Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon) (4 page)

“And so
witches and demons are of the same ilk in your mind?”

She shifted
in her seat and warmth rose from her skin combined with an herbal scent that
enticed him. The hardening between his legs became more acute.

“I have no
interest in the arcane arts, so I do not think of such things at all.” He
leaned toward her, and their gazes locked. “But I am interested in you. What is
your name, my lady?”

The tip of
her tongue touched her lips, and a warm rush of desire pulsed through him.
Perhaps there would be time for play with this minx, once he got Morgan settled
into his bed and sent a servant for the physician.

“Catlin
Glyndwr,” she said and moistened her lips again.

“Catlin,” he
repeated. “The name suits you.”

“And what
about you?” she asked.

“Oh, it
suits me too.”

Her lashes
fluttered against her cheek and a deep dimple appeared at the corner of her
mouth when her lips formed a puckered smile. “I meant to ask, who are you? I
heard Lord Cranbourne call you Griffin in the cell at the gaol.”

“So you were
paying attention to our conversation? I thought perhaps you had been terrified
into a fainting spell.” He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back
against the seat. “I am Sir Griffin Reynolds, the son of Baron Thomas Reynolds.
Since I am the third son, I chose a commission in His Majesty’s service rather
then genteel poverty. As I told you before, I only recently arrived back home
from Ireland.”

Catlin
Glyndwr trained her gaze upon Morgan. Silence filled the carriage as they
bumped along for a few miles.

“I will do
as I promised, I swear to it.”

Griffin
struggled to hear the soft whisper of her words.

“I shall
heal your friend in payment for my life, for surely they would have hanged me
as a witch.”

Anger
flashed through Griffin that a woman as gentle and beautiful as Catlin Glyndwr
should be caught in a web of outrageous lies and superstitious fear. He could
forgive peasants, for they had no education, but for the merchants and
aristocracy to be so gullible seemed improbable. While he might call this woman
bewitching, he would never accuse her of the dark crimes associated with
witchcraft.

“I appreciate
the help you’ve given my friend, but once we arrive at his home, I intend to
send for a physician to treat him. He can decide what further measures are
necessary.”

Catlin
turned to him. Silver glimmers of light once again danced in the sapphire depths
of her eyes and a sudden calm warmth suffused his body. He had an urge to look
away, yet discovered he couldn’t turn from her captivating gaze.

“I can cure
your friend, if you but give me the chance.”

“You can
cure him,” murmured Griffin. The warmth now enveloped him as the herbal scent
surrounding Catlin intensified. Small silver and crystal motes darted toward
his friend stretched upon the opposite seat. He wanted to turn away, but the
look in Catlin Glyndwr’s eyes mesmerized him.

“If you but
trust in me, ’twill be done.” Her voice held a musical Welsh accent like she
was singing an ancient song.

His body was
warm, relaxed, and he felt as content as he’d been since arriving home from
Ireland. “I trust you to heal Lord Cranbourne,” he said.

A rush of wind
gusted over him as one of the curtains tore from its tie. A splash of rain hit
his face and jerked him from his trancelike reverie.

What in
God’s name had just happened to him?

Chapter Three

“As I have
promised, so shall it be,” Catlin whispered. Her voice was soft, but sure.

Griffin
leaned back on the seat. His dark glower warned her he wasn’t as susceptible to
magic as some. Oh, he would do as she wanted, eventually, but he resisted the
glamour she’d cast to control him.

He’s very
strong. Managing him would be a challenge.

She blinked
and tried to dismiss the thought. She must protect her sisters, not entertain
notions of romantic liaisons or flirting. Her actions had put her entire family
in jeopardy, and it was now her responsibility to find a way to keep them safe.

Once word of
Catlin’s escape spread, her sisters would be drawn into the inquiry concerning
her disappearance. Her younger sisters were not yet initiated into their magic,
and her eldest sister’s magic could be wild and unpredictable when fully
unleashed, especially if she were angry.

“What?” He
seemed about to say more before glancing away.

The form
stretched across the seat opposite them coughed. A pale visage rose like a
ghost to face them.

Lord Cranbourne’s
struggle for each breath now seemed less labored. Good, she thought, relieved.
The
sylphs
have done their work and eased this man’s suffering.

A small
light shimmered like a crystal in response to her thought, and she smiled at
the subtle message.

Griffin
leaned forward to place his strong, thick-fingered hand on his friend’s knee.
“Don’t try to speak, Cranbourne. God’s teeth but I thought you were destined
for the church yard before the week was done.”

Lord Cranbourne
moaned as he put his hand to his chest. Caught up again in a fit of coughing,
he closed his eyes. He struggled for a moment, attempting to sit, then he laid
back again on the seat.

“My father
will be most disappointed if I choose to exit this world before producing an
heir. ’Tis a task he reminds me of religiously since this illness came over
me.” He paused to inhale. “Even now he is in London, searching for a virgin to
sacrifice upon the marital altar in order to guarantee our family line does not
disappear when I die.”

Griffin
examined his friend’s ashen face. “The man cannot let you rest even when you
suffer so much. A pox on his wish for an heir, Cranbourne. You are ill and
should not be considering marriage at this time.”

Lord Cranbourne
accomplished a thin smile and coughed again before answering. “My father has
all but arranged it, and only needs me to accomplish the bedding to be content
that at least I shall not leave this earth without attempting to breed him an
heir. The old man has been most patient with me, and while he’d hoped his new
wife would give him another son, it appears I am his only hope for the family
name to continue.”

Catlin
regarded the two men. “So much talk of death, when men of your age and position
should be eager for life and all the adventure it presents.”

Lord Cranbourne
frowned. “Aren’t you the witch? How did you come to be here?”

A smirk
crossed Griffin’s handsome face as he leaned toward his friend. “She escaped
with us from the gaol, and I beg for the sake of our friendship that you won’t
send her back to that pisshole.”

The carriage
halted and sent Griffin and Catlin forward, almost knocking their heads against
each other.

Another
coughing fit struck Lord Cranbourne. “You said—you could—cure me.”

He leaned
back. His face was still pale, but a bit of ruddy color had returned to his
cheeks. He would be a handsome man if his health improved.

“If you
trust me, ’twill be done,” she promised.

When the
carriage door opened, Griffin offered a hand to assist his friend.

The sick man
rose, unsteady on his legs. He finally leaned against Griffin’s shoulder to
stand. “I trust you, witch, if your ministrations can be less painful than the
bleeding and puking the surgeons have forced upon me.” Lord Cranbourne
carefully climbed out the carriage door, reaching for assistance from the
coachman. He shuffled up the granite steps to the manor house, using Griffin
for support and help.

Catlin
sensed there was little time left to help this man. His talk of death might
serve as a premonition of his fate.

She cursed
the loss of her deerskin herbal pouch, which carried all the necessary items
for creating the potions and elixirs her mother had taught her. Tonight she
would be forced to improvise. She took a deep breath and tried to push away the
dreadful memory of the last time she’d attempted a healing spell. Her life
might depend upon her ability to save Lord Cranbourne.

And yet, she
knew to do so would put her life, and the lives of her sisters, into greater
jeopardy. The authorities would search her sister’s home first for her, and
Catlin only hoped they wouldn’t seize her family and throw them into the goal.

 But she
couldn’t deny this man the help he so desperately needed. Her vows demanded she
help anyone who asked for her assistance regardless of concerns for her own, or
her families fate.

There was
also her own conscience to deal with, for her call to the wind to release her
from the gaol had been the reason Lord Cranbourne was suffering from this most
recent episode of lung fever. 

As she
watched the two men climb the steps, she recalled the words of her initiation.

Deny ye none
who ask for help and healing. Harm not those who harm not thee. So as it is, so
shall it be.

Demonstrating
her powers could convince these men that she was in league with the devil and
send her to the gallows. Yet to refuse the help Sir Griffin Reynolds requested
would test her own vows as an elemental witch.

She could
pretend to help with some simple herbal concoctions and a few phrases that
might appear to work, if only long enough for her to return to her sister’s house.
But she sensed from what her
sylphs
had told her that Lord Cranbourne
was fatally ill, and only with their assistance had he even regained
consciousness. Despite her concerns about the consequences, she would do all
she could to heal the man.

Catlin was
grateful to enter the shelter of the cozy hall and escape the torrent of rain
as they made their way from the carriage to the manor house. She wrapped
Griffin’s cloak more securely about herself to hide her torn clothing. The
steward sniffed, and she understood that after only a few hours in the gaol,
she carried its stench of filth and despair.

Sir Griffin
Reynolds barked an order at the footman standing nearby.

“We must get
Lord Cranbourne into his bed, and then be quick about gathering the things this
woman needs. Obey her without question.”

She stared
in wonder as the men stumbled in their eagerness to follow his directions. Sir
Griffin Reynolds had likely served his king well, because his tone left no
doubt as to his ability to lead men.

The steward
nodded in her direction, and she struggled to come up with items this household
might have on hand.

“Can you
bring me a silver bowl, hot water, some herbs?”

She gained
courage when the man nodded.

“The
apothecary has left us well stocked, due to milord’s recent illness.” He
offered.

“Aye” she
said. “Then bring me garlic, stinging nettle, butterbur, chamomile and some
white lard. Also bring me a branch from a willow tree, a silver handled knife,
some green cloth and I will need several porcelain cups and a candle scented
with sage, if you have one.”

She
concentrated, trying to remember all the items necessary to cast a healing
circle. Her mother had been a gifted healer, but Catlin had little experience,
and after her last attempt, no confidence. Healing was rarely asked of one who
could call upon the elemental spirit of the wind. She was a visionary and
traveler between the spirit worlds.

As she
climbed the stairs, following the group of men carrying Lord Cranbourne she
peeked back behind her. The servant stood frozen to the spot, a look of fear
sketched upon his face as he crossed himself. If only such simple gestures were
adequate for such a task. She wanted to be patient, but the healing spell put
upon the sick man was weak and would not hold long without more help from her.

“I believe
Sir Reynolds told you to be quick about your business,” she snapped. “I would
regret telling him you have tarried as Lord Cranbourne expired upon this
stairway.”

The man
bustled from the hallway toward the back of the house.

Her stomach
rumbled and she regretted her failure to request a simple ploughman’s lunch of
bread, cheese, and cider. The casting of spells was hard work. She would need
the assistance of her
sylphs
again tonight, and she found their
management both a trial and a delight.

Catlin
discovered a group of servants assembled outside a doorway near the top of the
second floor. Griffin Reynolds issued orders for them to bring warm stones for
Lord Cranbourne’s bed in a loud, booming voice.

By the Lady,
that man was an officious sort. A shiver of fear rolled down her spine. Men who
expected obedience always resented women who refused to be easily managed or
controlled.

An elderly
servant stripped the drenched clothing from Lord Cranbourne. She averted her
eyes and pretended to study the decoration of the room. A hot fire glowed in
the fireplace, and she stepped forward to warm her hands.

“Hawes, see
to it that stones are warmed for his bed, and bring me a change of clothing.
I’m fairly soaked to the bone myself.”

Sir
Reynolds’s voice paused, and she felt his dark eyes upon her back.

“See if you
can find a dry gown for this lady. She’s been caught with us in this wretched
downpour tonight and is traveling without her baggage.”

Catlin
nodded her gratitude to Sir Reynolds. Lord Cranbourne was now settled into the
huge cherry wood bedstead with several layers of covers pulled to his chin. He
appeared to sleep, although his continued struggle to breathe and the ivory
pallor of his skin indicated the spell was wearing off. Time was growing short,
she realized, and a small flicker of light appeared near the edge of her vision
to confirm her prediction.

He grows
weaker each moment, a sweet voice, like birdsong filled her mind. Ye must work
quickly and ye need our help.

Catlin
nodded and proceeded to bargain. What price? She asked in the silent language
of her
sylphs
.

A loud
twittering filled her ears, and Catlin watched Sir Reynolds in terror. Of
course, he wasn’t an elemental empath, so he heard nothing. Still, the fear was
always with her. Since the
sylphs
were so dear and real to her, she
feared a
sophor
, a person who possessed no magic, might someday hear
one.

Honey and
cakes, came the answer. Silk thread for ribbons, bright colors this time, not
drab. The bargaining continued.

An hour and
a day in the Dream Time. And a kiss.

“A kiss!”

When Sir
Reynolds turned his head and raised a well-formed eyebrow, she realized she had
uttered the words aloud. Her cheeks warmed.

“’Twill be
my pleasure, my lady, once Lord Cranbourne is well settled.”

His
impossibly beautiful mouth lifted at the corners and formed a delicious grin.
Catlin resisted the urge to answer his jape. Assuming the role of bitter harpy
would not serve her well on this night.

“I must beg
your pardon, sir. I was considering the healing and thought perchance a kiss
might help revive his lordship.”

Sir Griffin
Reynolds stood and strode in her direction. He towered above her as she drew
herself to her full height to face him, bringing her eyes level with his thickly
muscled chest. A glimmer of teasing sparkled in his midnight hued eyes.

“It is such
a shame to waste the sweetness of a kiss upon one who cannot enjoy the pleasure
of it, Catlin.”

He
pronounced her name slowly, like honey dripping from a pitcher.

The dampness
made his ebony locks curl at their ends. He wore it stylishly long, and this
night the stubble of a beard fringed the sharp contours of his face. He looked
dark and dangerous, and another flare of something hot and arousing moved
through her.

His gaze
wandered from her eyes to her bosom. Once again a flash of heat bestirred her.

She took a
step back, fearful his hand might stretch out to squeeze and fondle her, like
the Witch Hunter Bodwell had done.She needn't have worried. A parade of
servants arrived carrying the items she’d requested from the steward. Sir
Reynolds turned away from her to cross the room. He stood for a moment at a
small door leading to another room adjoining the bedchamber.

“See that
Miss Glyndwr has all she needs.” His terse remark had a dazzling effect upon
the servants, as they hurried to clear a space upon a huge wood table and set
out the items she’d requested.