Love and Magick

By Marsha Ramnanan

What would you do if you had to choose between the life you had always known and the merest chance of love? Could you leave all family and friends behind on the whisper of possibility that you would find your soul-mate?

Could you have done it when you were just a child?

Jade, gypsy princess with magick coursing through her veins is the fiercely bold adventuress who faces any challenge with absolute grace and certainty. Daniel, the stunning heir to one of Englands oldest family is the reformed rake who is haunted by dreams of a female he has never seen. Their meeting is fated and their chemistry as explosive as true loves should be!

Yet, nothing is ever easy; as these two find themselves in the middle of a conspiracy of epic proportions. The immortal Queen Onagh of the Irish Sidhe is determined to steal any true chance of happiness they may have. Will she prevail in fulfilling an ancient prophecy? Or will Jade and Daniel find a love true enough to withstand the greatest of storms?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 25, 2008
• ISBN: 9781467020817

Book preview

Prologue

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Bright green eyes stared into malevolent amber ones.

‘Come on,’ said the owner of the green eyes, ‘you can trust me.’

‘That’s what they all say,’ the owner of the amber eyes hissed back.

No more words were spoken for a few moments, as the owner of the green eyes seemed to try to impart some vital message of sincerity to the other.

The two figures sat unmoving. A soft, sweet wind whispered gently through the leaves of the tree in which they sat. So intent were they that neither noticed the presence of two others who were well hidden behind a cluster of bushes.

The two behind the bushes were an unlikely pair at best – a destructive duo at their worst.

‘What do you think, Ralph?’ asked the bigger of the two. He was fat, with a bulbous nose and a straggly growth of beard.

His round, bald head would have been a good reflective surface if it was ever clean, which it was not. He knelt now, sweating profusely and wiped his grimy face with an equally grimy rag.

Ralph had both his calculating eyes trained on their expected target. The set of his thin lips and even the curve of his beaked nose seem to suggest cruelty. The gleam in his eyes and the way he was now rubbing his two hands together suggested, even to a casual observer, that he expected to make some kind of profit from this encounter.

‘Yes, I do believe she will do. You hit the target beautifully this time, Cal. Old Lady Witherspoon is going to pay a bundle for this one. She seems made to order, doesn’t she?’

‘Young… dark hair… light eyes… no family to come looking,’ Cal enumerated as though remembering a carefully chosen list of requirements.

Ralph paused. ‘Are you sure she has no family?’

Cal shrugged and jerked his head in the direction of the valley behind them. ‘If you consider them there gypsies,’ he almost spat the word in disgust, ‘they ain’t no people to speak of. You think they will come looking?’

‘More than likely they will forget she ever existed,’ Ralph agreed.

‘So when do we grab her?’ asked Cal.

‘Tomorrow. That should give the horses enough of a rest, so we’d better stay out of sight until then.’

Then he put a finger to his lips in a gesture for silence as ‘she’ emerged from the lower branches of the tree.

Green eyes swept over the landscape absently and then returned to the bundle wrapped so securely in her arms. In the moment she had stood looking in their direction, both Cal and Ralph had held their breaths. Strangely enough, it was not for fear of being discovered.

She looked to be about six or seven years of age, with a slender delicate frame. She was dressed in a short skirt and short-sleeved shirt of some coarse brown material. All in all, not a picture destined to leave an impression. Or was it?

Her skin was milky white and contrasted starkly with the ebony of her hair – hair that was untraditionally short for a gypsy, as it was sculpted to her small skull. Her eyes dominated a small elfin face, their colour that of polished jade. It was not merely their colour that unnerved the would-be kidnappers. It was the intensity if their glow… her gaze was far too knowing for that of a child.

‘Pretty little thing isn’t she?’ Cal said, clearing his throat and trying to quell the sudden feeling of unease. ‘I only glimpsed her this morning when I was watering the horses. I didn’t realise…’ and here he trailed off, for he suddenly wasn’t sure what he had been about to say.

Ralph’s eyes still rested speculatively on the slight figure as she headed back to the valley where her people were camped.

‘Did you see what she had in her hands?’ he asked, ignoring Cal’s earlier comments.

Cal shrugged evidently wondering at the slight shift in focus.

‘It looked like a cat,’ Ralph continued musingly, ‘a cat that was hissing in rage and pain when she went up the tree… but utterly docile when she came back down. Anything about that seem really strange to you?’ he asked, turning his gaze finally to his unsightly partner.

Cal sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, leaving a grimy streak across it.

‘She must’ve given the critter something to eat?’ he suggested offhandedly, looking longingly in the direction of his nearly empty saddlebag.

Ralph looked in the direction of his gaze and broke into a short laugh, ‘Ever thinking of your stomach, eh, Cal?’

‘Let’s find shelter for the night. It gets very cold in this part of Scotland. The Highlands may be nice to look on for some but I’d prefer a cold draught of English ale and a warm tavern wench any day.’

Cal smiled slowly, revealing crooked yellowing teeth. ‘That little ’un is our pass to a lot of English ale and lots more tavern wenches.’

As the men made camp for the night behind a shelter of rocks and allowed themselves to eat and drink their fill at the cold, shallow stream, each made plans of how he would spend his ill-gotten gains.

Meanwhile, the young girl with the smooth, gliding grace of the feline she cradled protectively in her arms, entered her own camp.

The preparations for dinner had already begun. Dotting the landscape were the individual campfires of each family, presided over by the women. They stirred appetisingly created stews made from whatever supplies had been gathered. Tonight the fare was bountiful, as a goodly quantity of rabbits had been caught and the woods nearby were laden with summer nuts and berries.

Each meal was a cause for celebration, no matter how meagre the fare. No gypsy ever threw food away or complained there wasn’t enough.

A stooped figure detached itself from one of the campfires and called: ‘Have you no sense child? Out alone on a night such as this… and in the forest too?’

The words were spoken in rapid-fire Gaelic with a force that belied the otherwise elderly appearance of the old woman.

‘Och, grandmother,’ the girl’s voice was respectful, yet teasing. ‘’Tis not for the likes of me to be fearing the unseen ones. The spirits of the wood are my kin are they not?’ Her look was arch with a slight girlish challenge.

The old woman’s eyes clouded temporarily as though in some secret pain, and she sighed.

‘Shaylee,’ she whispered softly, ‘eventually, if they desire to do so, they will come looking and find you. The others’ – and here she gestured towards the camp – ‘fear the hidden secrets of the forest and would not willingly enter it at night. You would be wise to follow their example, or if you cannot fully do so, at least pretend you feel the same way they do. There are enough unanswered questions surrounding your family without them knowing the truth.’

Shaylee raised her delicate black brows slightly. ‘My people love me grandmother, as they love you and as they love and remember my mother. They would not hurt me.’

‘Were they to know the full truth child they may no longer consider you one of them. In a lot of ways your people will always remain inherently child-like and as such their actions are not as predictable or as maturely grounded in reason as you would like to think. Do you wish to be an outsider? An outcast?’

The old woman’s tone had turned dire, but seeing the flash of fear in Shaylee’s eyes, she relented.

‘What do you have there lass?’ she asked looking at the small bundle in the girl’s arms.

‘I do not know,’ she said holding out the little animal, ‘but he was hurt and I told him I would help.’

‘How do you know it is a male?’ asked the old woman examining the bloody gash across its chest as the animal in question hissed its resentment.

‘Only a male would have responded to an offer to be helped with such ill grace,’ she said. The male in question gave her what appeared to be a resentful look and made a sound that sounded strangely like a snort of disgust. As accustomed as she was to her granddaughter’s oddities, the old woman paid no attention to that statement.

After helping her grandmother to clean and stitch the cut on the animal’s side, Shaylee joined the others for dinner. She laughed along with her people as the danced and sang around the main fire of Romel, their leader. A part of her, however, was still thinking of the earlier conversation with her grandmother.

She knew, deep inside, that she was not like the others. She heard voices in the whispers of the wind, voice that seemed to say that they would always be her companions. Sometimes when she lay on the heath she felt as though the power of the entire Earth was pulsing through her veins. When she wandered through the forests alone, she felt the presence of something magical and wondrous.

All of these things nagged at her now as she sat watching her cousins cavort around the fire. In some part of herself she already knew that she would never quite be part of their world.

She was diverted from these introspections when her grandmother stepped into the circle of light.

All activity suddenly ceased as she waited. The clothes she wore were made of a richly woven fabric that glowed ruby red in the flickering light.

‘Tonight we have feasted on the bounty that the Earth has so generously provided.’ She paused. ‘It is also the night of the full moon.’ She paused again and switched from Gaelic to the language of their ancestors. ‘We offer thanks.’ She raised her hands to the fire and gestured toward the flames. The scent of the blended herbs drifted into the night air as the entire band of gypsies linked hands and offered their thanks.

If Cal had seen or been a part of this little ceremony, he might not have felt so superior to or scornful of them and what he felt they represented.

Long after all the others had gone to sleep, Shaylee and her grandmother were still seated on the floor of her tent. Watching them both through narrowed eyes was the animal she had helped. Now that it was clean, its fur was long and silky. Its colour was a greyish-brown, spotted with a darker shade. Its tail was stubby and it possessed long tufts of hair on its pointed ears. Shaylee and her grandmother sat cross-legged on the floor facing each other. ‘What is it that I am drinking, grandmother?’ she asked, sniffing the warm brew in the clay vessel she held.

‘Rosemary… and a little something extra… the two should give you what you need to know about your future.’

She then lifted a small vial of oil to her nose and took a delicate whiff. She nodded as though confirming something to herself and dripped a little of the oil onto her fingertips. Leaning forward, she touched some to Shaylee’s temples and the centre of her forehead.

Before she could ask any more questions, her grandmother went on in a low monologue, ‘I have had visions child. Disturbing visions… I see you in danger… and then not. I see a journey that takes you away for so long that I see you return a woman. I see much unhappiness in the future ’fore you, but then I see you enter a forest very much alone and defeated in spirit and return with a smile of victory on your lips.’

She paused and breathed deeply, closing her eyes for a few heartbeats. When she opened them again her back straightened and she continued, ‘I need to teach you a few things before you leave… secrets that are already in your blood… the blood that flowed through your mother’s veins and through generations of women before me. Blood that is even more powerful because of who your father is. When you go to sleep tonight you will see the images that are to guide you to your true destiny… for if there is one irrevocable truth it is this: regardless of where we are born or to whom we are bound, the tide of destiny will move us all.’

As Shaylee found herself growing steadily drowsier, her grandmother’s words seemed more than mere words, and more and more like some strange hypnotic spell that wove sticky tendrils round her.

‘I have taught you a good deal about the herbs of healing and protection. You are far younger than I was when I learnt the same things – but then I was never as brilliant a student as you are. You already speak the language of the Scots and the language of your ancestors.’

Here she paused again and looked at Shaylee’s slight frame. ‘You look about three years younger than the ten summers you really are. It can do no harm to appear younger and therefore less wise than you truly are.’

She gripped Shaylee’s shoulders firmly in her own wrinkled hands and said forcefully, ‘Heed that which I say child. I give thee three pieces of advice to remember: firstly, remember to keep your own counsel. Do not tell your secrets to anyone. Secondly, do not forget what you have been taught about honesty and loyalty to your loved ones.’ She paused wondering if Shaylee had caught the fact that she did not only refer to people. ‘And lastly, remember that we will always be your people and that if you are ever in trouble, we will be waiting with welcoming arms to take you back.’

Shaylee rested the vessel on the ground beside herself, its contents dutifully drained. She frowned thoughtfully as she sifted through all the warnings and advice she had been so unexpectedly given.

‘Why must I go on a journey if it is to lead me to danger? Why must I leave my people and the family I hold so dear?’ She tried to clear her mind of all else, as the answer to those two questions suddenly seemed of paramount importance.

Shaylee turned to glance at the animal on her other side. He had started purring as soon as she finished her sentence. She cocked her head to one side and smiled slowly. ‘He agrees with me.’

Her grandmother’s sharp gaze swung to glare at the cat piercingly. She noted idly how quickly his ‘injury’ had healed… almost as though the entire incident were planned…

‘All I know is this: I feel it deeply in my bones that if you do not go on this journey you give up every hope of true happiness… and of true love. Your dreams tonight will make your path even clearer.’

As Shaylee slumped forward, finally having succumbed to the sleeping potion, her last thought was, ‘Yea, I will trust in the hands of Fate and of my grandmother – after all she has not been wrong yet.’

Chapter 1

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Daniel Learson ran a hand through the thick black hair that fell in shaggy locks to his nape, and scowled ferociously. With the way he had trained his crew, one would have expected a little more discipline from them. Instead, in their haste to be off the ship, they were handling the cargo with all the care of schoolboys.

He narrowed his grey eyes and barked a sharp command when the two clumsiest oafs dropped a crate onto the deck. His best friend, Stephen Delaney, who had rushed over as soon as he got word of the ship’s arrival, chuckled, ‘Lighten up, Danny me boy – you can’t blame ’em. Three months at sea is a long time to be without a wench, and even longer to be without something fortifying to drink.’

‘I run a tight ship. This is not a tavern,’ Daniel replied tersely, wondering absently why it didn’t bother him that Stephen always shortened his name. It was a testimony to their friendship that he got away with it. Anyone else would probably have ended up out cold on the floor, with a black eye that would tell the tale for a long time.

‘Aye, but perhaps a little bottle of whisky on board would not hurt the morale of you crew.’

Daniel gave him a look that plainly said what he thought of that idea and then cursed softly under his breath when the same crate was dropped yet again. ‘Why the hell did I hire those two?’ he asked himself, not for the first time.

‘Who are they?’ asked Stephen noting that the two did not look much like sailors.

‘On the day before we were due to set sail, a couple of my usual crew came up with ironclad excuses as to why they could not leave for Spain. These two came along and since I wasn’t in a position to be too selective, I hired them. I have regretted it every single day of my life since… Cal! Ralph! Drop that crate one more time and it will be deducted from your wages!’ he interrupted himself to roar.

Both men jumped… but luckily the crate was not dropped again.

Stephen clapped a hand on his back and said, ‘Why don’t I let you get back to business and you can meet me at the Odyssey in an hour or so?’

‘The Odyssey?’ Daniel quirked one dark brow, enquiring over the unfamiliar name.

‘Mmmm… it’s the newest ‘house of sin’ to be opened, as my dear mother put it so succinctly. You, my friend, are going to love it – the women there are absolutely divine.’ He paused and gave Daniel a particularly rakish grin, ‘… and they are so willing to please.’

‘Finding women who are eager to please was never much of a challenge to you, or did something change while I was away?’ Daniel returned drolly.

‘That is neither here nor there, Daniel Learsonl; these women of Madame Witherspoons’s are guaranteed to teach even a jaded libertine like yourself a few new tricks.’

‘I am hardly a libertine, Stephen,’ Daniel returned curtly.

‘Perhaps, not anymore… but it was not so long ago that you were the very definition of the word. ‘’Tis only since you became obsessed with this business of yours that you started to absent yourself from the gaming tables and the … uh… ladies’ bedrooms.’

‘The sea is a far more worthy mistress than any of the women I have ever known.’ Daniel paused, having deliberately ignored Stephen’s hesitation over the use of the word ‘ladies’. He frowned suddenly, images from his dream last night flashing vividly through his mind.

‘Are you okay, old man? You look a bit green about the gills there,’ Stephen asked when the pause lengthened and Daniel continued to look as though lost in some other world.

Daniel seemed to snap himself out of it and with a shrug smiled, ‘I’ll meet you there then, and we shall see if this place is everything you say it is.’

‘It was not the place I was praising, mon ami, but its inhabitants,’ Stephen corrected, with another of his ready smiles. He was about to leave when Daniel changed his mind.

‘Let us get something to eat at our usual place first… we can go around to the Odyssey later,’ he said. Stephen nodded his acceptance as he left.

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It was more than two hours later, rather than the promised one, when Daniel finally joined Stephen at the little inn that was one of their favourite haunts. It had become their ‘usual place’ ever since they had accidentally discovered it during their university days.

It was quiet, the food was exceptional and they both loved the proprietress. Molly was a round dumpling of a woman with the sweetest disposition they had ever come across. She still treated them like the irresponsible, irrepressible young teenagers that had landed on her doorstep a decade or so ago. It was, essentially, their home away from home.

After dinner, Stephen found they were tarrying a little longer than usual and that Daniel was drinking glass after glass of the special scotch that Molly kept just for them.

With that special instinct possessed only by close friends, Stephen knew that something was troubling Daniel and that he needed to let it out. So Stephen chatted on amiably, albeit rather one-sidedly, as he waited for Daniel to either start talking or decide it was time to leave.

‘Do you dream Stephen?’ asked Daniel, cutting across an amusing account of Lord Percival’s latest exploits. Lord Percival was one of the vainest young members of the upper class, which was quite an achievement, considering how vain and pampered they all were. He had recently been dancing attendance on two of the season’s debutantes without either of them being aware. However, as Fate would have it, the two young women met at an evening tea – and became fast friends.

Then, when they were both present at the Remington’s ball, each declined to dance with him. That fact alone was not what was amusing though – it was the fact that he had been so persistent as to remain talking to them as they stood together. It was reported that the younger of the two, Miss Georgina White, turned suddenly and ‘accidentally’ caused dear Lord Percival to lose his balance and fall into the nearby punch bowl.

Looking suitably dismayed, both women had rushed to his assistance – but had only succeeded in causing the punch bowl to slosh over and soak the rest of him. ‘Accidentally’, of course.

‘Doesn’t everyone dream?’ returned Stephen, wondering at the topic.

‘And when you dream, is it always the same?’

‘The same?’

‘Yes. Is every dream somehow connected? A continuation of the other? Is it about the same person, night after night?’

Stephen lounged back in his chair, his stance not betraying the concern he felt for his friend. He slowly shook his head in reply to the question. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’ The single word was an expression of confusion… and more. ‘They started almost six years ago, and at first I paid them no heed for they did not seem that important. But then, they became more intensely real than some of the real experiences I have had. A week would not go by without at least one of these dreams that I was powerless to stop. They came if I was alone, if I was in bed with a woman, if I was sober … and if I was drunk they felt even more real.’

Stephen leaned forward now, intrigued in spite of himself. ‘And is it always exactly the same dream?’

‘No. And yes. She is always there. When the dreams first started they were all about a child, a tiny little green-eyed sprite. She would just stand there in the centre of a dark mist and wait, patiently. I could sense that the mist concealed all sorts of terrible dangers – but she did not show any fear, so I felt none. But after the first few months, they changed slightly. I could feel her looking at me and I could feel the disapproval in her gaze.’ He paused and took another long swallow of scotch.

‘Perhaps she was the awakening of a long-dormant conscience?’ Stephen posed the question thoughtfully and then added, ‘Is that why you suddenly decided to go into business for yourself?’

Daniel shrugged, ‘That and the fact that the shipyard my grandfather left me was sorely in need of a good manager. She haunts me Stephen… a green-eyed witch with some terrible need that I cannot understand… She is no longer a child, she is no longer unafraid. I know she is in some terrible danger,’ Daniel stated. He rested his empty glass on the table and raked his hand through his hair. ‘She needs my help and I have no way of knowing who or where she is.’

Stephen looked at the formidable Daniel Learson, reduced to helpless despair, and wondered at the kind of internal turmoil that would cause such recurring dreams. It all made no sense.

There couldn’t possibly be some flesh-and-blood woman out there who really needed Daniel’s help. Or could there?

Infusing a jovial yet slightly soothing note into his voice, he patted Daniel’s shoulder somewhat awkwardly and said, ‘We’d best be off now before Molly comes over here to see what I’ve done to you.’

It took a few moments before Daniel raised his head, but when he did his face was wiped clear of expression. He followed Stephen as he led the way outside and took his carriage. It was customary for Stephen to take the smaller of his carriages whenever they decided to spend the night as two gentlemen of their class were expected to. A gentleman could get away with anything – all one needed was the right bloodline and a little discretion.

Daniel seemed to take no note of his surroundings as he continued to brood in silence. He came out of his daze, however, as Stephen pulled the carriage up in front of a sedate red-brick mansion. ‘This is the house of sin?’ Daniel laughter was low. ‘Hardly looks it.’

Stephen felt an immense sense of relief as Daniel seemed to snap out of his morbid line of thought. They continued to joke amiably as the door was opened by a uniformed butler, who led them wordlessly into an elegantly appointed salon.

‘Surreal…’ Daniel noted, tongue in cheek.

‘Stephen, daaahhhling,’ gushed and extremely thin, pale old woman who extended her hand in greeting. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

Stephen bowed gallantly and gestured, ‘Permit me to introduce a very old and dear friend of mine – Mr Daniel Learson.’

‘As in the Learsons of Lancaster?’ she inquired partly out of politeness and partly because the Learsons were too old and powerful a family to not warrant a comment.

Stephen hesitated, but Daniel cut in smoothly with, ‘I wish that were so, Madame, but alas I do not have the questionable honour of being allied with said family.’

Madame Witherspoon laughed merrily, although there was a tinge of disappointment in her voice as she said, ‘Questionable honour indeed.’ She heartily approved of this young man’s disdain of the aristocratic class but she could not help wishing that he were of the landed gentry, after all they made such good customers. Yet, looking at the rich and extremely tasteful cut of this clothing, and reminding herself of who his friend was, she decided that gentry or not he would make a welcome addition to her growing clientele.

She withdrew from the salon as two of her women came up to the new arrivals.

A voluptuous blonde with slanting green eyes draped herself over Stephen’s arm as she passed him a glass of wine. ‘Would you prefer something stronger?’ she purred into his ear.

The redhead with light blue eyes chose to survey Daniel subtly as she handed him a glass of the same. In no way did she attempt to make the same bold contact as her co-worker. ‘I gather this is the first time that you are visiting here?’ she asked softly. Her voice had a breathless, sultry quality that was guaranteed to make a man immediately picture her in a bedroom setting. Daniel, a man who had been at sea for so long, was not impervious to the invitation.

Soon he found himself being led upstairs and into a lavishly appointed bedroom, chiefly in tones of blue. He had lost sight of Stephen long since.

The redhead took the glass from him and rested it on a nearby table. She cupped his head in her hands as she kissed him with practised ease. Clothes were shed as the age-old ritual between man and woman began. And ended.

Propped on an elbow afterwards, she looked at him directly and remarked, ‘That was certainly a new experience for me.’

Daniel shrugged dismissively, ‘Do you say that to all of them?’

She laughed, the sound low and husky. Even her laughter was evocative…

Her red hair tumbled gracefully over her shoulders and then fell forward over her eyes as she lowered her head. ‘Don’t get me wrong, monsieur, I was not praising your sexual prowess.’ She paused and ran a hand lazily along his arm, ‘Although, I’ll not be complaining either. I was remarking on the fact that you were not really present throughout.’

She cocked her head to one side and surveyed him thoughtfully, lush pink lips parted on a sigh. ‘Aah… I know what it is. There is someone who occupies your thoughts, day and night.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Daniel’s gaze was glacial as he got out of the bed. ‘Stephen mentioned that the women here would teach even a jaded libertine like me a few things. However, I did not stop to consider that talking would be one of them.’

He was clothed in record time, as only a man who had been accustomed to being in the wrong bedrooms could be.

On his way out, he passed a partially opened door and noted its contents included a handcuff attached by chain to the bedpost, leather ties at the foot of the bed and a selection of whips on the bedside table. His gaze turned derisive as he made a mental note to ask Stephen if he had indulged in this particular sport.

As he made his way down the stairs, he wondered what made pain such a pleasurable commodity to some of the patrons of these houses. It never crossed his mind to wonder whether the women were willing participants. He had always assumed that, in London in particular, the women had chosen this type of life for themselves. Perhaps because they were in some financial difficulty or had some personal problem – but the point was it had been their choice.

Compared to the women of the eastern cities, who were bargained off like livestock to be traded, Londoners had very little to complain of. Why, he recalled seeing a particularly beautiful oriental woman dragged from her father’s home by a known dealer in human flesh. He usually acquired the women from rural areas and then sold them off to the brothels in the city at a very high profit. The girl he had seen, however, who was scarcely over the age of sixteen, had brought dishonour to her father. So he had condemned his only daughter to a life of bondage. After all, ‘honour’ was the only thing a man had that was worth living and dying for, wasn’t it?

The salon was less brightly lit than when they had entered earlier. Looking around, he found that he was the only person present. He