21 NOT EVEN ONE BED—CHARLOTTE MAKES A DETERMINATION—THEY HAVE NO SENSE OF HUMOR—AN UNEXPECTED ROSE—THEY TAKE A WRONG TURN—SABOTAGE—A DEATH-DEFYING EXIT—KITTY—A NIGHTMARE WITHIN A NIGHTMARE There is no charm equal to the tenderness of a soft mattress. Charlotte certainly felt that as she woke in the morning light after sleeping on the dungeon’s icy wooden floor. Her bones ached and her skin, unprotected by layers of muslin, silk, and wool, was ready to start a petition for a return to conservative clothing. But none of that mattered as she opened her eyes and saw Alex’s face. He was still asleep, his arm curved around her protectively, and thus Charlotte had the luxury of a few private moments to indulge in staring at him. She had always considered him handsome, even from the start of their acquaintance, when she shared the same first impressions of his character that Elizabeth Bennet had of Mr. Darcy’s. But now she saw courage in his sanguine attitude, wit in his wayward smile, and in the flickering of his ravishing eyelashes a vulnerability she would fight always to protect. He was a fiend, but also truly a friend, and their conversation last night had proved that. She wished she could demand justice from anyone who had so much as scratched the little boy he had been. Certainly she would punish anyone who tried it now—and would do so even after he left her for his next adventure, as she knew was inevitable. Even after he welcomed the next woman into his bed. He was worth it for his own sake, not just for how he made her feel. But oh, how he made her feel . . . There was no denying now that she really liked him, the rogue. There was, however, denying that she actually loved him. She was not quite brave enough to admit such a thing yet. Besides, she had known him only a week. How could she fall in love with someone in a week? Ah, whispered her heart, but it’s been a lifetime of aloneness, waiting for him, and now here he is. Nonsense! her brain declared, arms folded tightly and chin tilted, even while her heart waved a volume of Jane Austen’s Persuasion at it in supporting argument. Besides, Alex almost certainly did not feel the same way about her. He’d said love yesterday, but that was clearly a joke. He went to bed with her, but she could mark that down to a desire for entertainment. And while it was true that last night he’d held her with tenderness, Charlotte felt sure with a little effort she could contrive an excuse for this also. Her education had provided her not only with superior wit and a complete understanding of English law (and how to break it) but also what amounted to a bachelor of arts in cynicism. She could explain away just about any kindness. No doubt existed in her mind that Captain O’Riley planned to snatch the amulet and fly off with a farewell kiss and a jovial cry of tally ho! But looking at him now, feeling his quiet breath against her face and realizing that at some point in the night he’d put his coat like a blanket over her, she resolved for that plan to fail. He belonged to her! Elizabeth Bennet would no doubt be shocked by such indelicacy. But then, Elizabeth Bennet really should have boxed Mr. Darcy’s ear halfway through chapter three. Just as Emma Woodhouse should have shut the door in Mr. Knightley’s condescending face and Fanny should have slapped some sense into Edmund then gone off to London to get herself a decent education. Having now experienced various degrees of communion with a man, Charlotte was of the opinion that Jane Austen’s heroines were ninnies. Maybe from here on she ought to read Mary Wollstonecraft instead. Of one thing she was certain. She would get her amulet and her man. No one would be able to persuade her otherwise. Suddenly, Alex’s eyes opened. He smiled even before they were focused. Charlotte’s pulse began to dance, and when she tried to scold it into decorum, it laughed at her and skipped happily on, singing love, love. For goodness’ sake, it’s just like, she reminded herself, to no avail. She felt a softening within, and hastily frowned. “Good morning,” she said in a somber tone. “Good morning, my darling,” Alex replied, his Irish accent rolling like music out of sleep’s peace. Charlotte blushed scarlet, powerless to stop the disintegration of her frown and the resultant smile. Mary Wollstonecraft would have turned over in her grave (depending on who was on it at the time, and what they were doing). Elizabeth Bennet and her authorial sisters smirked as their character choices were vindicated. Who was the ninny now? Alex did not seem to notice her response. He clambered to his feet, taking his coat from her and putting it on. Charlotte sat up more slowly. “It’s simply rude for you to have so much vigor after sleeping the night on a floor,” she said, rubbing her aching back. “It’s less vigor than impatience,” he said, grasping her hand and pulling her up. She staggered against him, and he gave her a quick one-armed embrace. “I want breakfast. And my regular morning exercise.” His grin made her blush flare again. The accent was gone, taking with it the vulnerability in his eyes, but apparently his ardor remained. “You might find yourself thwarted in both by the fact we are imprisoned,” Charlotte said. “And take it from me, there is no way out.” He laughed. “There’s never any point in saying ‘Take it from me’ to a pirate.” Charlotte stepped back, hands on her hips. “You saw me working last night. You know I found no means of escape.” “I do know,” he said, striding across to the door and grasping its handle. “But you didn’t try—” The door swung open. “—shouting,” he finished numbly. They exchanged a shocked stare. Then Alex laid a finger to his lips and, drawing the door open wider, peered out. “Huh.” Charlotte came up beside him. “Why is there a rose lying on the threshold?” “I don’t know,” Alex said. “Perhaps Lady Armitage is playing some kind of game.” “So what do we do now?” “We play.” Taking her hand, he led her out of the dungeon, closing the door behind him. “Which way, magic girl?” “Left,” she said, indicating where pink rose petals made a trail along the narrow corridor. “Like sheep to the slaughter. Very well. Tally ho!” “Really, that is such a daft phrase,” Charlotte muttered. “You would never hear a witch say something so ridiculous. We are far too sensible.” “No, you are far too boring,” Alex corrected. Charlotte refrained from arguing, partly due to the need for stealth, and partly because she agreed with him. They followed strewn petals up a flight of uncarpeted stairs, around a corner, and halfway down another stretch of corridor. Whoever had created the trail must have run out of petals, for this could not be the actual destination. Several doors stood shut; the house was silent. Charlotte judged from the faint light glimmering through a window that dawn had broken only recently. In Pettifer House, no one stirred until at least nine (except the cook, dishwashers, chambermaids, scullery maids, footmen, and butler). It appeared this was also the case in Lady Armitage’s household. Now if they could only locate the amulet before anyone woke, they could be out of there without further trouble, and home before the end of the day. The realization lurched in her stomach. Convincing the League that she was going to marry a pirate would be the most difficult magic she’d ever attempted. Cleaning Alex’s house would come a close second. Perhaps best to simply crash it “accidentally” and seek new premises. She did not need a Pemberley per se, but there ought at least to be a decent bathroom and the certainty of no opossum living in the kitchen’s chimney. “Which way now?” Alex whispered, drawing her out of visions of Georgian columns and marble floors. “Down the aisle,” she replied. He looked at her oddly. “The corridor,” she amended, managing not to blush. “Down the corridor and up those stairs.” She assumed Lady Armitage would keep her bedroom on an upper floor like a proper (albeit mad and murderous) lady. So they went up, wincing at every slight noise their boots made on the treads. Then they walked another corridor until they met a closed door, with no further passage available. Charlotte was about to suggest they turn around when a slight clattering came from within the room. Alex reached instinctively for his sword, then mouthed a curse as he remembered it had been taken from him. Despite this, he opened the door before Charlotte could supply him with one of a dozen excellent reasons not to do so. Lady Armitage’s cockpit lay before them. Either that or a lounge in a brothel, but since the latter generally did not include large, spoked wheels, Charlotte felt confident in her initial assessment. (She might have been surprised had she actually visited such a place.) The room contained several pastel-colored fainting couches, statues of unclothed gentlemen who were more happily endowed than those in museums, the aforementioned wheel, and lying on the floor beneath that wheel, Miss Dearlove. The traitorous maid sat up hurriedly as they entered. In her hand was a screwdriver. “What are you doing?” Charlotte demanded. “What does it look like?” Miss Dearlove replied in a quiet, even tone. “Like you are carving your name on the wheel shaft in an act of petty vandalism common to household servants.” Miss Dearlove and Alex stared at her incredulously. “She’s sabotaging the wheel,” Alex said. “I’m sabotaging the wheel,” Miss Dearlove agreed. She got to her feet, folding the screwdriver back into a besom. “Why are you up here? I left you a trail of rose petals leading to the sitting room, where Lady Armitage is preparing to hold a marriage ceremony.” “Why did you help us?” Charlotte asked. Miss Dearlove regarded her coolly, and Charlotte had a sudden, inexplicable desire to run out and pay taxes. She had never before given much attention to the bland little maid, not even when Miss Dearlove had been aiming a gun at her. She realized now the woman’s inconspicuousness had been a clever disguise. “Lady Armitage will no doubt include the amulet in her bridal ensemble,” Miss Dearlove replied. “I suggest if you want it, you hurry downstairs.” “You sabotaged the wheel yesterday too, didn’t you?” Alex said. “Loosened its connections so the incantation pathway was disrupted and the house couldn’t be properly steered?” Miss Dearlove ignored this question also. “Vicar Dickersley has agreed to perform the ceremony. Lady Armitage offered him a substantial compensation: his life. Tom Eames is in imminent danger. You really should make haste.” “Just who are you, Miss Dearlove?” Charlotte demanded. The woman sighed. “You people have the most confusing priorities. But why am I surprised? Pirates are mad; witches are lunatic. These past few weeks have made me want to join the circus for a rest. I recommend you two get married, so as to keep the insanity contained as much as possible. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere else to be.” They stared in dumbstruck astonishment as she took up a plain, wide-brimmed hat from a table and, pushing ajar a window, stepped up onto the windowsill. “You’re a witch!” Charlotte realized—for someone would exit from an upper-story window only if they possessed the facility to incantate (or had grandiose delusions of invulnerability, which is why so many pirates were injured doing it). “I am not,” Miss Dearlove said, and stepped out. With a gasp, Charlotte rushed to the window, only to see Miss Dearlove dangling beneath the hat, one hand holding its white ribbons, as she sank at a genteel pace to the ground. Armitage House was parked beside a Bible bookstore, where the Wisteria Society would never look for it. Once Miss Dearlove set foot on the pavement, she folded the hat remarkably small, tucked it into a pocket, and marched away down the street with the steely manner of a librarian who has just seen someone dog-ear a book’s page. “Who is she?” Charlotte wondered aloud. “And where can I get a hat like that?” “Why do you need one?” Alex asked. He leaned past her to take a pearl-handled penknife from a desk, tucking it into his boot. “You can levitate with a word.” “But it seems to be operating on a hitherto unknown magic.” “Don’t you have enough magic yourself to be going along with?” “Do you have enough money?” “Good point.” He found a chisel amongst the navigational array and tucked it into his other boot. “We should probably go get that damned amulet.” With a sudden pleased sound, he grabbed a long-barreled pistol that happened to be lying atop some unfinished knitting. After checking that it was loaded, he turned with a grin to Charlotte. “Don’t say it,” she warned. “Tal—” “Don’t.” “Tell me that you will come downstairs with me, sweetheart.” She gave him a disgusted look and marched from the room, and with a self-satisfied smile he followed her, picking up a letter opener on the way.
It is a convention of adventures that the heroes will arrive in perfect time to save a wretched victim from their doom. Charlotte and Alex considered themselves the heroes in this instance—and certainly Tom Eames was about as wretched as it is possible to be without entering a darker genre of narrative. Therefore it was to general astonishment all round when they burst through the doorway to Lady Armitage’s candlelit sitting room just as Vicar Dickersley pronounced these words: “Man and wife.” Charlotte and Alex staggered to a halt. Lady Armitage, looking up from gazing with adoration at her new ball and chain (and the young man attached to it), smiled cheerfully and waved at them. Dressed in mauve, and with lilies overflowing her grasp, she looked as happy as any woman observed in the middle of her favorite hobby. Tom had a more furious response, but since he was gagged it came out as mere annoyance. “I see you found Kitty,” Lady Armitage said through her smile. “Kitty?” Charlotte asked, bemused. Lady Armitage twirled a finger at the gun Alex was aiming toward her. “You name your gun?” At that moment, Charlotte realized Miss Dearlove had been right: pirates were mad. “Well, hand over my amulet or else Kitty will be shooting you.” “And Tom,” Alex added. “Er, that is, Kitty won’t be shooting Tom; what I meant—” “Now see here!” This from the vicar—Lady Armitage showing no concern at the choice of being robbed or shot. “You cannot interrupt a sacred moment like this!” He lifted a hand to gesticulate, and the chain binding him to a table leg rattled obtrusively. Candles set upon the table trembled, and a vase of lilies threatened to topple. But the vicar did not notice. “Have some respect for true love!” Alex stared at him in amazement. Charlotte, however, only had eyes for the amulet. “Give it to me, madam,” she said, striding forward and presenting her hand, palm up, for delivery. “Never!” Lady Armitage avowed. Charlotte’s patience, driven to its limit, and smelling coffee somewhere in the room, abruptly snapped. “Proximare!” she incantated. The amulet rose on its chain, straining toward her. “Be careful,” Alex said, but it was too late. Magic stretched through her body, pressing against bones and muscles. She felt her feet rise off the floor. The amulet flew violently to her. Unfortunately, Lady Armitage came with it. The two women crashed. Lilies scattered everywhere. Candles toppled from a nearby table, and the table went too, cloth, tea service, and all. Charlotte fell backward, the pirate atop her, and as they smacked against the floor she immediately rolled over to exchange their positions. But she had not factored in Lady Armitage’s hooped petticoat. Once it started rolling, it did not stop. The women flipped over each other several times before being halted by a wall. Immediately, Charlotte began pulling at the amulet, and Lady Armitage began pulling at Charlotte’s hair, and the only thing that prevented it from being a catfight was that Alex could not see a clear enough shot to fire Kitty. Behind them, a candle flame got about its business with quiet dignity, burning a hole through the fallen tablecloth to the carpet beneath. Several new flames leaped up, spreading across the floor. Vicar Dickersley, who had collapsed to his knees as the table fell, began whimpering as he tried to clamber up and away. He liked to consider himself a religious man (always a bonus in his job), but really, martyrdom by fire would be the final straw today. “Free Tom!” Charlotte shouted to Alex. Granted, it sounded more like fee om, since Lady Armitage was smacking a hand against her mouth, but Alex understood. He quickly evaluated the situation and decided she did not need his help. Holstering Kitty, he hurried over to the captive groom and used Lady Armitage’s pen knife to slice through the wrist ties. At once, Tom pulled the gag from his mouth and gasped a desperate breath. “She put the key to our chains in her bodice!” Alex glanced at Lady Armitage. Charlotte was sitting atop her, tugging furiously at the amulet while Lady Armitage attempted to break her wrists. Charlotte’s hair had come free of its bindings and tumbled everywhere; Lady Armitage’s had shattered a fallen teacup. As Alex watched, the pirate snatched a porcelain shard and began using it to saw at a long strand of Charlotte’s hair. He cringed, for even as a male he recognized the battle was about to explode. There was certainly no acquiring a key under those circumstances. Suddenly, the candle’s fire, having got all its notes together, and with a deep, excited breath, stepped forth onto the stage—or, more precisely, a velvet sofa that was covered in shawls and cushions. With an ironically chilling rush of sound, the whole thing went up in flames. Vicar Dickersley swooned. Tom grasped the chain attaching him to a table, tugging on it as if that could in any way help. Charlotte and Lady Armitage had resorted to slapping each other’s hands wildly. Two footmen rushed into the room—and as Alex pulled the chisel from his boot and threw it at them, rushed right back out again. They slammed the door hard behind them. A tall standing candelabra shook at the reverberations, then toppled against some drapes, which promptly caught alight. Alex looked around at the chaos and grinned. “Now,” he said to himself with satisfaction, “it’s starting to get fun.”