They broke their fast together in the small parlor adjoining their chamber before setting out for Ravenswood. The rain had lifted, though the air remained heavy with moisture, and the temperature was dropping rapidly. The roads were yet soft beneath the wheels, but that would change ere long. A storm was coming. The magical abilities of the Ashcombe family might have largely missed Eliza, but she could read the elements well enough to see that. If they did not make it home soon, they would not.
Inside the carriage, they sat close, the quiet between them companionable this time. There was no need for constantspeech. Her hand rested lightly in his, and he stroked his thumb across her knuckles absently, as though he was reluctant to break contact. And she was grateful for that, grateful to have the spell that had been cast in their room in Lincoln continue as they made their way home.
Initially, she had feared awkwardness, that some strain might come after such intimacy, but it had not. Instead, she found comfort in his nearness, a steady calm where she had expected self-consciousness. The closeness and connection they had shared lingered between them, casting a warm cocoon about them.He glanced at her often, a faint smile touching his mouth, and each time their eyes met, a spark of shared understanding passed between them.
It was strange how quickly something so new could begin to feel familiar. And so right.
The landscape rolled past, damp fields giving way to the outskirts of Dunrake-on-Swale. They were scarcely a mile from Ravenswood Hall when the coach jolted sharply, pitching them both forward.
The driver reined in the team with a shout, and Gabriel leaned out the window. “What is it?”
“Wheel’s gone, my lord!” came the reply. “Snapped the spoke clean off. We’ll have to stop in the village for repairs.”
Gabriel swore under his breath, though more in frustration than anger. “Are you hurt?” he asked her.
“Only startled,” Eliza said, steadying herself as he opened the carriage door and stepped down. He offered his hand, and she took it, letting him help her to the ground. The village street was muddy, the chilled air filled with the scent of damp and smoke. Within moments, faces appeared at windows, curious eyes watching as the Earl of Blackburn and his new wife stood beside the crippled carriage.
It did not take long for the whispers to begin.
By the time the carriage was wheeled to the blacksmith’s yard, word had already passed from mouth to mouth, growing with every retelling. Yet another Ashcombe witch, they said, had ensnared the newest Earl of Blackburn. Some swore they’d seen the pair exchanging vows at Lincoln. Others insisted the union could only bring ruin. Some mentioned the old curse and claimed that the Earl was under her spell. Others still cast uglier aspersions, painting Eliza in the light of a woman with low morals. But it was not the first time she’d born the brunt of gossip and it would not be the last. But she no longer had to bear it alone.
Tuckedinto a small alcove in the taproom of the local tavern, one man listened to the gossip and rumors intently, the hum of conversation loud around him. With each passing second and each rumor that spread like spilled ink on the carpet, his expression grew darker, more filled with fury, until his eyes appeared nearly black.
He had been waiting for this—waiting for the gossip to confirm what he already feared. They were married. The bloodlines had joined.
His hand curled into a fist around the edge of the table. He had missed his chance, allowed sentiment to stay his hand when he should have acted. And now—now the cost of that weakness would be everything he’d worked for.
But it was not yet too late.
If the curse could not be broken, it could still be preserved.
All it would take was one death.
He leaned back in his chair, the shadows swallowing the hard line of his face. “Enjoy your happiness while it lasts, my lord,” he murmured softly, his voice like a promise. “It will not endure.”
Chapter
Twenty-Two
The blacksmith’s yard rang with the harsh music of hammer on metal, the hiss of quenched iron punctuating the low murmur of voices in the street beyond. Gabriel stood a few yards off, arms folded as he watched the men refit the wheel to the carriage. The smell of soot and smoke mingled with damp air, heavy with the promise of snow. He was thinking of little beyond the journey ahead and the hour when he could finally take his wife home.
“Lord Blackburn.”
The voice was low and cool, weighted with disapproval. Gabriel turned to see the Reverend Mullins approaching, his long black coat flapping about his bulky frame, his expression drawn tight as though he found his parishioners to be the greatest of trials.
“Reverend,” Gabriel said curtly. “I take it from your tone that you are displeased about something?”
“Indeed, my lord. I am most displeased.” Mullins stopped a few paces away. “Imagine my surprise to learn that you have taken a bride without the benefit of my blessing—or the Church’s sanction.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “We were married by Common License at Lincoln Cathedral yesterday morning. The Church, I assure you, was present enough.”
“Ah yes,” Mullins said, his lip curling faintly. “But notthischurch. Not the parish over which I have care. A pity. Had I known of your intentions, I might have counseled you otherwise.”
“Indeed? And why is that?”
The Reverend’s pale eyes gleamed. “Because the woman you have wed, my lord, is of a family steeped in sin. The Ashcombe women are known servants of darkness. Their very existence has long been an affront to God’s will. To bind yourself to such corruption is to imperil not only your soul, but the moral standing of every man and woman who depends upon the continued prosperity of Ravenswood.”
The words struck with the precision of a blade. Gabriel’s temper, held in check by sheer force of will, slipped its leash.
