Spellmaker

And then the bolt shifted on the door beside them. Bacchus pulled away, leaving Elsie dizzy and longing, only barely aware that the carriage had indeed stopped, that they’d reached their destination, and that their driver was half a second away from discovering them in a very compromising position.

Bacchus wisely grabbed the handle and beat the man to it, making it look like he had left his seat merely to open the door. “Thank you,” he said, forgetting to paste on his English dialect. “If you would knock on the door and inform Master Hill, I’ll see to my trunk.”

The driver nodded and sprinted toward the looming house across the drive, a few of its windows still alight.

Bacchus put one foot out on the step, but the other remained planted in the carriage.

Struggling for her voice, her wits, and her composure, Elsie managed to say through tingling lips, “Is that how all Bajan men kiss?”

He smirked, the insolent man. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never kissed any of them.”

Elsie laughed, and it hurt, yet relieved the pressure building in her chest.

Reaching a hand up, Bacchus pushed away that same soggy curl from earlier before cupping the side of her face. “I want you to trust me, Elsie.”

She nodded against his hand. “I do.”

He looked like he might kiss her again, and Elsie’s entire body thrilled at the prospect, but the driver was already running back to the carriage. So Bacchus dropped his hand to hers, squeezed it, and said, “Write me,” before stepping out into the rain.

Elsie barely noticed the ride back to Brookley, the storm and the bumps. She had completely forgotten the debacle at Seven Oaks, as well as the articles waiting for her at the stonemasonry shop.

She arrived home as though in a dream, and found she had the most intense craving for oranges.

CHAPTER 11

Master Ruth Hill was surprised to see Bacchus on her doorstep, but she accepted him into her home with the utmost generosity. He was upfront about the situation revolving around his arrival, at least as far as the Duke of Kent was concerned. He’d been concerned that Master Hill might sympathize with the duke—after all, Bacchus was a healthy, strong individual who certainly had some vitality to spare—but she did not. She had a room ready for him within the hour, and he poured as much gratitude upon her as the woman could take without drowning in it.

Bacchus rode with Master Hill to the London Physical Atheneum the following morning, though they parted ways almost immediately upon entering the large stone fortress. Bacchus had not written ahead; the assembly was not meeting today, as far as he knew. But he didn’t need the assembly so much as he needed Master Phillips, and Master Hill had told Bacchus exactly where the man’s office was located.

The guards posted throughout the atheneum didn’t stop him, though a couple looked ready to try. The golden pin affixed to his lapel—a token of his mastership—halted their steps. He traipsed through hallways and up stairs to Master Phillips’s office. It was strange to think that, only a month ago, such a trek would have wearied him. If not for Elsie, it still would.

He couldn’t stop the smug smile that came to his lips as he took a winding set of stairs to the third floor, slipping by a maid carrying an empty bucket and mop. Perfect, was he? Granted, he hadn’t meant to bring the woman to tears, but Elsie was so attached to this bizarre concept that she was worthless, tears seemed inevitable. He felt fairly confident that he had begun to prove her wrong about that. And he’d happily show her again and again, as many times as she needed the reminder.

Indeed, as Bacchus approached the door at the end of the corridor, he found himself very much looking forward to his nuptials. But for now, he had to put thoughts of Elsie aside and deal with the matter at hand.

He knocked loudly on the heavy wooden door, hard enough for it to shudder on its hinges.

After several seconds, an annoyed voice said, “Come.”

Bacchus shouldered open the door and stepped inside. Master Phillips’s office was just like the rest of the atheneum, built of ancient stone, but hickory wood had been laid over the floor. A single window let in sunlight from the outside, while large glass baubles in each corner of the ceiling glowed with enchanted light to brighten the space. Master Phillips’s large desk sat atop an Indian rug, and a large tapestry depicting running horses occupied the wall behind him.

The spellmaker did not appear pleased to see him. Setting down his quill from a letter he’d been drafting, Master Phillips tugged his sleeves down and leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Kelsey. No, it’s Master now, isn’t it? You are aware I take meetings only by appointment.”

Pulling on the dwindling politeness within him, Bacchus nodded. “I hoped you would forgive the intrusion.”

“Intrusion indeed.” He folded his arms. “Whatever have you disturbed me for?”