“The later the hour, the more unrestrained the merrymaking tends to become,” the earl had said meaningfully. “Under the influence of wine—and behind the concealment of masks—people tend to do things they would never think of doing in the light of day.”
“Oh, what’s a little fertility ritual here or there?” Daisy had scoffed cheerfully. “I’m not so innocent that I—”
“We’ll be back early,” Matthew had told the earl.
Now as they made their way through the exuberantly crowded village, Daisy understood what Westcliff had meant. It was still early evening, and already it appeared that copiously flowing wine had loosened inhibitions. People were embracing, arguing, laughing and playing. Some were laying floral wreaths at the base of the oldest oak trees, or pouring wine at the roots, or…
“Good Lord,” Daisy said, her attention caught by a perplexing sight in the distance, “what are they doing to that poor tree?”
Matthew’s hands clasped her head and firmly aimed her face in another direction. “Don’t look.”
“Was it some form of tree-worship or—”
“Let’s go watch the rope-dancers,” he said with sudden enthusiasm, guiding her to the other side of the green.
They walked slowly past fire-swallowers, conjurors and tumblers, pausing to purchase a skin of new wine. Daisy drank carefully from the wineskin, but a drop escaped from the corner of her lips. Matthew smiled and began to reach into his pocket for a handkerchief, then appeared to think better of it. Instead he ducked his head and kissed away the wine droplet.
“You’re supposed to be protecting me from impropriety,” she said with a grin, “and instead you’re leading me astray.”
The backs of his knuckles stroked gently against the side of her face. “I’d like to lead you astray,” he murmured. “In fact, I’d like to lead you straight into those woods and…” He seemed to lose his train of thought as he stared into her soft, dark eyes. “Daisy Bowman,” he whispered. “I wish—”
But she was never to find out what his wish was, because she was abruptly pushed into him as a crowd jostled past. Everyone was bent on obtaining a view of a pair of jugglers who had clubs and hoops spinning in the air between them. In the rush the wineskin was knocked from Daisy’s hands and trampled underfoot. Matthew put his arms around her protectively.
“I dropped the wine,” Daisy said regretfully.
“Just as well.” His mouth lowered to her ear, his lips brushing the delicate outer rim. “It might have gone to my head. And then you might have taken advantage of me.”
Daisy smiled and snuggled against his hard form, her senses delighting in the reassuring warmth of his embrace. “Are my designs on you that obvious?” she asked in a muffled voice.
He nuzzled into the soft space beneath her earlobe. “I’m afraid so.”
Tucking her against his side, Matthew guided her through the crush of bodies until they reached the open space beside the booths. He bought her a paper cone of roasted nuts…a marzipan rabbit…a silver rattle for baby Merritt, and a painted cloth doll for Annabelle’s daughter. As they walked the length of High Street toward the waiting carriage, Daisy was stopped by a gaudily dressed woman wearing scarves shot with metallic thread, and jewelry made of beaten gold.
The woman’s face reminded Daisy exactly of the apple dolls she and Lillian had made when they were children. They had carved faces in the sides of the peeled fruit and let them dry into brown, charmingly furrowed heads. Black beads for eyes and soft tufts of carded wool for the hair…yes, this woman looked exactly the same.
“A fortune for the lady, sir?” the woman asked Matthew.
Glancing at Daisy, Matthew raised a sardonic brow.
She grinned, knowing full well he had no patience with mysticism, superstitions, or anything to do with the supernatural. He was far too practical to believe in things that couldn’t be proved by empirical evidence.
“Just because you don’t believe in magic,” Daisy told him playfully, “doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Don’t you want a little peek into the future?”
“I’d prefer to wait until it gets here,” came his dour reply.
“Only a shilling, sir,” the fortune-teller pressed.
Matthew heaved a sigh as he shifted his packages and reached inside his pocket. “This shilling,” he told Daisy, “would be better spent at the booths, on a hair ribbon or a smoked chub.”
“Coming from someone who threw a five-dollar piece into the wishing well—”
“Making a wish had nothing to do with it,” he said. “I only did that to get your attention.”
Daisy laughed. “And so you did. But—” she glanced at him significantly, “—your wish came true, didn’t it?” Taking the shilling, she transferred it to the fortune-teller. “What is your method of divination?” she asked the woman blithely. “Do you have a crystal ball? Do you use tarot cards or read palms?”
For an answer, the woman took a silver-backed looking glass from the waist of her skirts and handed it to Daisy. “Look at your reflection,” she intoned solemnly. “It is the gateway to the world of spirits. Keep staring—don’t look away.”
Matthew sighed and raised his gaze heavenward.
Obediently Daisy stared at her own expectant reflection, seeing the torchlight flicker across her features. “Are you going to stare into it too?” she asked.
“No,” the fortune teller replied. “I only need to see your eyes.”
Then…silence. Farther along the street, people sung May carols and beat drums. Staring into her own eyes, Daisy saw tiny gold glints of reflected light, like sparks wafting upward from a bonfire. If she looked hard enough, long enough, she could half-convince herself the silvered glass really was the gateway to some mystical world. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could actually feel the intensity of the fortune-teller’s concentration.
With an abruptness that startled Daisy, the woman took the looking glass from her hands. “No good,” she said tersely. “I can see nothing. I will give your shilling back.”
“No need,” Daisy replied in bemusement. “It’s not your fault if my spirit is opaque.”
Matthew’s voice was so dry one could light a match off it. “We’ll be just as happy if you’d make up something,” he told the woman.
“She can’t make up something,” Daisy protested. “That would be abusing her gift.”
Studying the fortune-teller’s corrugated features, Daisy thought she seemed sincerely disgruntled. She must have seen or thought something that had bothered her. Which was probably a good indication to leave well enough alone. But if she didn’t find out what it was, Daisy knew herself well enough to be certain the curiosity would drive her mad.
“We don’t want the shilling back,” she said. “Please, you must tell me something. If it’s bad news, I would be better off knowing, wouldn’t I?”
“Not always,” the woman said darkly.
Daisy drew closer to her, until she could smell a sweet odor of figs, and some herbal essence…bay leaves? Basil? “I want to know,” she insisted.
The fortune-teller gave her a long, considering glance. Finally she spoke with great reluctance. “Sweet the night a heart was given, bitter turns the day. A promise made in April…a broken heart in May.”
A broken heart? Daisy didn’t like the sound of that.
She felt Matthew come up behind her, one hand settling at Daisy’s waist. Although she couldn’t see his expression, she knew it was sardonic. “Will two shillings inspire something a little more optimistic?” he asked.
The fortune-teller ignored him. Tucking the handle of the looking glass at her waist, she said to Daisy, “Make a charm of cloves tied in cloth. He must carry it for protection.”
“Against what?” Daisy asked anxiously.
The woman was already striding away from them. Her opulently hued skirts moved like river reeds as she headed to the crowd at the end of the street in search of more business.
Turning to Matthew, Daisy glanced up at his impassive face. “What could you need protection from?”
“The weather.” He held his hand palm upward, and Daisy realized that a few fat, cold raindrops had splashed on her head and shoulders.
“You were right,” she said, brooding over the ominous fortune. “I should have gone for the smoked chub instead.”
“Daisy…” His free hand slid behind the nape of her neck. “You didn’t believe that load of nonsense, did you? That crone has memorized a few verses, any one of which she’ll recite for a shilling. The only reason she gave us an ill omen was because I didn’t pretend to believe in her magic looking-glass.”
“Yes, but…she seemed genuinely sorry.”
“There was nothing genuine about her, or anything she said.” Matthew drew her closer, regardless of who might see them. As Daisy looked up at him, a raindrop spattered on her cheek, and another near the corner of her mouth. “It wasn’t real,” Matthew said softly, his eyes like blue midnight. He kissed her strongly, urgently, right there on the public street with the taste of rain absorbed between their lips. “This is real,” he whispered.
Daisy pressed against him eagerly, standing on her toes to fit her body against the firm contours of his. The jumble of packages threatened to fall, and Matthew fought to retain them while his mouth consumed Daisy’s. She broke the kiss with a sudden chuckle. A vigorous rumble of thunder caused the ground to vibrate beneath their feet.
In the periphery of her vision, people were scattering to the coverage provided by shops and stalls. “I’ll race you to the carriage,” she told Matthew, and picked up her skirts as she broke into a full-bore run.
CHAPTER 17
By the time the carriage had reached the end of the graveled drive, rain was coming down in flat, heavy sheets, and wind battered the sides of the vehicle. Thinking of the revelers in the village, Matthew reflected with amusement that many amorous inclinations were surely being drowned in the downpour.
The carriage stopped, the vehicle’s roof roaring from the impact of relentless rain. Ordinarily a footman would come to the carriage door with an umbrella, but the strength of this deluge would whip the device right out of his hands.
Matthew removed his coat and wrapped it around Daisy, pulling it up until it covered her head and shoulders. It was hardly adequate protection, but it would shield her between the carriage and the front door of the manor.
“You’ll get wet,” Daisy protested, glancing at his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
He began to laugh. “I’m not made of sugar.”
“Neither am I.”
“Yes you are,” he murmured, making her blush. He smiled at the sight of her face peeking out from the folds of the coat, like a little owl in the woods. “You’re wearing the coat,” he said. “It’s just a few yards to the door.”
There came a hasty knock, and the carriage opened to reveal a footman struggling manfully with an umbrella. A gust of wind snapped it inside-out. As Matthew jumped out of the carriage, he was immediately soaked by the pounding rain. He clapped the footman on the shoulders. “Go inside,” he shouted over the storm. “I’ll help Miss Bowman in.”
The footman nodded and retreated hastily to the manor.
Turning back to the carriage, Matthew reached inside, plucked Daisy out, and set her carefully on the ground. He guided her along the puddled ground and up the front steps, not stopping until they had crossed the threshold.
The warmth and light of the entrance hall surrounded them. Wet shirt fabric clung to Matthew’s shoulders, and a pleasant shiver chased through him at the thought of sitting before a hearth fire.
“Oh, dear,” Daisy said, smiling as she reached up to push a swath of dripping hair off his forehead. “You’re soaked through.”
A housemaid hurried to them with an armload of fresh toweling. Nodding to her in thanks, Matthew scrubbed his hair roughly and blotted the water from his face. He bent his head to let Daisy smooth his hair as best she could with her fingers.
Becoming aware of someone’s approach, Matthew glanced over his shoulder. Westcliff had come into the entrance hall. His expression was austere, but there was something in his eyes, a touch of frowning concern, that sent a chill of apprehension through Matthew’s veins.
“Swift,” the earl said quietly, “we’ve received unexpected visitors this evening. They have not yet revealed their purpose in coming to the estate unannounced—other than to say it is some business involving you.”
The chill intensified until it seemed ice crystals had formed in his muscles and bones. “Who are they?” Matthew asked.
“A Mr. Wendell Waring, of Boston…and a pair of Bow Street constables.”
Matthew did not move or react as he silently absorbed the news. A sickening wave of despair went through him.
Christ, he thought. How had Waring found him here in England? How…oh Christ, it didn’t matter, it was all over. All these years he had stolen from fate…now fate would have its reckoning. His heart thumped with an insane urge to run. But there was no place to run to, and even if there was—he was weary of living in dread of this day.
He felt Daisy’s small hand slip into his, but he didn’t return the pressure of her fingers. He stared at Westcliff’s face. Whatever was in his eyes caused the earl to sigh heavily.
“Damn,” Westcliff murmured. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
Matthew could only manage a single nod. He pulled his hand from Daisy’s. She did not try to touch him again, her bewilderment almost tangible.
After a long moment of contemplation, Westcliff squared his shoulders. “Well, then,” he said decisively, “let’s go and sort this out. Whatever comes of it, I will stand by as your friend.”
A brief, incredulous laugh escaped Matthew’s lips. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“I don’t make idle promises. Come. They’re in the large parlor.”
Matthew nodded, drymouthed and resolute. He was surprised that he was functioning as if nothing was happening, as if his entire world wasn’t about to be blown apart. It seemed almost as if he was watching from outside himself. Fear had never done that to him before. But maybe that was because he’d never had this much to lose.