Daughter of Darkness (35 page)

It was strange, they all said afterwards. The witch had seemed to be expecting them. She’d neither struggled nor cried out when they’d dragged her to the ducking stool, but she’d murmured a prayer of repentance.

Although no one in the village would admit it, her death brought no satisfaction. In his cups, Bellows wandered under a London bound coach that same night, and was crushed.

The estate workers turned up for work the next day, and tried to ignore the small procession who buried a coffin in an isolated corner of a field.

The following week, the site was enclosed by a low stone wall and a headstone erected. Those who could read, and were curious enough, waited until the flowers died before they drifted over to read the epitaph on the headstone.

Marietta Givanchy 1709—1755. Beloved mother of Willow, Countess of Lytton.

The stinking, French fishing boat the marquis was on was nearing the coast of England. His arrangement with the fisherman was to be put ashore at the Sheronwood cove just before dawn, then to wait beyond the cove for his signal fire before sending the dingy back to pick him up.

He was taking a risk returning to England, knowing there was a warrant issued to arrest him on sight. It was of small consequence. He had no intention of being apprehended and could live out his life quite comfortably abroad.

He had investments in France, including his chateau, which had once been the childhood home of Marietta Givanchy. It had been given to him years ago by a French duke for services rendered. Situated discreetly in the countryside, there he provided a source of amusement that was much in demand amongst the more sophisticated of the French aristocracy.

Of late, the marquis had undertaken practice with the finest swordsmen France had to offer. Now he was going to kill Gerard Lytton. Once he’d gone, it would be a simple matter to dispose of the earl and the younger son.

Four years previously, the marquis had decided to take his daughter to France and auction her to the highest bidder. His sneer now became a scowl. It wasn’t too late to revive his plan.

His eyes narrowed into cruel little slits as he thought of Willow. She was a feisty little thing, just like her mother. The marriage had been a mistake. Either Gerard Lytton had managed to tame her, or he’d fallen under her spell. Whichever, it would be his pleasure to inform Lytton of her fate before he killed him.

Wrapping his cloak around his body, he glowered as he balanced himself on the slimy deck. The girl was shaped in Marietta’s image. For all he knew she could have been fathered by the prince of darkness himself.

He paled as the thought sank into the mire of his mind. That’s exactly what must have happened. Marietta had been impregnated with Satan’s evil spawn.

‘Willow is the daughter of darkness!’ he said out loud, and wondered why he hadn’t guessed the truth before.

Willow would not allow herself to cry. She’d born the grief of her mother’s loss alone, the results of the mob’s action forbidden by her husband to be mentioned again. It seemed unfair for fate to have restored her mother to her, only to snatch it away. Even more unfair was the realization she’d been allowed to experience a husband’s love, and she would never experience it again.

The Lytton household had been stunned by the events that had taken place. The house no longer had a mistress, since she’d been denied the authority by her husband. The house was full of tension. Quarrels erupted as the servants debated the issues. All felt sorrow for their young mistress, but though thinking she was being treated unfairly, none dare speak against her husband.

Willow had risen early, driven from her bed by her resolve to end the conflict in the only way she could think of. Gerard slept alone in the adjoining room, as he’d done since that terrible day in May.

The day was young, the birds who chorused in the dawn from the tree outside her window, still mute. The sounds of daybreak had made no inroads on the faint sputtering hiss of the incoming tide against the rocks.

Good, she thought, buckling her riding boots around her calves. If she drowned, the ebbing tide would wash her out to sea, and Jeffrey would not be able to look upon her battered body and blame the earl. She choked back a sob. It wasn’t Gerard’s fault he could not bring himself to love her. Everything he’d said to her had been true, and she was couldn’t fault his reasoning.

‘Your parents have brought death upon my home.’ So remote had his face been he might have been talking to a stranger. ‘I cannot forget their blood runs in your veins. You leave for Coringal within the week. I do not wish to set eyes you again.’

In vain she’d argued with him. ‘What of the Lytton name? You need heirs.’

‘Jeffrey and his children will be heir to Lytton after me.’

‘He wants to go to Virginia, you know he does. For God’s sake, Gerard, listen to reason. I’m your wife. You cannot banish me without good cause.’

His eyes had bored into hers, implacable, and devoid of emotion. He did not raise his voice. ‘I can do exactly as I please with you. As for Jeffrey. He’s his father’s son and will do what is expected of him. You’ll go back from whence you came.’

Lady Edwina was sympathetic, but dared not plead her case. Even Jeffrey had been unable to move his brother to reason. The ensuing argument had been terrible to hear, and had driven a gulf between the two brothers.

Gerard’s grief was buried in a deep, dark place, and kept alive by the rage that burned within his soul. She’d been the catalyst that had turned his ordered world into chaos. He did not hate her. He just wanted her out of his sight so he could forget what had happened, and heal in his own time.

If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have known that by blaming her he sought to abrogate himself of guilt. His mind was not ready for that. He’d reacted to the first solution coming into his head.

Willow had no such thoughts. Her reaction was simpler. She loved him, and she loved Lytton House. She’d not leave either of them willingly. She’d rather die, as she’d explained to Gerard in her letter. If by chance she perished, he’d be free to marry again, and his heirs would take their rightful place in the line of succession. Placing a blood red rose on the letter as a symbol of her love, she crept into his room to lay it on the pillow next to his cheek. Gently, she kissed him, then giving his dear face one last, loving glance, quietly made her way downstairs and out to the stables.

Circe snickered softly to her when she mounted. It had been a long time since she’d ridden bareback. It had lost its novelty for her now. The false dawn had a velvety texture to it, the air was moist. A pale moon rode low on the horizon and the canopy of stars were dimming.

She shivered when she reached the cliff path and a cold breeze sent her dark hair whipping in tendrils against her face. Dismounting, she stood looking into the darkness below. The waves crashed against the rocks, warning her the path was dangerous.

She turned to her mare. ‘Go back, my darling Circe. I’d not have you hurt.’ The mare shivered when she ran her hand along its side. Tears pricked her eyes. ‘That’s a fine looking foal you’ll be having there,’ she whispered. ‘Didn’t Brian find you a dandy for a mate.’ She slapped her hand hard against Circe’s rump. It was no use prolonging the parting.

As the mare’s footfalls faded into the distance, she gazed towards the water. Fear touched her eyes, and she prayed she’d picked the right spot.

Removing her fine leather boots, she folded her cloak neatly on top, took a deep breath and launched herself into the dark menacing void below.

‘That damned woman and her absurd logic!’
Gerard had never felt so angry. ‘What does she think I’m going to do, rush to the cliff top and search for her body?’

That’s exactly what he was about to do. Despite his conviction this was an attempt to catch his attention, he was deeply worried.

What if she couldn’t swim well enough to get back to shore? Logic grappled with his fears. She’d once told him she could swim like an otter. On the other hand, she had a vivid imagination and was prone to embellishment.

He stood still long enough to shrug into the jacket Rodgers held out for him. Why shouldn’t her wild tales be believed? He grasped at the one tale he’d discounted, her boast that she could shoot the eye from a frog. That had proved to be true, only the frog had become a raven in reality.

His mouth twisted in wry appreciated of her skill. She was a paradox. No woman should be able to shoot a moving target like that. But if she had not, he thought, his anger lessening a little, he’d most probably be dead, and she’d not be making a fool out of him again.

The thought restored his ire. ‘Haven’t I had enough grief of late?’ he lamented. ‘I’ll put her over my knee when I find her and teach her a lesson she’s long deserved.’ His mouth stretched into a mirthless grin at the thought of her smooth white buttocks flinching under his hands. ‘The woman has pushed me too far this time,
by God, she has!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Rodgers grinned to himself. It was about time his master regained the substance of his true nature. The young countess could be trusted to find some way to prod her husband out of his depression. The staff had made wagers on it. As a result, his pocket would be fatter by nightfall. ‘Your hat, My Lord.’

‘Thank you, Rodgers.’ He absently pinned the rosebud to the brim. ‘Do not say a word to my grandmother about this. I’m in no mood to be nagged, and I don’t want her unnecessarily alarmed.’

‘Certainly not, My Lord. Will you take breakfast before you go out?’

‘Good God, man, what sort of rogue to you think I am?’ The earl glowered at him before striding rapidly towards the door. ‘The countess might be lying dead on the beach. Do you really expect me to stop for breakfast?’

Gazing after him, Rodgers chuckled. ‘No, My Lord. I’d bet my very life on the fact that you would not.’

Jeffrey was about to ride out when his brother hurried into the stable. Politely, he nodded his head, preferring to ride alone since their blazing row. He didn’t wish to be around when the coach arrived to take Willow away from Lytton.

‘Ride with me,’ Gerard said gruffly, his conscience jabbing painfully at him. It had just dawned on him he must have treated Willow extremely badly if she was prepared to go to such drastic lengths. ‘Willow has left me a note threatening to throw herself into the sea. I may need your assistance.’

As if to emphasize the deed, Circe high-stepped into the stable yard and tossed her silky mane. Stretching her head towards him the mare gave a loud whinny, then shook her head from side to side.

Jeffrey’s face drained of color when he saw the riderless horse. ‘If you’ve driven Willow to sow the seeds of her own destruction, I’ll make you suffer,’ he snarled.

The words were spoken out of fear. Gerard knew he deserved them as he sought to allay his brother’s disquiet. ‘Willow’s inclined to melodramatic gestures when she cannot get her own way,’ he mused. ‘Her vanity will not make her risk damaging her body upon the rocks.’

‘How can you be so unfeeling?’ Jeffrey’s voice was incensed beyond reason now. ‘If you cared even a little, you’d know she’s in deep despair.’

Gerard slid his brother a sharp glance. ‘Allow me to know my wife better than you, Jeffrey.’ Mounting his gelding, he tightened his hands on the reins. ‘She does not give in to despair, but rather she will fight tooth and nail for what she wants. Believe me, she’ll not intentionally kill herself. If she’s thrown herself into the sea you can be damned sure she’ll have done it to attract my attention, and jolt me out of my miseries.’

‘For your own sake, I hope you’re proved right.’ Jeffrey didn’t wait for a reaction to his threat, just spurred his mount forward towards the cliff path.

Gerard didn’t bother engaging in conversation. The least said the less damage there would be to repair. But when he heard the sound of hoof-beats behind him and saw Circe following at a safe distance, he discovered his emotions were too choked up to even try. It occurred to him then, that he might just have fallen in love with his errant wife.

Willow struggled furiously against the bonds that held her, and stared balefully at her father. Her head ached after he’d dragged her through a maze of tunnels by her hair, and her knees were bruised when he’d sent her sprawling through a secret panel into the ballroom of Sheronwood. Not only that, her face stung where he’d slapped her, and her cheekbone was swelling. She’d look a complete fright when Gerard set eyes on her again, and he’d gaze upon her with distaste.

Her fingers stretched towards her wrists. If she could reach the knife concealed in the cuff of her coat and cut through her wrist binding, she intended to spring upon her father when his back was turned, and cut his villainous throat! Never in her wildest nightmare had she expected to wade from the water and find her father waiting upon the sand. He’d spoiled her moment of reconciliation forever, and for that alone she’d never forgive him.

It had taken her days to plot the moment when Gerard would discover her lying like a beached mermaid upon the shore, her hair spread artfully about her like dark, glistening seaweed. She’d imagined him cradling her gently in his arms, telling her he loved her, then stripping away her sodden clothes and making love to her whilst the sun rose in golden glory all about them.

She’d quickly discovered that making love in the sand would not be practicable. Sand had a habit of finding its way into every crevice of the body. When combined with the itch of drying sea water it was exceedingly uncomfortable.

‘What sort of man does this to his own daughter?’ she cried, her voice echoing to the cherub-embellished ceiling.

‘You’re Satan’s spawn,’ the marquis spat out.

‘You admit to being the devil?’ A prudent tongue was not one of her virtues, sarcasm being a much more satisfying and pertinent alternative in her present situation.

The cruel eyes of her father slid to her face. ‘You have a sharp tongue, child. Be careful you do not cut your own throat with it.’

His voice was so devoid of emotion, she shivered. It was time to change tactics if she was to get anywhere with this man. Holding out her bound wrists she invested in a moment of pathos. ‘ Will you not release me, papa. The thong about my wrists is painful.’