Silver Enchantress Read online

  Silver Enchantress

  Dark Lords and Dangerous Ladies

  Patricia Rice

  Silver Enchantress

  Patricia Rice

  Copyright © 1988, 2016 Patricia Rice

  First Publication: 1988 New American Library

  Book View Café: 2016

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Rice Enterprises, Dana Point, CA, an affiliate of Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  Cover design by Killion Group

  Book View Café Publishing Cooperative

  P.O. Box 1624, Cedar Crest, NM 87008-1624

  http://bookviewcafe.com

  ISBN 978-1-61138-712-4

  Contents

  FREE Exclusive Novella

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  FREE Exclusive Novella

  About the Author

  Also by Patricia Rice

  Devil’s Lady

  Excerpt - Devil’s Lady

  About Book View Café

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  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers:

  I sold my first book in 1982, back in the days when all I had was an old Bic pen and a college-ruled notebook to scribble in while the kids played in the yard. I had to buy a used Underwood typewriter with a stuck S key to type up my proposals because we didn’t have money for anything more. Needless to say, those first books were typed once and not again. The editor would go through with red pencil, I’d make copies of the page, type up a new one, and clip them together. After I was making enough money to afford it, I graduated to cutting and pasting new sentences onto old pages and making a clean Xerox copy. Since books were cheap to print and readers loved big thick books, we didn’t do a lot of cutting or editing.

  It wasn’t until the 1990s that I had enough money to indulge in a new computer—one where I saved each chapter to a huge floppy disk.

  Most of the books I’ve labeled as the Dark Lords and Ladies series were written in my typewriter days. They have been edited of excess verbiage and perennial head-hopping. At the time, the author omniscient voice was popular and justified watching scenes through the heads of servants and doting family. I’m afraid the multiple head spinning would drive the modern reader into gales of laughter or angry book heaving. But I have left enough in to understand the voice in which it was written. To do otherwise would deprive the book of the lovely flavors I instilled at the time of writing. The story and the characters remain unchanged. We were fond of old-fashioned melodrama back then, and I’d be fascinated to know if you enjoy the Perils of Pauline style.

  I hope you’ll sink in and stay there and enjoy a good rousing tale of love lost and won again.

  Thank you so much for reading!

  Who seldom understand, but have the grace to endure

  Prologue

  Tell me not here, it needs not saying,

  What tune the enchantress plays.

  —A. E. Houseman, More Poems

  The woman’s screams lingered on the evening air long after the men disappeared. The autumn-colored trees shivered with her hysteria, and the trampled ground shook with her pain.

  Amid the muddied leaves littering the forest’s floor lay the crumpled body of a large man, his rich, golden hair now caked with a brownish substance that bore no resemblance to the mud below him. The trampled ground bore evidence of the strength of his resistance.

  Another leaf drifted from the oak, adding to the mound of leaves forming a red and brown mantle over the fallen warrior. No movement disturbed nature’s blanket—except in one corner of the clearing. Beneath a chestnut sapling, a tiny lump of dark green velvet whimpered.

  That sound alone brought alertness to the crouched figure in the bushes. Terrified, the intruder gave the corpse a wide berth as she inched across the clearing, her old eyes searching for the source of faint sobs. Discovering the velvet-clad bundle, the old woman gently lifted a small head in her capable hands. The child burrowed deeper in the debris of summers past, but when the woman spoke, a small face turned expectantly toward the sound.

  A gasp escaped the old woman’s lips as she raised her fingers from the child’s copper tresses and stared at the blood staining her palm. The blank gray gaze of the child’s eyes briefly reflected the blue in the sky above, then went dark.

  Chapter 1

  England, August, 1735

  A thick canopy of oaks blocked out all but the most daring of the sun’s rays. No breeze lifted the damp tendrils of her heavy hair as Ellen stooped to rescue a buttercup from the woodcutter’s crude lane. Ellen foraged among the brambles for berries, but more often than not, she dawdled over a purple violet or the flight of a butterfly.

  The dull thud of hoof beats startled her, but she made no effort to run and hide as her brothers did when strangers intruded upon the forest. The boys were older and wiser and warned of confronting danger in the open. Ellen, however, greeted strangers with curiosity, though she often felt the stripes of the woodcutter’s switch for her foolishness. The boys called her a dull-witted clod for not learning the sly ways that allowed them to escape their father’s ire. Ellen ignored their insults as she ignored all else, traipsing through her childhood, accepting whatever life brought.

  This day it brought two elegantly garbed gentlemen on horseback, or rather, one gentleman and one youth. The elder was garbed conservatively in a long waistcoat, knee breeches of rich satin, and bagwig, but the younger had discarded both coat and waistcoat and rode in shirt sleeves, with his lace cravat untied. The boy’s golden hair shone like candle flames against the forest’s dark backdrop, and his laughing eyes made a mockery of any dignity he might have achieved with his noble mount and wealthy dress.

  As she watched the intruders, they returned her regard, for forest sprites were seldom encountered in these modern times. The child’s thick auburn hair gleamed like burnished copper. She could be no more than nine or ten, and beneath her tattered gown, she seemed slighter than any elfin creature. But the bold stare of her silver eyes inflamed the boy’s imagination. Like the mirror of a still pond, her eyes captured the clouds and reflected the light, revealing nothing of hidden shadows.

  “Have we entered an enchanted forest?” The boy asked seriously, but his eyes continued to laugh. “Are you the fairy princess who lives here and guards the inhabitants? Are we trespassi
ng?”

  The child seemed to consider this question solemnly but did not reply.

  With little patience for foolery, the older man intruded. “Is there a well around here? A stream? Somewhere we might rest the horses and take a sip of something cool?”

  “A morsel of bread or a crumb of cheese would be appreciated also,” the youth said with a laugh. “My belly growls and threatens to eat me alive. Surely fairy princesses can command a feast, if it be only an apple?”

  A flicker of something like laughter lightened still gray eyes, and the child motioned for them to follow before turning down the right-hand path.

  Quicker than his father, the boy hastened to turn his mount after her. Too hungry to keep the sedate pace required by her small steps, he removed his foot from the stirrup and leaned over to offer his hand to the child.

  “Ride with me and point the way, princess.”

  A flicker of delight lit her eyes before they shadowed again. Taking his hand, she placed her foot in the stirrup and allowed him to haul her up in front of him. She rested effortlessly in the curve of the saddle, as if accustomed to riding in such a manner.

  She led them to a clearing containing a small thatched cottage. No flowers bedecked the windowsills, though an exhausted, unkempt garden grew in one corner of the lot. One ancient donkey swished its tail at a nagging fly. The child gestured to be let down.

  Both strangers dismounted, eyeing the dark windows with unease. The child’s shining eyes and scrubbed cheeks had given the impression of rude health, overriding the crudity of her gown. Her gestures had led them to believe she belonged to a wealthier house, perhaps as servant or child of caretakers.

  The girl directed them to the stream trickling through the yard. As they watered their mounts, she disappeared through the gaping cottage door.

  In a twinkling she returned, carrying two battered mugs and a jug of cider on a platter, as if she were indeed a princess and serving tea to royalty. The effect was spoiled by the appearance of an unshaven scarecrow of a man, who yelled after her.

  “What do you mean to do with that jug, girl? Come back here, you little hellion!” He halted at the sight of the visitors.

  Ignoring the shouting brute, the girl poured the drink and offered it to her guests.

  Glancing from the scarecrow to the child, the youth rebelliously drank long and deep from his mug. His father shot him an angry glance, but now that the damage was done, he, too, sipped the offered refreshment before speaking to his host.

  “Do not scold the child, man, she only does our bidding. I will pay to replace the jug. We have come far this day and the next inn is farther still. Would you begrudge us a drink on a day such as this?”

  The man tucked his filthy hands beneath his armpits and glared. “A drink and no more. This ain’t no alehouse.”

  While the men confronted each other, the child slipped away, motioning for the boy to follow. Five or six years her elder, he was caught between the need to hold his place among the adults and the desire of a child to explore. Curiosity and hunger won the battle, and he followed the sprite around to the back.

  She vanished into a shed and reappeared bearing a leather pouch that seemed to carry a heavy weight. Keeping it hidden in the folds of her skirt, she surreptitiously passed it to her newfound friend.

  Knowing at once its contents from the mischievous gleam of silver eyes, the youth grinned and accepted the package. Keeping one eye on their elders, who continued to argue, he led the girl back to his horse, where he deposited the pouch and rummaged in the capacious pockets of his coat. In a moment he withdrew a small packet of ribbons.

  “My sister has no need for more of these. I daresay even fairy princesses can find use for ribbons. I like the yellow best.”

  The unexpectedness of this gesture brought an instant’s joy to childish lips, but then, remembering her manners, she dropped a clumsy curtsy. The effect of this respectful gesture was lost when she used the moment to hide the packet in her garter, but the youth had no appreciation of respect and more interest in her quickness of wit.

  Before he could question her, she gestured toward his departing father and motioned for him to mount. Her fingers flew in a manner that left no doubt to her message, though she spoke not a word. With a gesture of farewell, he followed after his furious parent.

  Out of sight of the cottage, his father turned in suspicion at the sound of a crunching apple.

  “Where in hell did you steal that?” he demanded irritably.

  “The Princess of Apples gave it to me. Would you like one?” Blue eyes laughing, he reached in the pouch and produced another.

  His father glared his but took the apple. “Charm your sister with your fairy tales if you must, but leave girls like that one alone. I doubt if Lady Pamela would understand if you are knee-deep in bastards before your vows are said.”

  His son snorted rudely and took the last bite of his apple. “One does not bed fairy princesses, Father,” he replied. “I trust Lady Pamela does not consider herself in that category.”

  Remembering that young lady’s haughty demeanor, his father gave a curt bark of laughter. “She will grow out of it soon enough if she does. You’re both too young, for now. There will be time enough to please each other after she comes of age.”

  The boy looked doubtful but had the wisdom to remain silent.

  Chapter 2

  England, September, 1740

  Elli carried in an armful of firewood and stacked it by the grate, then fed smaller kindling into the flames to revive last night’s ashes. She enjoyed watching the small flames licking the dry twigs, growing larger and hungrier until the whole kitchen filled with their warmth.

  The coziness of Dulcie’s kitchen always attracted her, and she worked to keep it that way. The kettle sang a merry tune as the fire grew, and Elli reached for the tin mugs hanging on the hooks on the wall. She brought down the blackened frying pan and sliced rashers into it. Dulcie enjoyed waking to the smell of coffee and breakfast cooking. It was one of the reasons she had first allowed Elli to make herself at home.

  Elli’s thoughts were far from the past now as she stirred the meat and held a slab of bread above the fire. The day had begun with a frost upon the ground, but the sun promised a lovely day, at last, and she had plans for just such a day.

  Dulcie waddled into the tiny kitchen area behind her shop, rubbing the arthritic hip that often kept her awake. “You’re a dear, my girl. What’s an old woman to do without a young one about?” She settled at the old wooden table, inhaling the aroma from the mug Elli set before her.

  Elli made no reply, but lifted the pan from the fire, sopping the grease onto the toasted bread and producing plates for both of them. She hummed contentedly as she worked.

  The old woman sighed and shook her head. She would give a year’s earnings to hear the tale that never passed those silent lips. The first time Elli had appeared in the village she had been just a child tagging behind Nan and her assorted brood. Nan had always wanted a girl, instead of that unruly herd of young hooligans. But Nan had sworn she was her sister’s child and none could prove differently.

  Over the years the child had taken to wandering into the village on her own. At first, one or the other of Nan’s brood would fetch her, but after a while she came and went on her own. There was no questioning the girl, but the occasional blackening bruise upon her fair wrist or cheek spoke volumes. Her willingness to work had opened doors as well as hearts.

  Eventually the child had become a part of the village, sleeping wherever there was a spare bed, eating wherever there was an extra bowl. One of the men had sought out the girl’s family, only to discover them gone from the hut they had occupied for so long. The villagers could have turned her over to the parish, but none seemed willing to agree to that. So the child stayed, adopted by an entire town.

  The girl’s silence irritated some but was accepted by most. Many thought her a half-wit and laughed at her daydreaming ways, but Dulcie knew be
tter. She had once worked in a house of quality and knew their looks and manners. This changeling child had the high, fine cheekbones and straight, proud nose of an aristocratic lineage. Her long, slender figure was repeated in the fine bones of her hands and feet. By-blow she might be, but witless she was not. Her seemingly mindless wanderings had a purpose, though it differed from the prosaic ones of the villagers.

  “Fine day today. Off to the woods, are you?” she inquired, watching as the girl bit hungrily into the toast.

  Elli nodded, sketching with her hands in the air as she did with a stub of charcoal when she had paper. The child had learned to coax color from many of the plants in the woods, and Dulcie knew the berries would be ripe enough today to make red.

  Dulcie wished she had the coins to buy the child real watercolors. But this was a poor village, and the meager living she made at mending and sewing scarcely kept a roof over her head. The others, too, had families to feed and clothe. Elli received what little they had to give, but coins for watercolors none had to spare.

  The girl moved with grace about the tiled floor, nearly dancing as she scrubbed the last of the grease from the pan and washed the breakfast utensils. Dulcie guessed she must nearly be fifteen years of age by now and sighed again. The skinny child of a year ago was rapidly blossoming into a woman. There were not many boys hereabouts, not since Nan and her brood had left, leastways, but men had a way of searching out unattached young women. This one would be no exception. She wondered how much the child knew about the ways of men but hesitated to broach the subject. Every woman learned soon enough.