Moonglow. Part 18

Miranda's teeth clicked together. "That statement is so utterly wrong that I don't even know where to begin."

Poppy looked away first, her fierce, straight brows furrowed with emotion. She was wrong, Daisy knew, but either would not admit to it or didn't fully see the fault in her logic.

Daisy's mind fairly reeled. Not just Miranda, but all of them were different. And their mother had known. She thought of her beautiful and ethereal mother who had died giving birth to their little brother; the poor little mite hadn't lived past the first day. From the looks on her sisters' faces, Daisy knew they too thought of that devastating loss. "What could Mother do?"

A long sigh lifted Poppy's breast. "Her powers were a lot like yours, actually. She could influence nature. Remember the way she had with animals?"

Miranda's lip wobbled. "G.o.d, I'd forgotten. She used to say that she *told' the rats to stay out of our pantry." Her voice broke on a laugh. "I always thought she was having me on."

Poppy nodded stiffly. "Nature gave her strength. She yearned for the countryside. She hated London."

They'd lost her too early. Some days, Daisy missed her so much it was an ache in her chest.

"And Father?" Daisy asked, breaking the silence. "I suppose it is the practice of elementals to keep their husbands in the dark?" She glanced at Miranda. "You are in trouble now, pet."

Poppy's mouth thinned in clear defiance. "Father did not know of Mother's talents. Only of Miranda's, for obvious reasons."

"But not of yours, I gather," Daisy supplied. When Miranda sat up straight, she gave her a repressive look. "Come now, she called herself the first daughter. You can't have imagined she doesn't possess one either."

Poppy actually grimaced. "Or mine."

"What is it?" Miranda snapped.

Poppy sighed again and then slowly moved her hand forward. Her long, blunt-tipped finger touched the tea pitcher, pebbled with condensation as it warmed in the sun. A s.h.i.+ver of air drifted over the small s.p.a.ce, ice cold and clear. Before their eyes, frost moved over the gla.s.s. Laces of ice soon covered it, and the tea within froze solid.

"Well, at least that explains iced tea on a bookseller's salary," Daisy said. "Might we have iced cream next time, Pop?"

Poppy's look was frigid.

"Does Winston know?" Daisy asked.

"No. And he never will."

The threat was clear and chilling.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Miranda muttered, still gaping at the frozen tea pitcher.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l is right," Daisy snapped, crossing her arms in front of her. "You have fire, she has ice, and I have dirt." When they both stared at her, she made a noise of disgust. "Fire and ice are elegant, brutal powers. I hate dirt! And, really, what can one do with it?"

"Oh, I don't know," murmured Poppy. "It sounds to me as though you used it quite effectively to fell your enemies."

Daisy batted back one of the curls tickling her cheek and looked away, refusing to be persuaded.

"And it wasn't the mere moving of dirt, was it?" Poppy said. "You mentioned tree roots. Which makes me believe that nature is attuned to you, as it was with Mother." She glanced at the patches of spring crocuses growing along the borders of the newly budding flowerbeds. "I suspect you have more power than you think. Why not try speaking to the flowers?"

"Speaking to the flowers?"

How very ridiculous. She glanced about her. True, each blade of gra.s.s, every flower had its own scent, which she could detect as clearly as the tea before her or the lemon cakes on the stand. If she were very still, she could hear the little flowers stirring in the breeze and the tight buds straining to break free from the willow overhead. Cautiously, she took a little breath and let go of the strange swirling that somehow lived within her belly, a power that seemed to have always been there, had she thought to look for it.

The air about the table seemed to crack and writhe with a strange hissing sound that Daisy realized with a start was the growing of things. Something brushed against her ankles. Gra.s.s. Gra.s.s shooting from the ground, growing high. The timid little cl.u.s.ter of crocuses bloomed a full, deep purple. Miranda gasped as the rose vines attached to a trellis at the back wall exploded in a riot of lush, vermilion color and sweet, tender fragrances.

The garden darkened a touch, shade from the willow now in full bloom. Golden petals rained down like snow as its branches swayed in the breeze. The heady perfume of flowers and fruit thickened the air. Daisy sucked in a breath and cut the energy off.

"Well, now," Poppy plucked a brilliant green apple from the tree at her side, "I wouldn't call that display inelegant."

"No, it was wonderful," Daisy retorted airily, though her insides were shaking. "I shall be the belle of the garden club."

Miranda chortled into her gla.s.s of tea.

Daisy tapped her nails upon the tabletop, drumming out a hollow rhythm. "What I don't understand is why now? Why hadn't I seen some hint of this talent before? I am older than Miranda. Ought I not to have come into my power before her? b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, she burned Father's warehouse to the ground when she was ten years old."

A thoughtful expression came over Poppy's features. "It usually manifests during a time of great stress." She looked at Miranda. "Panda was a special case, for she had it as a tot. For me, and others, the power made itself known when I felt great danger and the need to defend myself."

"Believe me, sister," Daisy said darkly, "I've had need to defend myself before now." Oh, what she would have given to have used this power when Craigmore had lived.

"That is true," Poppy said. "But you've a sunny, caring nature, dear, despite your efforts to shock."

Daisy resisted the urge to squirm, but Poppy continued in her maddeningly pragmatic tone. "Surely there were some signs?"

Daisy thought on it. "Craigmore loved orchids," she said slowly. "Somehow, they always died, immediately. Shriveled up in their pots. And then there was the ivy." She bit back an evil smile. "Remember how thickly it grew over our house? It covered Craigmore's study windows no matter how many times the gardener tried to rein it in." Daisy laughed lightly. "I remember thinking, *Good, grow so thick that he never sees sunlight.' And it did."

She sighed. "But nothing like what happened last night."

"Many elementals do not manifest their powers unless someone they love or care for deeply is in danger," Poppy said.

Again, two sets of eyes pinned her to the spot with their piercing stares. Her cheeks heated.

"You were defending Northrup," Miranda said in a hollow voice. "Do you... you couldn't possibly..."

"Care for him?" Daisy supplied, with a tinge of bitterness. "Would it be so very surprising? He is kind and charming. Never mind that he was being torn apart, his flesh cut to shreds because he was keeping me safe." Her chin lifted a touch. "Is it so very wrong of me to want to protect him? To feel grat.i.tude?"

Miranda's eyes remained watchful. "Is it grat.i.tude? Or are you falling in love with the man?"

Daisy crossed her arms over her chest. "I do not see why it would concern you if I was, which I am not."

"Because he will break your heart. Likely, he is toying with you to-" Her mouth snapped shut, a look of horrified embarra.s.sment widening her lovely eyes.

"To make you jealous," Daisy finished for her. She hated saying the words aloud, but they were hovering in the air between them regardless. "After all, why would he want me when he's seen you?"

Miranda paled. "I never said that, or thought it. I only meant that he has a history of dallying with women."

"No, sister, it was precisely what you meant." Daisy drew away from the table and stood on weak limbs. Her throat was beginning to hurt most dreadfully. "I cannot fault you for thinking so. You are quite the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Why should Northrup want another?"

Daisy held no illusions as to her own appeal. She was pretty, very pretty. But her attractiveness was, as her husband had constantly reminded her, common, l.u.s.ty. She'd never told a soul how she'd overheard Craigmore offering for Miranda and being forced to make do with her when her father refused to part with his favored daughter. I wanted the beauty, and I got the barmaid, good for nothing more than being pa.s.sed around. Why should Northrup think any different?

"Daisy," Miranda said softly, "don't say that. I simply do not trust his motives. I never have. He did everything he could to drive a wedge between me and Archer."

"I cannot speak to Northrup's actions in regards to you and Archer." Daisy gathered her parasol and gloves. She needed to leave. The garden was too small, too overladen with d.a.m.ned flora thanks to her. "But I do know this. The man you do not trust saved my life, repeatedly. And suffered for it. Might we give him that small credit?"

Miranda's lips pursed but she gave Daisy a stiff nod.

Daisy took a breath and stood. "He has been a friend to me." The word "friend" felt wrong on her tongue but she forged on. "I'm not falling in love. I may act foolish now and again, but I'm not a fool." A lie, because she knew she was the worst sort of fool.

"All right," Ian said when he could no longer keep himself from asking the question, "where is she?"

It irked him that he had to ask Talent. It irked him that he'd woken up in his bed alone. He'd had plans. Plans that included sinking into a soft, warm woman blessed with a particularly tart tongue. After returning late in the night to slip back into bed with her, it had been the only thought on his mind, and he'd fancied she would finally be compliant. Ah, well, the best laid schemes and all of that.

Talent slanted him a glance as he helped Ian into his morning coat. Despite the growing craze for the sack suit, neither man found the cut appealing. The shapeless style had no elegance about it. In that, at least, they were of an accord. On other things, however...

"She has ensnared Tuttle in her little web," said Talent shortly. "They set out at daybreak. To where I cannot say." Or care. The rest of the sentiment was clearly written over his expressive face.

Ian craned his head around. "With Tuttle?" Two women out alone with that beast on the loose. He tensed, ready to stalk out of the house and hunt the blasted woman down. Perhaps take Daisy over his knee. The thought held appeal in more ways than one. The woman had the most lusciously round a.r.s.e...

"Hold your water." Talent adjusted the line of the suit shoulders. "They took Seamus with them."

Ian grunted. Seamus was a strong lad. All right, a brute. Easily six and a half feet of pure muscle and speed, the lycan stable master was as good protection, if not better, than Talent. Tension eased a bit in Ian's gut. They'd be safe with Seamus.

But the scowl remained as Talent fussed about with his cravat. Ian's skin itched and felt too tight for his frame. He couldn't credit it entirely to the healing. She was out of his sight and he...

He didn't like it.

"Did they say when they would return?"

At this, Talent's open features pulled into a sneer of disgust. "Henpecked already, are we?"

Ian could only grin. What did a boy know of it? Only a boy would view antic.i.p.ation as a trap. Despite various aches and pains that lingered, Ian felt a certain lightness in his chest. So she hadn't been there in the morning. There was always later. Always that taut pang that hit him the moment they set their eyes on each other. Always that catch of his breath right before he took her in his arms.

Ought a man ignore such pleasures simply because the rest of the world was falling down around him? After nearly a century of being numb, he rather thought not. He deserved a bit of pleasure, d.a.m.n it all.

Talent gave Ian's sleeve a tug that was a tad too efficient, and Ian turned his attention back to him.

"You don't like her."

Talent's shoulders hunched as he kept about his business.

Ian laughed and inspected the sets of cufflinks lined up in their case like good little soldiers. "Admit it. You'll be no use to me until you do." A set of garnet studs winked in the sunlight. Perfect. "I won't have you brooding when there's work to be done."

Talent swatted Ian's hand away from the studs and plucked up a pair of gold- and-black-enamel links, stylized into small skulls. "Gems for night. Gold for day." Deftly he took hold of Ian's cuff and pinned a skull in place. "She's a distraction."

"Of course she is," Ian said. "The best sort."

"Look what trouble that's given you so far," his valet muttered. Ian knew that Talent liked his life set up in well-ordered categories, and one should never bleed into the other.

Ian's hand dropped, and the other was grabbed. "You don't like anyone who takes attention away from you," Ian countered. "Had you your way, the whole household would revolve around your dramas. I've never seen a vainer man pretend to be so humble."

Talent snorted. "You possess a mirror, eh?" Ian had to concede the point as Talent brusquely began brus.h.i.+ng his coat.

"Be one thing if you'd tup her and have done with it." The brush whacked his shoulder. "Instead, you're having conversations." Talent drew the word out as if tasting something foul. "An' walking around like a barmy nabob with your head in the clouds and a grin on your face."

Another whack found him between the shoulder blades. "What's it done but bring trouble to our door. You could have taken all four of those wolves without breaking a sweat, were it not for worrying over her. Let's be done with her, I say. Get her out of the house and-"

Ian caught Talent's wrist midstrike. "I believe we can both concede that my propensity for picking up strays has yet to be regrettable." He let his gaze bore into the lad's. "Pray, do not give me cause to think different."

The young man's eyes narrowed into green slits, and Ian leaned in a touch. "Whatever your feelings for Daisy may be, put them away. You will watch over her as instructed." He did not bother to add a consequence for failure. There was no need. The thing was either done or it was not.

Talent held his gaze for a second more and then broke it. "Talking like a proper gent again, are we?" When Ian let him go, Talent straightened his own cuffs with care.

Ian grabbed his walking stick and headed for the door.

"Least you're thinking clearly now," Talent said. At that he trailed off with more mutterings under his breath.

Pausing to inspect his form in the mirror, Ian remarked more from idleness than true curiosity, "Hmm?"

"I said she's right about one thing," Talent answered in an overloud voice. "You get your c.o.c.k up and your Scots goes hanging out in the wind. Pretty soon, all one'll have to do is look for The Saltire flapping over your daft head, and your brother will know when to strike!"

Ian gave the boy a warning glare before striding out of the room. But Talent's irritating voice chased him down.

"She makes you weak, Ian!"

Chapter Twenty-six.

Death lived in this dark alley. Winston could smell it long before he approached. A London Particular had drummed up early in the morning, and now the fog was thick as pudding and just as murky, despite the noonday sun that must be burning overhead. Their lamps did little more than reflect the light back into their eyes, turning the fog around them into a living, writhing thing. So they turned them down low and stumbled along.

They ought to have turned back, or perhaps have waited until the fog lifted, but the chase was upon them, and Winston sensed its end. He needed to see this done.

Even so, he pulled out his revolver and had it at the ready as they drew closer.

Sheridan's voice was a thin echo in the murk. "We ought to have brought backup."

"Mmm."

The dark outline of a building emerged, its windows and door shut tight against visitors. From there came the foul, overwhelming stench of rot, of death.

"I know that smell, sir."

Unfortunately, Winston did too.

"A body's in there." The younger man moved closer to Winston's side.

"Mmm."