Page 17 of Spellbound
“Bathsheba,” he whispered. “Jezebel.” She was all of those things to him. Every woman who had ever seduced a man to his downfall, was culminated in her. “You’ll live to cast your spells for another day. But your time is coming. Very soon.”
With one last inhalation of the undergarment, he dropped it to the floor and then crushed it beneath his boot, leaving muddy footprints on it. Let her know, he thought, that she was being hunted. Let her know that her days were numbered.
SEVENTEEN
They didn’t go to Highwood Abbey. Neither of them wanted to deal with servants, introductions, or having to maintain some semblance of propriety until they could retire at dark. He couldn’t wait that long, Desmond thought. So when the carriage pulled to a halt before Belladonna’s small cottage, he didn’t wait for the driver. He simply opened the door, jumped down before it had even come to a full stop and then reached for her.
Lifting her from the vehicle, he didn’t place her feet on the ground. Instead, he carried her to the door as the driver made for Highwood Abbey.
“What, in heaven’s name, are you doing?” She asked.
“Carrying you over the threshold. Isn’t that what a man is supposed to do for his new bride?”
Somewhat sardonically, she asked, “And in this one particular fashion you choose to bow to tradition? We’ve done nothing else in the regular way thus far!
“Some traditions need to be broken,” Desmond said dismissively. “But any tradition that allows me to hold you in my arms… that, Belladonna Crane, is one worth keeping.”
Her expression shifted into one of dismay. “My goodness. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Thought of what?”
She glanced up at him, “That I would no longer be a Goodwynne.”
Desmond smiled. “You may call yourself whatever you wish so long as I can call you mine.”
The very second they stepped into the cottage, she tensed in his arms. “Someone has been here.”
“How can you tell?”
“I can feel it,” she insisted.
“It was likely Mrs. Frye returning your things,” he said.
“No. This is not Genie. Nor was it you sister. This was a man,” she said. “A very angry one.”
Desmond didn’t question her further. Her instincts for such things quite renowned, after all. “Reverend Stalker?”
“Possibly,” she said. “No, probably. But he is not the only man in Highgate to be angry at me. The good Reverend has turned so many against me. People who came to me for years on end for remedies and such will not longer even look at me, much less speak to me. He has done everything in his power to make my life here as unpleasant as possible.”
Once fully inside, he set her down and closed the door. “Is anything missing or damaged?”
She looked around. “Not down here. Not that I can tell, at any rate.”
“I’ll check upstairs,” he said. “Wait here.”
“He’s not here now,” she insisted. “I know he’s gone… it’s just echoes. I can feel that he was here. Well, that someone was here.”
Desmond sighed. “I’d feel better if you let me take a look first. The man is a lunatic. Who knows what he might have done.” He knew it was a point she could not argue, but still she hesitated. Finally, she gave a nod.
Leaving her below, Desmond climbed the stairs to her chamber. It was small and painstakingly tidy. There was only, as far as he could see, one item in the entire room that was out place. Walking over to the bit of fabric on the floor, he bent down to retrieve it. The cotton was worn from wear, nearly transparent from it, in fact. And a man’s muddy boot print marred it.
Anger rushed through him. This wasn’t about his religious beliefs, or any concern he had for the community because he perceived her as a threat. What he’d done was quite personal. Intimate. Rife with carnal implications. He wanted to possess her and his lust, Desmond realized, was what truly fueled Stalker’s anger.
“Desmond?”
He heard her call from the foot of the stairs. “Stay down there. I’ll be down shortly. I think it might be best if we go to Highwood Abbey, after all.”
She came up anyway, and halted when she what was in his hands. “Why are you holding my shift?”
