Her Muse, Her Magic: Muses, #2

By Jane Charles

Brighid Glace is not a witch, no matter how many times Blake Chetwey has called her one. She's a healer and he should be quite grateful she is too. Without her abilities, he might not survive his holiday at haunted Marisdùn Castle when another bout of Malaria hits him. But should anything terrible ever befall Blake, Brighid would never forgive herself if she didn't do all she could to save him. Her heart would never survive otherwise. 

 After years of denying that Brighid's mere presence affects him in ways he can't understand, Blake's future is now in her hands. She is lovely, and enchanting, and only a witch could make him feel such things. Was his fevered state causing him to see her in a different light or could he no longer deny what he has tried to ignore? And would he now lose her to a friend?

** This novella originally appeared in "One Haunted Evening", an anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Charles
• Release date: May 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507000564

Jane Charles

Jane Charles has lived in the Midwest her entire life. As a child she would more likely be found outside with a baseball than a book in her hand. In fact, Jane hated reading until she was sixteen. Out of boredom on a long road trip she borrowed her older sister’s historical romance and fell in love with reading. She long ago lost count of how many fiction novels she has read over the years and her love for them never died.  Along with romance she has a passion for history and the two soon combined when she penned her first historical romance.  What turned into a hobby became a passion, which has been fully supported by her husband, three children and three cats. JaneCharlesAuthor.com Jane can be contacted at: [e-mail] Twitter and FB: JaneACharle  

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Her Muse, Her Magic

Copyright © 2015 by Jane Charles

Cover Design by Lily Smith

Night Shift Publishing

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author’s imagination, fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Shannon Orrill ~ Thank you for the use of your books, sharing the magic of Wicca

and especially your friendship.

~Jane

October 1815 – The Merciful Widow Inn, Newmarket

Eugene Post, the Marquess of Bradenham, slapped David Thorn on the back in congratulations as he took a spot across from his old friend. Well done today, Thorn. After all, the man’s Arabian had clocked in faster than any other horse on the racecourse that day.

Blake Chetwey laughed. You make it sound like he ran the lengths himself, Braden.

I did have something to do with the siring of the filly. Thorn lifted his glass of whisky in a mock toast.

One of your byblows is she? Braden’s younger brother, Lord Quentin, chuckled as he dropped into a chair beside the man.

A wicked glint sparked in Thorn’s eyes. If she was one of mine, she’d have run even faster.

This earned him an uproarious round of guffaws from the others. Just as the laughter died down, Alastair Darrington, Viscount Wolverely, said to Braden, See what you’ll miss if you head off to godforsaken Cumberland?

Cumberland? Thorn turned up his nose as though he’d smelled something awful. Why the devil would you want to go there of all places?

Braden scoffed. "Want is a strong word. Required is more apt."

You’re required to go to Cumberland? Sidney Garrick frowned.

Haunted castle, Quent supplied, wiggling his brow dramatically. He’s inherited a haunted castle.

Aren’t all castles haunted? Garrick slid forward in his seat as he reached for a cheroot.

Wolf agreed with a nod of his head. They are if you pay any attention to local villagers.

But Marisdùn Castle really is haunted, Chetwey replied. Everyone in the Lake District has heard stories about it.

And hauntings were something Chetwey knew a little something about, or so he said. Still, Braden didn’t put a lot of stock in such nonsense. He was simply traveling north with Quent to look the place over and didn’t imagine they’d encounter any apparitions once they arrived.

Well, if everyone in the Lake District has heard about it… Garrick smirked.

Chetwey snorted. Spoken like a fellow who hasn’t ever seen something that can’t be explained. There are many things, my friends, that cannot truly be explained away.

They say our great-grandmother vanished within the walls of Marisdùn, never to be seen from again, Quent added, warming to the telling of nonsensical tales.

More likely she ran off with some seaman, Braden tossed in. Can you imagine raising twelve children? He shuddered at the thought.

Our great-grandfather packed up those twelve children and went straight to Shropshire, vowing never to step foot in Marisdùn again, Quent said.

Garrick took a puff of his cheroot. You are rather engaged in the retelling of the story.

I think it’ll be interesting to see the place myself. Quent shrugged. A real haunted castle. It’ll be great fun.

Braden was rather tempted to sign the place over to Quent and be done with it. He had no interest in haunted castles in Cumberland or anywhere else.

A bemused smirk settled on Thorn’s face, but he said nothing.

Wolf, on the other hand, seemed just as enthralled as Quent. You know what you could do?

Who said we were doing anything? Braden asked, but he was drowned out when Quent said, What could we do?

Satterly had a Samhain festival a few years back— Wolf rubbed his brow as though trying to remember something —at that place in Devon, old abbey.

Lypston Abbey, Chetwey added.

Yes! Wolf’s eyes lit up. Lypston Abbey. Everyone dressed in costume and it was a right good time. Something about the worlds of the living and the dead colliding on that one night. I’ll never forget it.

Some of those girls didn’t wear drawers, Thorn tossed in. I’ll never forget that.

Did some colliding, did you? Garrick asked.

Wolf grinned widely. Wouldn’t it be enormously fun to have a Samhain festival at Marisdùn Castle, where the worlds of the living and the dead collide all the time anyway?

Brilliant! Quent gushed.

It’s not brilliant, Braden protested. It’s ridiculous. We don’t even know if the place is standing.

It’s standing, Chetwey replied. I’ve seen it myself.

Why not, Braden? Quent asked. Everyone dressed in costume, girls without drawers. I’m certainly game for that.

Oh, here, here. Thorn lifted his glass once more. Count me in.

There was a chorus of voices all in agreement for that. So Braden heaved a sigh and shrugged. Who was he to spoil everyone’s fun? Marisdùn may be standing, but we’ll want to make certain the structure is sound.

Why don’t you all come with us when we head for Cumberland? Quent tossed in. More eyes to look the place over.

I’m game, Chetwey said.

Why not? Thorn sighed.

Sounds like fun, Wolf added.

Well— Garrick shrugged —if everyone else is going…

Description: One1

Blake Chetwey pulled his greatcoat close around him and clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling together. With each bump in the road, his body protested in pain. Bloody hell! Now was not the time for another episode. Not that there was ever a good time, but he had been looking forward to the coming weeks and the party his hosts were planning. What healthy gentleman did not look forward to a celebration where young ladies might not wear undergarments?

He groaned. He was far from healthy at the moment and could only pray that this episode was of a short duration. Malaria! That is what the doctor in Barbados had called it, and warned him that he would most likely have recurrent attacks, without warning and for no apparent reason, in the coming years before the disease had purged itself from his body.

Blake turned his head to look out the window at the passing scenery. He should have had the driver take the road to Tolbright a few miles back. Beyond the small town was Torrington Abbey, his home for a good portion of his life, and the estate he would one day inherit from his uncle, the Earl of Torrington.

He preferred to suffer through this episode in his own bed instead of the haunted Marisdùn Castle. Not that the abbey wasn’t haunted. Well, at least it was for a short time, but Blake never saw evidence of the rumored ghost to be roaming the halls either.  And could he really consider the last haunting to be an actual haunting?

Do you really believe Marisdùn Castle to be haunted? David Thorn asked from across the carriage.

Had the man been reading his mind? Blake assumed Thorn was thinking about ladies without drawers. It was a favorite pastime of his. Blake simply shrugged. Who was he to decide if a place was haunted or not? A year ago he would have scoffed at the idea. Not any longer.

And, is it true that Patrick Delaney once haunted Torrington Abbey? Thorn continued. Or did you invent the entire story?

Blake groaned and glanced at his friend from the corner of his eye. He should never have told Thorn or the others about what Delaney and his sister, Laura believed. If he hadn’t been in his cups following the races, he would never have breathed a word of their story. He didn’t understand it all, he doubted that he ever would. He certainly didn’t trust Brighid’s version of the events – that Patrick left his body and hovered near life and death. 

He snorted and returned his gaze out the window. Brighid Glace is a charming yet odd young woman. If Patrick had haunted Torrington for a bit, then Brighid truly was a witch, as he always accused her of being. It was well and good he didn’t truly believe in ghosts or witches. There was a reasonable explanation for all the oddities. He simply hadn’t discovered them yet.

Well, did you?

Oh yes, he had forgotten to answer Thorn. Why was he having such a difficult time concentrating? Could it be because he was so cold or maybe it was the headache he could no longer ignore? You’ll have to ask Delaney.

I’ll make sure Braden sends an invitation so I can find out for myself. Thorn glanced out the window as the carriage began to slow. I believe we are here.

Blake didn’t rise to see for himself. He knew what Marisdùn Castle looked like. As long as it had a warm room and soft bed he didn’t care if it was haunted by two dozen ghosts. They just needed to leave him alone so he could rest until this episode passed.

The carriage rolled to a stop and a moment later the driver opened the door. Blake jerked away from the bright light that flooded the interior of the carriage.

You don’t look so well, Thorn observed.