she stomped her foot. “I did not mean that we are set on this course.”
“Nevertheless, I agree with your suggestion.” Dotty stood, seizing on her daughter’s slip before she could regroup.
What had just happened? Dewer’s panicked gaze swung from grandmother to mother to granddaughter, like a compass in search of true north.
Dotty patted Dewer’s arm. “Never fear, sir, I shall be happy to sit beside you. I am not afraid of warlocks.”
“I never said I was afraid,” Harridan said in high dudgeon
“You have lost this battle, Mama.” Miss Adair went over and linked arms with her mother and tugged her toward the door. “We shall see you shortly, Mr. Dewer. Shall we say in one hour? Thank you for your generous offer. Come, Bartos, Farfur.”
She left with her kin and his hounds and shut the door.
Realizing he had stopped breathing since Miss Adair offered to sit beside him in the carriage, Dewer gasped for air.
The door re-opened and Harridan poked her head around to give him her Gorgon stare. “Cause any trouble while inside my house, sir, and you will never again see daylight.” She withdrew and the door slammed like a prison gate.
Good riddance. She did not scare him. After all, a dark fae queen had raised him. Still, he had an impulse to storm out of this accursed house and get on his way to London, with or without the hounds.
He was across the room in a trice but skidded to a halt, fingers hovering over doorknob as a troublesome thought rose.
He needed his hounds to eliminate the London Tower problem. If he could instigate another landslide like the one that had stranded Merryn on his mountaintop before stealing the hounds and vacating this witch-infested countryside, he would. He couldn’t because he had gifted those hounds to Miss Adair. As if to emphasize her ownership, at her request, Bartos and Farfur had followed her out without a single glance at him for confirmation.
He gave a frustrated growl and prowled around this feminine prison patterned in pale yellow wallpaper. He kicked a dainty chair out of his path, swerved around the sofa and almost cracked his shin on the center table where a cold tea service was growing chillier.
These witches had tricked him into allowing them to accompany him to London. He had never actually offered to take any of them, so he felt no compulsion to follow through with that course. Yet, he didn’t wish to leave without his hounds.
He sat abruptly on a carved oak French chair and poured himself tea. He stirred in a spoonful of sugar and gave the cup a swirl until the cold liquid steamed nicely. After he downed the entire contents, he refilled the cup and drank again. Finally, his brain began ticking.
Fact: Regaining the hounds meant he must take these witches to London.
He groaned as his conclusion and slumped to rest his head back as he acknowledged that untenable truth.
He was going to London in the company of three witches. Somehow, during their journey east, he must find a way to convince the wily, breathtaking Miss Adair to gift him back his hellhounds. An ache at his temple turned into a pounding and he rubbed the bridge of his nose.
What a mess!
Since Miss Adair stepped into this room, his grievances against being sorely wronged were fading like mist cowering beneath the blast of early morning sunshine. A stark difference from the stormy clouds that had hung over him as he shifted from one vengeful plan to the next.
Now, all of a sudden, the pain of losing the woman he loved no longer tainted his every breath. He was no longer even sure that revenge against Merryn was worth all this trouble. A plan that had been solid as the black mountain in Wales now shifted beneath his feet.
Unlike his mother, whose promises were as fluid as the tide, Dewer prided himself on keeping his word. Revenge or not, he had given his word to the Warlock Council that he would deal with the rift to the underworld discovered beneath the Tower of London. For that, he needed his hellhounds.
The very concept of reneging stuck in his craw. Perhaps all was not lost. It might be enjoyable enticing Miss Adair to return his hounds. Though doing so might prove problematic under the vigilant eyes of her mother and grandmother.
He had less than an hour before the witches would be packed and ready to depart in his company, and he could not think of a single way to squirm out of this trap. With a sigh, he shut his eyes. Within that darkness, an appealing pair of gray-green eyes appeared, and then playfully winked. A smile stretched his lips. Then the gaze transformed into familiar dark pools that sparked with fae power.
Dewer jumped up, a knee striking the center table. In a clatter of china, the teapot was sent spinning. Heart thundering in dread he searched the room for the intruder. Empty. A flick of his wrist and the tea service stilled, shutting off its clattering alarm. His nemesis was near. He sensed her familiar presence as clearly as he did his hellhounds upstairs.
Mother!
Like raindrops tapping on the windowpanes, she bid him come outside. Alarm gave way to fury as Dewer stormed out of the house, determined to convince his interfering mother to leave, before the Callington witches discovered she had once again invaded their territory.
All he needed was another war between fae and Wyhcan kind, with him caught in the middle. The lamentable story of his life.
* * *
HEMS LIFTED AND HERDING the hellhounds ahead, Grace hurried upstairs in a fluster at how easily she had achieved her aim. They were to travel in the company of the divine Mr. Devlin Chase Dewer. She could have jumped for joy.
Behind her, her mother stomped upstairs. Far from joyful, she seemed in high dudgeon. “Grace, I wish to speak with you about these hellhounds. I may not care for Dewer but he is their rightful owner. Why will you not give them back?”
“I shall, Mama, soon.” Or not. She had not decided yet.
Grace’s grandmother brought up the rear at a more leisurely pace. “There appears to be something odd about Farfur. Did anyone notice how he gazed at Dewer with such lovey-dovey eyes? He even refused to leave his master’s side to have a bite of my crumpet.”
At the first-floor landing, Grace repressed the urge to correct her grandmother by saying, Farfur was her hound now, not Dewer’s.
“Grace, I’d like a word.” The baroness, having also reached the landing, swung around to give her elderly mother, who was still five steps below, a long-suffering glance. “The journey ahead will be long, uncomfortable and arduous, Mother. Why not take a quick nap while your maid readies your bag?”
“I am not in the least tired,” the elder witch said. Then a preoccupied look came into her faded green eyes. “On second thought, a nap sounds good.” She vanished from the stairs, even though her room was the first door behind Grace. She could have easily walked there instead of expending strong magic on a disappearing spell. Odd.
“Good, she has left.” The baroness released a relieved sigh and faced Grace. “This discussion will go smoother without your grandmother’s irrelevant interruptions.”
“I have nothing more to say about the hellhounds, Mama.” Grace escaped into her chamber three doors down.