The calm, conversational tone of her voice sent a thrill along his nerves. “Will you fly on over there, Lottie, and wreak vengeance for me?”
She shrugged. “I may. If I have nothing more pressing in my calendar next week.”
“My terrifying girl. But fear not, the witch died from consumption some years ago. The father’s totally banjaxed from whiskey half the time, can hardly stir himself, let alone his house. And the nuns—”
He stopped, memories extinguishing any humor in him.
Charlotte went back to stroking, soothing. “I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. He shoved a hand through his hair, glaring at the torture device on the far wall even though he could see nothing but darkness. Why couldn’t Armitage have put them in it, rather than leaving them to talk about feelings? Clearly the ferocious old pirate understood well how to best employ her dungeon on a man.
“It’s all grand, my darling,” he said, as if that might have some hope of stopping the conversation.
“Don’t be preposterous!” Charlotte said. “It is not grand; it is appalling and utterly intolerable that anyone caused you harm. Well, it shall not happen again so long as I am in your company. Lady Armitage may have confiscated my besom, but I still have my voice.”
He grinned. “You’ll keep me safe, will you?”
Her eyes narrowed in the way he loved, all fury and adorable deadliness. “Are you laughing at me, sir?”
He did laugh then, but he also raised a hand in assurance. “By God, Charlotte Pettifer, I would not ever.”
“Excellent. Because I am serious. And I am a powerful witch, Alex. I prophesize that no one will hurt you again. Not even you yourself.”
He drew her closer. “Ah, you’re awful good to me, Lottie.”
“I am not,” she protested, all stiffness in her voice but growing soft again, warm and lush like the aftermath of magic, in his arms. “Goodis for civilians.”
“True, that.”
“You told me once you knew a woman with a bee bracelet. Was that her?”
“Aye.”
She reached for the bracelet on her own wrist, and Alex frowned as he watched her try to tug it past the heel of her hand. The bee charms clattered as if in protest. “What are you doing, my darling?” he asked.
“I would not want to wear anything that reminded you of her.”
She yanked harder, wincing as metal dug into her skin. Alex’s heart leaped. He laid his hand over hers. “No, it’s fine. Thank you. But you’re so far from being like Deirdre as to be holy water on my memory.” Lifting her hand, he kissed the knuckles.
“Oh.” She blinked as if he’d whispered some spell over her and now all she could see were sparkles in the deepening dark. But it took her only a moment to sweep them away and restore her equanimity. “Well, good. I’m glad that is all sorted.”
She patted him, woman-like, clearly believing her job done. He had been ruffled—discomposed—and reorganized—in thorough witch fashion.
But even as he began to relax, she proved to have one more intervention up her sleeve.
“You know, when your accent comes through, you sound like a poet standing on a wild shore. I remember when I first met you I thought you must be strewing poetry like bombs all through London, making a ruin of women’s hearts. I suspected you of being very untidy indeed.”
“And now?” he asked warily.
She shrugged her mouth. “Now I know exactly how untidy you are. It is...”
He held his breath...
“...compelling.”
He laughed again, and marveled at the way the dark, endless suck of lake water in his mind ebbed away.
“What do you want, Alex?” she asked.
