The Warlock's Daughter Page 4

  A spasm of disgust, or perhaps pain, crossed the older woman's face. “You can know nothing of the matter, nothing at all! I would advise you to leave us while you still can.”

  “But there you have the trouble,” Renfrey said with a faint smile. “It's too late; it was always too late. Some things, once begun, cannot be ended.”

  “You mean—” Her aunt stopped. Then her gaze flitted over his features that, seen in the lamplight, were touched with the wildness of a hawk's, and over his frame with its power and careless elegance. Her eyes blared open with horror. She retreated a hasty step, and then swung on Carita. “Get into the house! Now!”

  “There is no need to be rude to someone who has been of service,” Carita said stiffly. “I will say good-night, then join you.”

  “If you stay, you will be damned as surely as if you philandered with the devil. You must come with me, now, this minute.”

  “Be reasonable,” Carita said with a trace of pleading. “I only ask for a moment.”

  Her aunt swung away, marching in stiff-backed haste through the gate. Over her shoulder, she cried, “Come inside, or I wash my hands of you!”

  Mulish anger made Carita lift her chin. “I will be there when I am ready.”

  “Then don't bother to come at all!” her aunt shouted.

  Facing forward, the older woman snapped her fingers at the dog, then sailed up the narrow walk. The boxer heaved himself up and trotted behind her. The door of the house closed behind them, shutting in the light.

  Carita was stunned. She had never felt her aunt loved her, but she had thought there was at least mild affection between them. To discover that it could be discarded so easily was a loss.

  “Walk with me,” Renfrey said quietly at her side, as he had once before.

  Carita recalled the words but knew that this time they meant so much more.

  She could go or stay. If she went inside at once and was sufficiently contrite, her aunt would relent. Surely, she would relent.

  Staying, she could have peace and safety. She could accept the things she had discovered and use them to rearrange her life, to make her personal prison more bearable.

  Going, she would gain the freedom to be her father's daughter. Yet she would also in some degree be consenting to the intimacy Renfrey had asked of her. She must decide how far she would go to attain her desires, how much of herself she could give and still live with the results.

  Carita raised her troubled gaze to Renfrey's. His eyes were dark, opaque with his refusal to force her decision. She prized that in him.

  On his shoulder, the old cat watched her also, its yellow stare unblinking, wondering.

  Decision was a difficult thing. So was capitulation. However, neither necessarily required words to make them plain.

  She forced her lips to curve in a tremulous smile. Reaching up, she took the cat in her hands and brought it against her breast where she stroked it gently, reassuringly. Turning, she began to walk away from her aunt's house.

  Renfrey was still for a moment, then she heard the soft, sudden release of his breath. In a moment, he reached her side. Together, they strolled down the moonlit street. They did not look back.

  The air was softer, warmer as they drew near the river. The moisture in it caused the pores of the skin to expand to fullness. A smell of mud and fecundity was carried on it, along with the pervasive aroma of ripe pears from over a garden wall and just a hint of open drains. Somewhere there was a jasmine vine pouring its prodigal sweetness into the night.

  The cadence of their footsteps was slow and deliberate. Their way led into the French Quarter where the measured click of their heels on the slate ballast stones carried ahead of them under the overhanging balconies. The shadows here in these narrow ways were sometimes black and crude, sometimes ornate and curling silhouettes of hand-worked wrought iron. They passed them all with hardly a glance.

  It was later now, and there was mystery in the deeper night stillness. Or perhaps it was only within herself; Carita could not remember a time when she had been less certain of who and what she was.

  “When was it,” Renfrey said as they strolled, “that you first knew you were different?”

  She considered the question. Over the purring of the cat she held, she said, “I'm not sure. At the age of three or possibly four—or maybe my aunt only began to treat me differently then. It was because of a doll I was playing with at the time. I made it talk to me.”

  “That would do it, I would imagine,” he said.

  “I was punished for it, of course. I cried, but felt a secret pride for what I could do that my older cousins, her daughters, could not. After a while, the pride was gone. I only wanted to be exactly like them, exactly like everyone else.”

  His tone thoughtful, gaze straight ahead, Renfrey quoted softly:

  From childhood's hour I have not been

  As others were—I have not seen

  As others saw—I could not bring

  My passions from a common spring.

  Her voice, calm, reflective, picked up the lines.

  From the same source I have not taken

  My sorrow; I could not awaken

  My heart to joy at the same tone;

  And all I lov'd, I lov'd alone.

  “Poe, of course,” she said. “And yes. Yes, that's the way it was.”

  The tragedy of being different through no fault of her own was plain in her voice. Behind it, Renfrey suspected, were a hundred small slights, a thousand sneers and slurs. He wished that he could take them from her. He wished that he could change the circumstances of her life, could force open all the closed little minds around her and cause tolerance to be the accepted standard for daily existence.

  It was impossible. “And now?” he asked, his voice rigorously impassive.

  The cat, attuned to the undercurrents Renfrey would not permit to sound, came alert and stared at him. He reached to take the animal, to smooth its fur in reassurance then set it on the sidewalk. It followed them, lightly stepping, watching the shadows.

  “And now,” Carita was saying in answer, “there are times when I enjoy who I am.” She paused, went on with the strained ache of yearning in her voice. “And there are others when I would give the world and all there is in it to be someone else, anyone else.”

  He stopped. “I expect that will always be the way of it, and for that I have no remedy. But for the rest—”

  “Yes?” Halting beside him, Carita looked up inquiringly into his face. His expression was serious, his eyes shaded with compassion. He moved not a muscle, yet there crept slowly in upon her a sense of encompassment, as if she were being gathered into a close embrace. The hold was warm, strong, yet without constriction. It offered consolation and, most of all, abiding understanding.

  Tears rose inside her— the tears that spring up because of sympathy freely offered, help and comfort given without expectation of return. She had not known she needed those things, yet accepted them now with gratitude. A frisson of relaxation moved over her, and she shivered with it while she accepted his mental support, savored his nearness, the enfolding solace. Standing perfectly still, she yet eased more fully against him in her mind, resting her head upon the firm strength of his chest. He did not move, yet his arms closed around her.

  It was total accord, passionless, generous, infinite. Until the warmth became a steady heat. Until the shivering drove deep. Until the closeness became a delicate blending of spirits, the instinctive merging of nerves and imaginations, responses and minds. Until the pleasure of it rippled through them and caught them, unprepared, with its splendor.

  Carita almost retreated a step, but caught herself. That would do no good; she knew it now, as she had suspected from the moment she faced this man across the fire in the cemetery. As she had surmised when she accepted from him an unbroken vase which she knew had been shattered. As her aunt must have guessed. It had, of course, been impossible to be certain.

  Watching the emotions flitting a
cross his face, she thought he intended to ask forgiveness for the intrusion of his nonphysical embrace. She did not want that. Tipping her head, she said with unsteady irony, “Some remedies are more effective than others.”

  Laughter leaped into his face, and something more that softened the darkness of his eyes. “There are additional cures,” he said, “some of which may be applied either here or elsewhere.”

  “Here?”

  He indicated the tall, handsomely painted door beside him with its knocker of silver in the shape of a Pan with pipe. “This is my home, the place where I am staying while in New Orleans.”

  Hard on his words, as if at a silent summons, the door opened to reveal a manservant. He was as dark as the night with a grizzled head of silver and a white jacket over black livery. He bowed them inside, took their outer wraps and Renfrey's hat and cane, then stood back for them to precede him along a tunnel-like entranceway.

  To enter required no conflict of conscience; Carita had come this far, so might as well go on. She moved ahead of Renfrey along this passage that led underneath the house. Passing through pools of light falling from lamps of hammered silver, walking alongside Italian frescoes in jewel colors highlighted with gold and silver, they emerged in a courtyard.

  In that space open only to the sky, Carita discovered the source of the jasmine she had noticed earlier. Its scent permeated the air, along with that of roses and tuberoses, sweet olive and gardenia. The combined perfumes was a mind-swimming assault on the senses.

  The walls and columns of the house were warm and golden even in the cool light of the moon. French windows in arches looked down on them with shining squares of lamplight. The stones of the courtyard floor were a mosaic of garnet and turquoise, jade and amethyst in geometric patterns edged with gold. In the center was a porphyry fountain where the splattering water played a soft, Andalusian melody and droplets glittered like falling diamonds. Under the house eaves at one corner, in the deep shade of a great sheltering live oak, turtledoves chortled softly in the darkness.

  Their pathway led through the center of the courtyard toward where double doors stood open to the night. Renfrey took her hand and put in on his arm, holding it with a warm clasp as he urged her forward. With the cat following, they skirted the fountain, tread lightly up the low and wide entrance steps, and entered.

  There was a vestibule with a floor of rich green malachite and Greek vases on bronze plinths. Beyond was a dining room hung with cloth of gold and velvet the color and texture of spring moss. The floors glowed with an intricate inlay of light and dark woods, while enormous Renaissance mirrors on opposite walls reflected the table laid for a late supper, the food set out on a sideboard, and also repeated the crystal and bronze d'or chandeliers into infinity.

  Round, intimately small, the table was centered with roses, sweet peas and lilac. The napery was the finest damask, the serving plates of Aztec gold, the utensils of heavy and deeply engraved coin silver. The crystal glasses had been hand-blown in Venice and were chased and rimmed in gold. Poured into them, waiting, was a vintage wine like liquid rubies, which breathed the delicate and astringent perfume of grape flowers.

  Carita came to a halt. Her fingers on Renfrey's arm tightened before she forced them to unclench. The cat circled her skirts and sat down among them at her side where it began to wash its face. The manservant soft-footed his way to a door leading into a butler's pantry and disappeared inside.

  Carita moistened her lips. “Lovely,” she said, “and I am impressed; but I fear I'm not dressed for such a sumptuous residence or grand repast.”

  “You have no need of further adornment,” Renfrey answered in low tones. “You are the one perfect jewel that has always been needed to give the rest purpose.”

  “Nevertheless,” she said.

  Inclining his head, he moved with her toward one of the tall mirrors. For an instant, the silvery surface was dark, then it cleared.

  Gone was her dull little hat and drab gown. Her hair was dressed high, the silver-gold strands entwined with pearls and diamonds. The creation she wore was of shimmering tissue silk in iridescent blue and gold, exquisitely cut, perfectly fitted— an airy confection piled in layers over a hoop of enormous size. Under it, she could feel the most fragile of silk pantalettes and no more than a wisp of ivory-boned corset.

  She stared at herself in fascination. Removing her hand from his arm, she lifted it to touch the fortune in pearls, sapphires and diamonds that sparkled in her ears, at her neck, on her wrists.

  Turning slowly from the mirror, she looked up at the man beside her. Her mouth curved into a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.

  “Presumptuous for a man I hardly know,” she said. “Also paltry. For a warlock.”

  ~ CHAPTER 4 ~

  “I should have told you at once,” Renfrey said. “My only excuse is—”

  “Arrogance?” she supplied.

  “Vanity, rather, which I like to think isn't quite the same thing. I didn't want you to fall into my arms simply because I was suitable.”

  “What,” she said in trenchant inquiry, “made you so certain I was going to fall into your arms at all?”

  Exasperation shifted across his face. He thrust his fingers through the dark waves of his hair and clasped the back of his neck. “It was not a foregone conclusion, of course—but, as with royalty, the choice of our kind is not wide.”

  “Royalty,” she repeated, diverted momentarily by the comparison.

  He turned from her, walking to the window where he stood staring out at nothing. “You yourself pointed out to me one of the possible consequences of looking for a mate who is not as we are. “

  He was referring to the fate of her mother. “Yes, certainly. So it was all neatly arranged and our meeting set. I take it you had no expectation of becoming enamored, even if I developed affection for you.”

  “It wasn't necessary. The match seemed appropriate.”

  “How very convenient for you—a doting consort of the correct lineage.”

  “It didn't turn out that way,” he said, clenching his hand on the heavy draperies as he rested his forehead on the cool glass of the window. “I saw you, spoke to you, and was enchanted—more than that, entranced. The future seemed perfectly cloudless. At least for a few short minutes.”

  She considered what he had said while watching the portion of his set face that she could see from where she stood. “And what happened to change it?”

  A short laugh shook him. “I realized exactly who and what you are, how you think and feel and the depths of love you are capable of giving. And I was consumed by terror.”

  “I don't think I understand.” She had some small inkling, but could not bring herself to accept it without confirmation.

  “We have spoken of your origins, but not of mine,” he said without turning. “As it happens, both my mother and father have the power. You, on the other hand, are only—”

  “Only a warlock's daughter. A half-breed, you might say.”

  “It's possible that it matters.”

  “A case, I perceive, of correct lineage and royal protocol.” Her voice was constricted.

  “You know better!” he said in savage denial. He paused. When he spoke again, he was calm once more. “You should understand it perfectly, since you pointed out the problem. I saw it from your side earlier, and found it amusing. It never occurred to me to turn it around until just now when—”

  “When you took me in your arms.” She was growing used to finishing his sentences for him, and having her own finished. It was the one of the many consequences of over-acute perception.

  “In a manner of speaking,” he agreed with the wraith of a smile.

  “I am not like my mother,” she said, because it seemed that he might not go on.

  “No. And yet, how much difference is there? You were concerned enough for me when you thought that your strength might be a danger to me. You are a potent force, made more so by intelligence and imagination. But I kno
w—without arrogance if you please—that my power can overcome yours. It has been proven.”

  “And because of that,” she said slowly, “you are afraid that you are a danger to me.”

  “The possibility exists. It is too dire to be ignored.”

  The tension between them had teeth and vibrancy. She said against it, “It could be given an ultimate test.”

  He turned with careful control. There was a sheen of perspiration across his forehead. “No.”

  “Don't you think your concern is excessive? You said yourself that a single night of love could hardly be fatal.”

  His laugh was mirthless. “I said a great many things, but—no.”

  “Why?” she asked, and let the single word stand as a bald demand.

  “I don't want or need the pain of something that must end so soon.”

  “It would pain you to end it?” she said softly.

  “Rather, such a temporary joining is useless to me. I prefer forever.”

  “Forever,” she repeated with light rising in her eyes and the soft, sweet echo of the word ringing in her mind along with her own preference.

  “A permanent union being clearly impossible, a few hours of pleasure is a risk for which the penalty may be too dear.”

  His eyes, she saw in the brightness of the many candles, were not actually black but a dark and mysterious green. Across them was a near-mortal wash of pain and distress. It gave her courage.

  “Only,” she said in quiet certainty, “if you value the thing will you lose too—dearly.”

  Renfrey watched her from across the room while his mind raced in cogent thought. He knew he had shown momentary weakness, knew it must be corrected. His decision was made and accepted between one breath and the next.

  The words even, he said, “You think I am concerned because I love you? I have admitted to being entranced, and might have been more, given time. But there is none available and my emotions are, in keeping with my kind, imminently controllable. I have a care for you now, but no more than I would take with any moderately pretty lady of the evening who happened to be weak, silly and supplicating.”