Brittany, 1605
THERE WAS LITTLE HOPE OF RETURNING TO THE ISLAND THAT night. Ominous dark clouds dimmed the sun, robbing the day of precious hours and a more gentle passage into evening. The wind picked up, rendering the waters of the channel whitecapped and choppy.
The Lady of Faire Isle struggled to keep the hood of her cloak from being tugged back, exposing her countenance to the rough salt tang of the breeze. Soft brown hair framed a face that was pale, her unblemished complexion and short stature making her seem younger than her thirty-one years. But her green eyes, always too solemn, too watchful, made her appear far older.
Picking her way carefully along the rocky shore, she peered across the channel for a last glimpse of her home, but the distant outline of Faire Isle was obscured by the shadows cast by the clouds. Margaret Wolfe hitched her breath, feeling that peculiar pressure in her chest she often had when she left the security of her island, a sense that disaster loomed just over the next horizon.
That was because the newly appointed Lady of Faire Isle had the sight, folks on the island and the mainland would whisper in awed tones. To a certain degree she did, but Margaret Wolfe attributed her tension more to her uncertain childhood. Anyone who was the daughter of a mad witch like Cassandra Lascelles was bound to face life with a high degree of apprehension. As her old nurse, Mistress Waters, had oft told Meg, “You are a wary old soul, my pet. I do declare you were born anxious.”
Meg’s present anxiety was heightened by the behavior of her traveling companion. Seraphine Beaufoy, la Comtesse de Castelnau, was a golden blond goddess of a woman, as tall as Meg was short.
The comtesse barked out orders in clipped tones, commanding the oarsmen who had rowed her and Meg from the island to drag the dinghy farther up the beach and conceal it beneath a pile of driftwood and seaweed. The wind snapped at Seraphine’s cloak, revealing the masculine garb she had donned, a disguise that would have fooled no one, for her short doublet and breeches only accented her lush curves.
But Seraphine was more concerned with practicality than deception. One could not wield a sword trussed up in a corset and petticoats. And Seraphine was armed with both a pistol and a rapier strapped to her waist. Clearly she had a presentiment of possible danger, but there was one marked difference between them, Meg thought. If trouble came, Seraphine would relish it.
Seraphine strode back to Meg, looking satisfied with her disposal of the dinghy. “There. At least the boat will remain secure and we shall not be cut off from our only route of escape. I have ordered Jacques and Louis to stand guard.”
“Surely you are being a little dramatic. I have come across to the mainland many times to treat ailments and never had a need to escape.”
“There is a huge difference between delivering some peasant’s babe and trying to cure a girl who claims to be possessed of demons and well you know it, Margaret Wolfe.”
“Not the way I have heard some poor women shriek and curse when in the midst of their labor pains.”
Meg’s mild attempt at humor did little to ease the scowl on Seraphine’s face. “I will tell you again, I don’t think you should be interfering in this matter.” Her tone softened as she added, “You are not obliged to atone for all the evil your mother did while she was alive. You don’t have to ride to the rescue anytime someone breathes the word witch.”
“That is not what I am doing,” Meg started, but was stopped by a look from Seraphine, the shrewd assessment of one who had been her friend for too many years and knew her far too well.
“Well, not entirely,” Meg amended. “As the new Lady of Faire Isle, is it not my duty to be a protector of women, especially other daughters of the earth?”
“I don’t think Ariane would have wanted you meddling in the superstitious affairs of folk on the mainland. My aunt would have counseled you to be prudent.”
“Since Ariane is no longer here, we cannot ask her.” It was a source of great sorrow to Meg and she was unable to keep the quiver from her voice.
Ariane Deauville, the former Lady of Faire Isle, had been all things to Meg these last fifteen years. Friend, mother, and teacher, she had instructed Meg in all the lore of the daughters of the earth, wise women gifted in the arts of healing and white magic.
None was more gifted than the one acclaimed as the Lady of Faire Isle, a time-honored title bestowed upon the woman best suited to be the leader among the daughters of the earth in each generation. Meg had been humbled and honored beyond measure when Ariane had chosen her to be her successor.
It had been a role Meg had not expected to assume for a good many years, as the title only passed upon the death of the previous Lady. But when her health had begun to fail, Ariane Deauville had broken with tradition and abdicated in Meg’s favor.
“Call me selfish, my dear,” Ariane had told her. “But I want to spend whatever time I may have left with my husband and son, traveling to places I have only read of in books, learning the secrets of healing and lore of other countries.”
Meg would never have dreamed of calling her friend selfish. No Lady had ever served Faire Isle and the daughters of the earth more devotedly than Ariane. If she could find a measure of peace and a cure for the illness that slowly devoured her, Meg could only wish her Godspeed.
Yet that day last spring when Meg had stood upon the dock, smiling and waving until the ship had disappeared from view, she had blinked back tears. She had been overcome with grief and a panicked feeling of being left to don a pair of shoes her feet would never grow large enough to fill.
She had striven hard to do so, grateful for the encouragement and support of Seraphine. But now when her friend wielded Ariane’s presumed wishes as a weapon, she could not help telling Seraphine.
“Are you not the one who has been telling me that when any situation arises, I must stop trying to guess what Ariane would have done? I must learn to employ my own judgment.”
“Not when you are wrong.”
“You mean when I don’t agree with you.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Seraphine demanded, then laughed. “Very well. Let us go find this foolish chit who claims to be beset with demons, so you can unbewitch her. With any luck, we may yet manage to avoid the storm and return to Faire Isle before dark. Although it would have been helpful if that idiot boy who came to beg your aid had waited to show the way.”
“Poor Denys was far too anxious to return. It matters naught. Pernod is a small village and the girl’s family owns the local hostelry, the Laughing Dolphin. Mademoiselle Tillet will not be hard to find.”
“Lead on, then.”
Pernod, like many of the villages on the Breton coast, was inhabited largely by fishermen. Over the years, a rough track had been worn up the rocky beach. Seraphine’s boots were far better suited to the terrain than the clumsy pattens Meg had donned to protect her shoes.
The comtesse had acquired a reputation at the French court as a woman of grace, charmingly seductive and full of a playful indolence. Seraphine, when she was on a mission, was an entirely different creature. Meg’s shorter legs were hard-pressed to keep pace with Seraphine’s lengthy strides.
By the time they reached the point where the track widened into the lane through the village, Meg was panting a little. As she had told Seraphine, Pernod was a small place, boasting little more than a score of dwellings, a tiny church, and a hostelry. At least the stout stone walls of the cottages provided a break from the wind, allowing Meg to ease her grip on her hood.
The dusty lane was deserted, the village eerily quiet, but for the occasional banging of a shutter and the rustle of the trees. The silence rendered Meg uneasy. Given the hour, she would have expected to see fishermen returning with the day’s catch, young boys wending homeward from their toil in the common field, or distracted mothers shooing stray children inside to their supper.
“What is this, some sort of ghost village? Where is everyone?” Seraphine demanded. “Mayhap the Tillet girl’s demon has carried everyone else off as well.”
“Don’t say that! Not even in jest. It is more likely that everyone has retreated indoors for fear of the approaching storm.”
Meg sought to reassure herself as much as Seraphine, but a part of her could not believe it. These Breton coastal people were hardy folk, accustomed to dealing with rough weather. They would not be driven to bolt their doors against the mere prospect of a little rain, thunder, and blustering wind.
Meg could think of only one thing that might have sent such a redoubtable breed of people into cowering inside their cottages: the fear that a witch walked among them.
Meg prayed it was not so. She had hoped to deal quietly with the Tillet girl’s claims of bewitchment, resolve the matter before the rumors and panic had time to spread. The kind of panic that could result in innocent women being accused of witchcraft, tortured, and hung.
As she and Seraphine rounded a bend in the lane, Meg spotted the inn sign creaking in the wind. The Laughing Dolphin was a modest hostelry that seldom saw much custom beyond local travelers. But on this somber dark afternoon, a stranger lingered in the doorway.
The man looked as out of place in this rugged fishing village as a satin doublet would have appeared strung on a wash line of coarse homespun shirts. Despite the dust that clung to his boots and the short cape that hung off one shoulder, there was a quality about his garments that marked him as a gentleman.
He was of no more than medium height, his figure far from imposing, but something in his self-assured manner gave him the appearance of being taller. A fine-looking man, Meg could not help noting. Some might even have said a beautiful one, with his lean chiseled features and smooth-shaven complexion, rather pale for one traveling during the summer months. The breeze stirred the feathers of his toque set upon waves of golden brown hair. His head tipped up as he studied the darkening sky.
Seraphine let out a low whistle between her teeth. “So who is this fine young buck?”
“I would have no idea,” Meg murmured, uneasily. “It is rather unusual for such a visitor to pass through a remote village like Pernod.”
“You are afraid he might be the devil you have been summoned to exorcise? He looks far too pretty for that.”
Meg glared up at her friend, but stopped as a sudden thought struck her. “Good lord, ’Phine. You don’t think your husband might have sent him?”
Seraphine looked taken aback by the notion before giving a derisive laugh. “What! Monsieur le Comte engage someone to find his errant wife and drag her back to Castelnau by the hair of her head? Gerard would not have the spine. And I doubt my dear husband wants me back any more than I desire to return to him.”
Meg could not agree with that, but she knew it would be of little use to argue the point. She had tried ever since Seraphine had arrived on Faire Isle five months ago.
“Moreover, that man isn’t even French,” Seraphine continued. “Very likely he is English.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Only look at the square cut of his doublet. No self-respecting French gallant would venture abroad wearing a garment so lacking in style.”
She and Meg had been speaking in low tones as they neared the inn, but the stranger’s attention riveted upon them. He straightened from the doorway and he stared. Meg felt the full weight of his gaze, hard, assessing, and far too intimate.
Meg shrank deeper inside her hood, her cheeks burning. “What business would an English gentleman have here in Pernod? And why does he stare so?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I should ask him and give him a lesson in manners.”
To Meg’s dismay, Seraphine halted, staring back at the stranger. With a challenging lift of her chin, she drew back her cloak, resting her hand upon the hilt of the rapier strapped to her side.
“Seraphine! Stop it,” Meg hissed. “I hate it when you do this.”
“Do what? Honor my father by wearing the sword he gave me?”
“I don’t object to you wearing it, so much as you itching to stick it in somebody.”
Meg held her breath as she awaited the man’s reaction to Seraphine’s aggressive gesture. The moment stretched out before he lowered his gaze. He bent in a grave bow and disappeared into the inn. Meg’s relief was so keen, a tremor coursed through her. But Seraphine—damn the woman—actually looked disappointed.
She eased her cloak back over her sword. “That’s that. Both of us are a little too much on edge, getting into a fret over nothing. Just some fool Englishman who has doubtless lost his way and seeks shelter from the incoming storm. He likely hoped to pass his time with some local wench.” Seraphine’s eyes danced with mischief as she added, “Just a hint, my dear. Next time you venture off your island, you really should try not to attract so much attention.”
Meg choked between a laugh and a vexed oath. “Wretch! If men are of a mind to stare, it is always at you.”
“But you are the one they never forget. I daresay it is those fey green eyes of yours. One look into them and a man is lost forever.” Seraphine teased, but there was a wistful note to her voice as well.
Meg shook her head, dismissing Seraphine’s words as nonsense or wanting to because she had striven most of her life to be forgettable, to be invisible, hidden by the mists of Faire Isle.
Perhaps she had overreacted to the stranger, her irrational fear just another part of the bleak legacy left her by her mother. For most of her childhood and youth, she had every cause to fear, to know what it was to be hunted. Every stray glance, every stare that lingered too long, every stranger who crossed her path could herald danger.
But surely those days were long behind her now. Her great enemy, the Dark Queen, Catherine de Medici, was dead these fifteen years and more. Meg’s witch of a mother, Cassandra Lascelles, was gone longer still, swallowed up by the waters of the Seine. Likewise Cassandra’s coven of fanatic devotees had all been destroyed, slain by witch-hunters or imprisoned, tried, and put to death.
There was no one left to menace Meg’s peace anymore, no one to come after her. So why should the encounter with this stranger cause the back of her neck to prickle? Some voice inside her whispered that his coming here, his interest in her was no mere chance.
When she was younger, she would have heeded that voice. As she grew older, she became less attuned to the fey side of her nature, more inclined to question her instincts, to dismiss her extraordinary senses as folly.
Her pulse tripped nervously as she and Seraphine crossed the yard and approached the archway where the stranger had vanished. Meg wished that Bridget Tillet was a fisherman’s daughter, dwelling in some remote cottage far up the beach. More than anything, she wished herself back on her island.
When Seraphine shoved open the inn door, they were beset by a cacophony of noise and overpowering scents, the odor of strong spirits and cooked meats mingling with the stench of unwashed bodies.
At least the mystery of the absent villagers was solved. Meg’s heart sank as she entered the crowded taproom. Most of Pernod appeared crammed inside, every vacant stool and bench filled. Others leaned upon the bar counter, gesturing and arguing, the sound like the buzzing of a wasp’s nest that had been disturbed. Meg could make out little of what was being said, but the tone was unmistakable, angry and frightened.
The traveler she had encountered outside sat a little removed from the locals. Of all the people present, he was the only one still and silent. Perhaps that was the very quality that drew her eye, that aura of isolation that clung to him, made him seem alone even in the midst of this crowd.
As Seraphine closed the door behind them, all heads turned in their direction and the entire room fell silent.
“Merde,” Seraphine muttered.
Although Meg would not have expressed herself so crudely, she agreed with the sentiment. The air crackled with tension like green logs tossed upon a roaring fire. Meg caught a few whispered words. “The Lady. Faire Isle. Sorceress.”
Meg was subjected to a score of stares, some curious, some hostile. She was known to many of the villagers, although folk from the mainland sought Meg’s healing skills with more wariness than they had the previous Lady of Faire Isle.
As she drew back her hood, a few of the villagers crossed themselves as though seeking protection from the evil eye. Meg flinched, wondering if they had ever done so with Ariane, or did these simple folk perceive something more sinister in Meg’s countenance? A trace of Cassandra Lascelles’s darkness trapped in her daughter’s eyes, despite all of Meg’s efforts to bury her past.
But it was not the stares of the villagers that unnerved her. She was aware of the stranger studying her, his eyes quiet and watchful. Meg averted her gaze.
“Clear the way,” Seraphine growled, preparing to shoulder a path for Meg through the crowd. It was unnecessary. They fell back, whether out of fear or respect Meg could not tell, perhaps a mixture of both, for while they eyed Meg uneasily, they gaped at Seraphine. Whether she was clad in leather breeches or dripping with satin and jewels, Seraphine was very much Madame la Comtesse. Her haughty expression defied anyone to cry shame upon her or even remark upon her unwomanly apparel.
Someone in the room found his tongue to ask, “So is it true then? Is the Tillet girl bewitched?”
Other voices piped up.
“Do you know who cursed her?”
“Can you save her, milady?”
“Is your own magic strong enough to remove the curse?”
Before Meg could frame a reply, Seraphine said, “There is no bewitchment. The Lady is here to heal the girl who likely suffers from mal de bêtise.”
“Mal de bêtise? What is that?” A boy quavered.
“A disorder that attacks your wits, rendering you incredibly stupid. I hear that it is highly contagious.”
“Seraphine,” Meg remonstrated, observing the confused scowls that her friend’s sarcasm produced.
“The best thing for you all to do is return to your homes,” Seraphine added. “In case you haven’t noticed, there is a storm coming.”
No one budged. To Meg’s relief, she spied young Denys Brunel near the door leading to the kitchen. He stood conferring with two lanky ginger-haired men. The younger of the two had his arm wrapped about the shoulders of an elderly woman who wept into her apron.
Denys’s face lit up at Meg’s approach. At least someone looked glad to see her, she reflected. The boy hastened to perform introductions.
“Milady, this is Master Raimond Tillet and his son, Osbert. And this is Madame Sidonie Tillet, the grandmother of my poor Bridget—” Denys paused, reddening before amending, “I mean Mademoiselle Bridget Tillet, the girl that I told you about who is so sorely afflicted.”
The two men nodded curtly, but the old woman staggered toward Meg. Squinting at Meg through her tears, she clutched Meg’s hand. Sidonie Tillet’s grip was strong, her skin rough and work worn.
“Oh, milady, bless all the saints that you have come to remove this curse from my poor granddaughter.”
“Well, I—” Meg began, only to be cut off by a stern voice that she recognized.
“This is no work for women. This is a matter for the holy church.” Meg started as Father Jerome, a spare man in his late forties, descended the wooden stairs that led to the chambers above.
Meg had crossed paths with the priest on previous visits to Pernod. Unlike some of the lower clergy, he was a fairly educated man and tolerant of women like Meg as long as she confined her craft to midwifery or healing the sick. But his stern look warned her that he regarded her appearance in this matter as an incursion into his realm.
Ignoring Meg, he addressed Raimond Tillet. “I have examined your daughter. In my opinion, she is indeed possessed of demons and an exorcism must be performed. I must ride north to consult with my bishop before—”
“And while you are doing that, Bridget could die,” Osbert Tillet snapped. “There is only one thing that can help my sister and that is to hunt down the witch that cursed her and destroy her.”
Meg’s heart missed a beat as there was a chorus of assent from the rest of the room. She felt Seraphine tense beside her and noticed the movement beneath Seraphine’s cloak as her friend clutched at the hilt of her sword.
“And just who would that be?” Seraphine demanded.
“Who else could it be but la Mère Poulet?” Osbert asked.
“What!” Meg exclaimed. “You cannot mean that poor old beggar woman who keeps a chicken on a leash for her pet?”
“It is her familiar,” Osbert said. “I hear her talk to it all the time. Once when I laughed at her for doing so, she put a curse on me and the very next week, I sprained my ankle.”
“What nonsense,” Seraphine began hotly, but Meg gave her arm a cautioning squeeze.
“Please allow me to see Mademoiselle Bridget,” Meg said, appealing to the girl’s grandmother. Despite her tears, Sidonie seemed by far the calmest, most reasonable person in the room. “You sent for me for my healing skills. I am sure I can find some natural cause for Bridget’s ailment and the right herbs to cure her.”
“That is already being tried. The doctor is attending to Bridget even now,” Raimond said before the old woman could reply. “I am sorry that my mother summoned you all this way for nothing, mademoiselle.” The innkeeper puffed out his chest with an air of great importance as he announced loud enough for the entire room to hear. “But my daughter is being treated by a genuine healer, a most learned physician.”
“This wretched little village boasts of a doctor?” Seraphine asked.
The innkeeper bristled at Seraphine’s scornful tone, but he replied courteously enough. “Non, madame. This physician, Dr. Blackwood, is traveling in the company of the English lord who is stopping at the inn tonight. Most fortuitous for my poor daughter.”
Meg’s gaze was drawn back toward the stranger seated near the hearth. She thought that he observed them all with the cool detachment of a spectator at a play, waiting to see how the drama would unfold.
“If Mademoiselle Tillet is being tended to by this Dr. Blackwood, then you have no need of the Lady.” Seraphine’s fingers closed over Meg’s arm. “Come on. If we hurry, we can still cross the channel before the storm breaks.”
Both Denys and Madame Tillet cried out in protest.
“Please, do not go, milady,” the old lady begged. “You are the only one who can save my granddaughter. I have no faith in this English doctor.”
“How unfortunate, but that is not our concern,” Seraphine said.
“Yes, it is.” Meg said. When Seraphine tried to hustle her away, Meg dug in her heels. “ ’Phine, you know how ignorant these medical men can be, more versed in Latin than any useful healing arts. God knows what vile draughts and emetics he will pour down that poor girl’s throat.”
“I daresay she will survive. Many do.”
“And many don’t.”
Bending closer, Seraphine muttered in Meg’s ear. “I am more concerned with your survival than hers. You were already taking enough of a risk interfering in this matter, but now with the village priest and some damn fool doctor involved—”
“All the more reason that poor girl needs me. I cannot walk away now.”
“Yes, you can. Just put one foot in front of the other and head in that direction.”
Seraphine thrust her toward the door, but at that moment, a scream echoed from the regions abovestairs. Loud and shrill, it was as unsettling as the cry of a banshee. Sidonie whimpered in alarm and the men looked frightened. Even Seraphine paled, muttering, “Holy Mother of God!”
Meg wrenched free of Seraphine and bolted toward the stairs. The innkeeper tried to stop her, but he was blocked by his son.
“Non, Papa. Let the Lady go to her,” Osbert said. “The only one who can break the curse of a witch is another witch.”
“The Lady of Faire Isle is no witch!” Seraphine snarled.
The taproom instantly turned into a hubbub of arguing voices, punctuated by the screams from above. Ignoring them all, Meg raced up the stairs. She only stopped when she realized Seraphine was hard on her heels.
“No,” she said, turning back to her friend and speaking in a low urgent voice. “If I cannot help this girl, I am not sure how this will end.”
“I am. They will take up that old beggar woman for witchcraft and you as well.”
“That is why you must go find la Mère Poulet and hide her.”
“Be damned to her. Old Mother Chicken must shift for herself. I am not leaving you.”
“Seraphine—”
“No!”
Meg studied the adamant set of Seraphine’s jaw and sighed. “Stay, then, but try to reason with these men and keep any of them from going in search of the old woman.”
“Now, that I can do.” She started to unsheathe her sword, but Meg’s hand shot out to stay her.
“No, this is not a task for an Amazon warrior, but for Madame la Comtesse and her considerable charms of persuasion.”
“Why can I never make you understand that it is far more effective to knock men’s heads together rather than try to beguile them?” Seraphine said, but she relented, easing her rapier back into its scabbard. “Oh, all right. Circe it shall be, not Hippolyte.”
“Thank you.” Meg grimaced as another shriek sounded from above.
Seraphine glanced upward uneasily. “I doubt this doctor will appreciate your interference any more than the village priest. You be careful, Meggie.”
“I will. I have dealt with such ignorant fools before. I am sure this is nothing I cannot handle, just a young girl indulging a bout of hysterics.”
Despite her brave assertion, Meg felt a shiver go through her as she headed back up the stairs. She had confidence in her abilities as a healer. She had been taught by that wisest of women, Ariane Deauville, and Meg had learned well.
Yet it wasn’t Ariane’s gentle image that filled Meg’s mind as she climbed the stairs, but that of Cassandra Lascelles with her ebony hair, ice-white skin, and unseeing dark eyes.
Of a sudden, Meg was a child again, creeping up to the forbidden tower room where Maman lit the black candles and bent over the steaming copper basin. Muttering her incantations, Cassandra would call forth spirits from the water, make the chamber echo with deep sepulchral voices.
As a rational daughter of the earth, Meg wished she could deny that such black magic existed, but she had seen it for herself. She feared it could only be a matter of when, not if, she ever encountered such evil again.
Perhaps even now it lay in wait for her at the top of the stairs in this humble inn. Meg trembled and then steeled herself. She was no longer Cassandra Lascelles’s daughter, but the Lady of Faire Isle, the bringer of light and reason.
The horrible cries originated from behind the first door to the left. Meg started to knock, and stopped, the distraught sounds from beyond making all formality seem foolish.
She pushed open the door, entered the bedchamber, and caught her breath, feeling as though she had just stepped into hell. An inferno of a fire blazed on the hearth, rendering the room hot and airless. The flames sent shadows on the wall, the glow making the faded bed curtains appear as red as blood.
Candles had been lit, in the wall sconces, upon the mantel, and on a small table, as though someone believed that with enough light, the devil could be kept at bay.
It hadn’t worked, Meg thought with a small shiver. He hovered over the bed, in the guise of a tall dark man.
She closed the door quietly, her arrival unnoticed by the trio on the opposite side of the room. The doctor fought to subdue the girl writhing beneath the bedcovers. An older girl looked on, wringing her hands, her face as pale as her linen coif.
“Mademoiselle Bridget! You must be still,” the doctor said, his voice thick with an odd accent. He snapped at the older girl. “Don’t just stand there like a block of wood. Help me to restrain your sister.”
Bridget flailed, her fist striking the doctor in the eye. He jerked back and swore, while Bridget shrieked to her sister, “Charlotte! Help me.”
“Please, Bridget,” Charlotte quavered. “You must try to fight this evil spell.”
“I can’t. Oh, how she tortures me.”
“La Mère Poulet. Can you not see her?”
“No. Where is she?”
“There.”
Meg froze, fearing that the girl meant to point a trembling finger in her direction, but Bridget gestured toward the ceiling.
“She is there! Hovering above my bed. Oh! Cannot you hear her horrible laugh? Do you not see her?”
Charlotte looked wildly about the bedchamber and actually ducked as though she expected some vengeful spirit to fly down upon her, claws bared. “No, Bridget,” she quavered. “I confess I do not see anything.”
“That is because there is nothing to see,” Blackwood said. Nursing his injured eye, he groped for something on the table while ordering Charlotte to gain command of herself. “Stop behaving like a fool and help—”
But Charlotte had had all she could endure. With a frightened sob, she fled from the room, nearly knocking Meg over in the process.
Dr. Blackwood noticed Meg and whipped upright. He towered over her when he straightened to his full height. His brawny shoulders, combined with his shabby manner of dress, gave him more the look of a field hand than a doctor. His disheveled brown hair and beard were badly in want of a trim, his eyes appearing bloodshot and shadowed from want of sleep.
“Who the devil are you?” he growled. His glare felt forceful enough to hurl her back through the door. But Meg stood her ground.
“I am the Lady—” Meg checked, always feeling pretentious announcing her title. She finished simply, “I am Margaret Wolfe.”
The doctor’s lips curled in contempt. “The cunning woman from the island? That’s all I need. Although you might prove some help if you weren’t such a scrawny thing.”
“I beg your pardon!”
His gaze raked over her. “Do you think you are strong enough to help me hold that chit down?”
“Hold her down for what?”
“The wench needs to be bled.” Blackwood raised his arm and Meg noticed the sharp gleam of the lancet he clutched in his right hand.
Her gasp was lost in the howl that erupted from Bridget. The girl burrowed beneath the covers until not even the tip of her head was visible.
“It would not matter how strong I was,” Meg said. “I would not aid you in such a barbarous practice.”
“Then you are of no use whatever. Get out.”
He turned back toward the bed, but Meg darted round him.
“You are the one who should go.” She reeled back in distaste as she breathed in the odor of strong spirits. She suddenly understood the odd accent of his speech.
“By God, monsieur! You are drunk.”
A red stain spread across Blackwood’s cheekbones. “I may have consumed a little burgundy, but I am sober enough to know what needs to be done.”
“Bloodletting? Is that the only remedy you doctors know? Slicing open someone’s veins?”
“The girl’s womb is full of noxious humors that are making her hysterical. Bleeding is the only remedy.”
“What would you know of a woman’s womb or any other part of her anatomy?”
“Oh, I assure you I have made a most thorough study of the female body.” The suggestive slur in his voice only increased Meg’s anger.
“And what do you know of a woman’s mind or soul?”
“Do you have one? I believe there is some debate on that point.”
“Then go and debate it with your friend downstairs. And attempt to sober up while you are about it. The only thing worse than an ignorant doctor is an inebriated one.”
She turned her back on him and stepped toward the bed. But he grabbed her arm and spun her about. “And leave you here to give credence to this girl’s nonsense? I think not. There is something far more dangerous than a drunken doctor and that is a witch claiming to possess supernatural powers of healing.”
“I claim nothing of the kind. Let me go.”
“I will when you are on your way out the door.”
His grip tightened painfully, but Meg refused to flinch. Their gazes locked in a silent battle of will. Meg stared deep into his eyes and it felt like falling into the depths of a well. She had never encountered an expression so dark, so cold, and so empty. Not since the last time she had looked into her mother’s eyes.
Meg’s anger dissolved into fear. Her gaze flicked from Blackwood’s stony gaze to the sharp lancet he gripped in his hand.
When the door swung open, she glanced around in relief. For once she would have welcomed the sight of Seraphine charging in with sword drawn. But rescue came from a quarter she would have never expected.
The strange Englishman stood in the doorway, frowning as he took in the scene before him.
“Armagil, what is going on? Let her go.”
The man’s command was so soft-spoken, Meg feared the doctor would pay no heed. But Blackwood blinked and glanced down at the lancet as though becoming aware of his menacing posture.
He released Meg, growling to his friend. “Take her out of here.”
Meg rubbed her sore arm, bracing herself for a fresh assault, but the other man only shook his head. “No, Gil. I think you are the one who must come away.”
Blackwood glowered at his friend. “The devil I will.”
The two men spoke in English in low voices as if they thought she could not understand. Or perhaps as though she had become a thing of no importance, not even present. The conflict of will was between them now, Blackwood’s gaze dark and ferocious, his friend’s calm and steady.
“The girl’s sister is down there raising an uproar, Gil. She claims you are doing nothing to ease her sister’s suffering.”
“Perhaps I could if I was allowed to proceed. I was close to resolving this matter until she intruded.” Blackwood gestured angrily toward Meg. “Why did you let her come up?”
“Because she was expected. Except for the landlord and the village priest, it is clear that all these people place a great deal of faith in her skills.”
Blackwood snorted.
“Whereas I was worried all along that you are in no condition to deal with this.”
“I am fine.”
“Are you, Gil? Look at your hand.”
Blackwood gazed down at his trembling fingers, grimaced, and clenched them into a fist. His friend stepped forward, placing his hand on Blackwood’s shoulder with the kind of gentling gesture he might have used on a restive steed.
“Come away. There is nothing you can accomplish here. Let us see what the lady can do.”
“You expect me to walk away, just so you can satisfy your curiosity about this witch? Damn it, Graham, you know what could happen—”
“I know, but there may be better ways of dealing with it. Come, Gil, before the girl’s brother or some of those other hot-tempered louts belowstairs take a notion to come storming up here. We cannot afford to find ourselves at the center of anything that might draw down upon us the attention of local authorities.”
Blackwood regarded his friend belligerently and swore. He shrugged off his hand and then stormed out of the bedchamber without looking back.
Meg had all but held her breath during the entire exchange. “Thank you,” she said.
The Englishman stared after Blackwood, but Meg’s quiet words drew his attention back to her. He bowed stiffly and addressed her in French. “My apologies for my friend, mademoiselle. Blackwood can be rather abrupt and difficult, but he is a good doctor except for when …”
“When he has been imbibing too much wine?”
“In his defense, he did not expect to attend to any patients this evening.”
Meg appreciated the man’s loyalty to his friend, but she could not allow this excuse. “Is it not the mark of a good doctor to always be prepared to minister aid when needed?”
He fell silent as though unable to argue the point. Meg studied his eyes. She thought if sorrow were a color, then this man’s eyes would be tinted with it. Instead they were blue, a startlingly vivid blue.
“We have had a long journey to arrive at this place,” he said at last. “Dr. Blackwood is very wearied. We both are. But I assure you he will trouble you no further, Mademoiselle Wolfe.”
His easy use of her name jolted Meg. As the man prepared to leave, she said, “You appear to know who I am, but I still have no idea of who you are, monsieur.”
“My name is … Graham.” He hesitated before adding, “Sir Patrick Graham, at your service, milady.”
He surprised her by taking her hand and lifting it lightly to his lips. And then he was gone.