River Magic (30 page)

May the magic be yours,
Martha Hix
P.O. Box 160674
San Antonio, TX 78280

The wrought-iron gate was newly painted. Allegra ran her fingers over the smooth curliques, followed the cool, sinuous curves to the oval medallion that held the Baniard coat of arms. The carved leopard still raised a broken front paw. But after more than eight years of fresh paint—glistening black layers piled one upon another—the jagged metal edges had become rounded, gentle.

“Curse them all,” Allegra muttered. “Every foul Wickham who ever lived.” She clenched her teeth against the familiar pain. If only sharp memories could be as softened and gentled as the old iron gate. She reached into the pocket of her wide seaman's breeches and pulled forth a worn, lace-edged square of linen, yellow with age and mottled with stains the color of old wine, the color of dead leaves. Papa's blood—staining the proud Baniard crest embroidered in the corner.

Wickham.
Allegra's lip curled in silent rage and bitterness. If there was a God of vengeance, a just God, her prayers would be answered today. Her stomach twisted with the pangs of hunger, and her feet—in their broken shoes—ached from the long morning's climb through the Shropshire hills, but it would be worth it. She reached under her shabby coat and waistcoat and fingered the hilt of the dagger tucked into the waistband of her breeches. All her pain would vanish when she confronted John Wickham, Baron Ellsmere, false Lord of Baniard Hall. When she saw his look of surprise, then fear, then abject terror in the breathless, time-stopped seconds before she plunged her dagger into his black heart.

A sour-faced manservant came out of the lodge next to the high stone wall that enclosed Baniard Park. A thickly curled gray peruke covered his round head, and he wore a handsome livery of blue velvet trimmed with crimson—the Ellsmere colors, no doubt. He squinted up at the morning sun, peered through the bars of the gate and shook his fist at Allegra. “Get off with you, boy. You have no business here.”

Allegra jammed her three-cornered hat more firmly over her forehead to shield her face from the gatekeeper's gaze. Her masculine guise had protected her clear across the ocean and through the English countryside all the way north from Plymouth. Still, to be discovered now, when vengeance lay so close at hand . . .

“I ain't doin' no harm, your worship,” she mumbled, keeping her naturally husky voice pitched low, her accent common. “Just come up from Ludlow, I did. It were a long climb. And I'm fearful hungry. Thought I might beg a farthing or two of His Lordship.”

“Pah!” said the gatekeeper with a sneer of contempt as he scanned her stained and ragged clothing. “Do you think milord can be bothered with the likes of you? A dirty-faced whelp?” He scowled at her dark eyes, her raven-black hair braided into a tousled queue, and her face still deeply tanned from the Carolina sun. “Leastwise not someone who looks like a black Welsh Gypsy,” he added. “Be off, lest I give you a good rap on the ear.”

Years of cruel servitude had taught Allegra how to feign humility, even while her heart seethed with rebellion. “Have a crumb o' pity, your worship,” she whined. “I be but a poor orphan lad.”

“Be off, I say.” He pointed across the narrow, dusty road to a footpath that wound its way through a small grove of trees. “That way lies the village of Newton-in-the-Vale. There's a fine workhouse that will do well enough for you. A good day's work for a good day's bread, and none of your sloth and begging.”

Allegra rubbed at her hands, feeling the hardness of the calluses on her palms and fingers. She wondered whether this self-satisfied, overfed man had ever known real work. Heigh-ho. There was no sense in quarreling with him. She shrugged and plodded across the road. The trees were thick in the coppice, crowded close together; their dark, summer-green leaves and shade soon hid her from the gatekeeper's view. She waited a few minutes, then stepped off the footpath and doubled back through the trees, treading softly so as not to alert the servant. Just within the shelter of the coppice, she found a spot that concealed her presence while commanding a clear view of the gate.

By King George upon his throne, if she had to wait all day for Wickham she would!

She heard the noise of a coach from somewhere beyond the gate—the rattle of harness, the squeaking of wheels—as it made its way down the long, tree-shaded drive that led from Baniard Hall. In another moment, the coach appeared in view and stopped at the gate; the team of horses snorted and stamped, eager to proceed. At once, the gatekeeper hurried to take hold of the iron gate and swing it wide. Allegra heard the word “Milord” uttered in deference, noted the blue and crimson she was certain now were Ellsmere colors on the coachman's ample body. Wickham's very own coach. Without a doubt, the villain himself was within.

Allegra's heart began to pound in her breast, like the thud of distant thunder before a storm. After all this time . . . She started to rush forward, then checked herself. No. No! She mustn't let her impatience cloud her judgment; she must think clearly. The coach was moving quite slowly through the open gate. Out of the view of the gatekeeper and coachman, she might be able to hoist herself onto the empty footman's perch in the rear and cling to the coach until it stopped and her enemy alit. But that might not be until they reached a village and the coach was surrounded by crowds. And then the job would be impossible.

She remembered a crumbling section of the wall that surrounded the park, where the stones had loosened. Perhaps she could make her way onto the grounds from there, wait for Ellsmere to return. No. The wall might be repaired after all this time. And, besides, she couldn't wait another minute. She laughed softly, ruefully. She had endured the long, slow years, the years of nurturing her hatred in patient silence. And now, to her surprise, she found that the thought of a few hours' delay had become unbearable.

What to do? The frown faded from her brow as a sudden thought struck her. She would accost him now, present herself as a harmless lad, win his sympathy, worm her way into his favor. He wouldn't recognize her after all this time. And then, when his guard was down, her dagger could do its work.

“Milord!” she cried, and dashed in front of the carriage. The coachman shouted and tried to avoid her; she held her ground and leapt away only at the last second. It had been such a narrow escape that her shoulder burned from the friction of rubbing against a horse's flank, and a passing harness buckle had torn the sleeve of her coat.

She began at once to howl. “ 'Od's blood, but my arm be broken!”

She heard a string of foul curses from within the coach, then a deep voice boomed, “Stop!”

As the coach drew to a halt, Allegra clutched at her arm and bent over in seeming pain. Though she continued to wail, all her energies were concentrated on observing the man who sprang from the coach. She'd seen him once before—that long-ago, sweet summer at Baniard Hall. The summer she'd turned nine. The summer before the nightmare had begun. A man of stature, proud and haughty and cruel.

He was even taller than her misty memory of him, and the years had clearly treated him with kindness. His dark-brown hair was still untouched by gray. He wore it simply, unpowdered and tied back with a black silk ribbon. His pugnacious jaw had a bluish cast, as though he'd neglected to take a shave, and his dark and somewhat shaggy brows were drawn together in a scowl, shading pale-brown eyes. His well-cut coat and waistcoat of fine woolen cloth covered a solid, muscular torso, and his legs were strong and straight. The fact that he looked so young made her hate him all the more: Papa had aged a dozen years from the time of the trial to the day they had been herded aboard the convict ship.

“Damned fool,” growled the man. He sounded more annoyed than angry, as though it was a bother merely to deal with the lower classes. “Why the devil did you run into my coach, boy? I should break your neck, match it to your arm.” He stepped closer and thrust out his hand. “Show it here.”

The simmering hatred became a red mist before Allegra's eyes: the red, bloody dream that had kept her going through all the hellish years, through the shame and the suffering and the loss of all she'd held dear. She felt strength coursing through her body—the strength of righteous anger that poor Mama had never been able to find.

Now! she thought. For her pledge to Mama. For all the lost Baniards! There would never be a better opportunity. The gatekeeper was busy with his gate and the coachman was too fat to scramble down from his perch in time to save his master.

Allegra snaked her hand inside her coat. A quick thrust with her dagger and then—in the chaos of the unexpected, the confusion of the servants—she'd make her escape into the woods. “Die like the dog you are,” she choked, and drove the knife upward toward his breast with all her might. With all the fury in her pent-up heart.

“Christ's blood!” he swore. He wrenched his body to one side and just managed to dodge the murderous blade. At the same moment he caught Allegra's wrist in a punishing grip and twisted it until she was forced to drop the knife. His lip curled in disgust. “Good God. You're not a fool. You're a bloody lunatic! Do you fancy the gibbet, boy?”

She bared her teeth in a snarl. “It would be worth it, to see you dead.”

He laughed, an unpleasant sound, lacking in humor or warmth. “What a tartar. How does a boy learn such passion at such a young age?” He drawled the words, as though strong emotions were scarcely worth his own effort.

“I learned from villains like you,” she said. She eyed her dagger lying in the dusty road. If she could just reach it . . .

“Oh, no, boy. You'll not have a second chance.” Reading her intentions, he quickly stooped and retrieved the knife.

“Curse you!” Allegra felt her stomach give a sickening lurch. She had failed them all. All the ghosts waiting to be avenged. How could she have been so hasty and careless? Would there ever be another chance to redeem herself? Another chance to do what she must, and, after, learn to live again? In her frustration, she raised her hands to spring at the man's throat; she grunted in surprise as she felt her arms caught and pinioned behind her back. She struggled in vain, then twisted around to glare at the man who held her—a somber-looking young man who had stepped from the coach behind her. He was dressed in a plain dark suit, the garb of a steward or clerk.

“Hold your tongue, bratling,” he said, “unless you mean to beg His Lordship's mercy.”

“His Lordship can rot in hell, for aught I care!” She turned back and spat in the direction of the tall man. “In hell, Wickham! Do you hear?”

“Wickham?” The tall man laughed again and idly scraped Allegra's blade against the stubble on his chin. It made a metallic, rasping sound. “Wickham? Is that who you think I am?”

“You're the Lord of Baniard Hall, aren't you?” she challenged.

“That I am. But Wickham was ruined by debts nearly two years ago. The last I heard, he was in London.”

“No!” She shook her head in disbelief, feeling her blood run cold. “Curse you, villain, you're lying to save your skin.”

The steward gave a sharp jerk on her arms. “I told you to hold your tongue, boy,” he growled in her ear. “This is Sir Greyston Morgan, Viscount Ridley. Baron Ellsmere sold the Hall to His Lordship a year ago.”

“I don't believe you.” But of course there was no reason to doubt him. She examined the tall man more closely. What a fool she'd been, allowing her passion to blind her to reality. He didn't just appear younger; he was younger, and considerably so. Perhaps in his early thirties. Wickham would be almost as old as Papa would have been today, or at least nearing fifty. She'd forgotten that, still seeing the man through the eyes of her childhood.

All the fight drained out of her. She sagged in the steward's grip, filled with an aching disappointment. To have come so far, and then to find another obstacle in her path, another barrier before she could sleep in peace . . . She stared at the viscount, her dark eyes burning with frustration and resentment. He should have been Wickham. “I curse you as well, Ridley,” she said bitterly. “A pox on you.”

“Now, milord,” said the coachman, climbing down for his box, “if this isn't a rascally lad who needs a few hours in the stocks to teach him manners! Shall we deliver him to the beadle in the village?” He looked for agreement toward the gatekeeper, who had finally joined them.

Ridley looked down at Allegra's petite frame and shook his head. “He's just a slip of a boy. The stocks would kill him. A mere ten minutes with a mob hurling garbage and filth . . .”

“But you can't let him go, milord. He tried to kill you!” said the gatekeeper.

Ridley smiled, a sardonic twist of his mouth. “So he did, Humphrey. And I note you took your time coming to my rescue.” His icy glance swept his other servants as well. “The lot of you. Slow as treacle on a cold day. Very shortsighted. If you'd let him kill me, you'd have had to seek honest employment for a change.” He shrugged, ignoring his servants' sullen frowns. “Well, the lad wasn't the first to wish me dead. However”—he slapped the broad width of Allegra's dagger against his open palm—“the boy does have an insolent tongue, and for that he should be made to pay.” He nodded at his steward. “Loose him, Briggs. I'll deal with him myself.”

“But ...” Briggs hesitated. “Do you think you're fit, milord?”

A sharp laugh. “Sober, you mean?”

“I didn't mean that at all,” said Briggs in an aggrieved tone.

Ridley's eyes were cold amber. “What a damned bloody liar you are, Briggs. Now, do you want to keep your position? You'll not find another master willing to pay so much for so little. Loose the boy, I said.”