The Mad, Bad Duke (Nvengaria #2)(101)

The intensity of Meagan’s longing had never diminished. She wanted Alexander as much now as she had when the love spell first gripped her in its power.

Her tears flowed again. “But I have lost him. No one knows where Alexander is, and his men cannot find him. I love him, and I’ve lost him.”

“Here, now.” Black Annie pressed a crisp handkerchief into Meagan’s hand. “Do not give in. Alexander is a resilient man, and he is logosh, and he can look after himself. He’s the sort who will solve the problem and waltz home and ask for a brandy. I wager he’s been in worse danger than this in his life. He’s got many tricks up his sleeve.”

Meagan had to admit that Alexander could be as ruthless as a rapier and wield himself as such. Even so, it was horrible not to know where he was and if he were all right.

“You are a witch,” she sniffled. “Can you not look into water or a gemstone or some such and see where he is? Penelope says the mages in Nvengaria do this.”

“Scry for him, you mean?” Black Annie shook her head. “I can mix philters and love potions and make enchanted candles, but seeing over a distance or divining the future takes a special talent, which I do not have. I am sorry.”

Meagan shrugged, pretending the announcement did not dash her hopes. “You do have one quite interesting power,” she said, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief.

“And what is that, my dear?”

“You made Deirdre Braithwaite give you fifty guineas.”

Black Annie started, then she began to laugh.



* * *



But for all Black Annie’s hopeful words, Alexander had not turned up by the time Meagan arrived home.

His men were still searching for him, Nikolai reported. Meagan spent a wretched day looking out of the windows, starting at every sound, and putting off callers, both the curious and the genuinely concerned. She spent a long time with Alex, who could pay no attention to his lessons through his worry for his father.

Then, when twilight faded to darkness and clouds built up to cover the moon, Myn appeared.

He quite literally appeared in the darkened hall as Meagan wandered down to her chamber, stepping out from the shadows to stand in front of her. Meagan gave a loud gasp and pressed her hand to her chest.

“Good heavens, Myn, you must cease doing that. I’d scold you more if I weren’t so happy to see you. Have you found him?”

As usual, Myn did not answer directly. He held out his large hand, his blue eyes luminous in the darkness.

“Your husband,” he said in slow Nvengarian. “He needs you. You must come.”





Chapter 25





Meagan half-expected Myn to spirit her off by some magical means, but they used the more conventional method of a coach and four. Myn climbed into the carriage with her, which sent the horses nervously dancing, but nothing disastrous occurred.

Inside the coach, Meagan found Julius, Alexander’s chief bodyguard. Julius sported nasty abrasions on his left cheek and temple, and he looked both angry and jubilant.

“Gracious, are you all right?” she asked him.

“I fight,” Julius said as the carriage pulled away. He gave her a grim smile. “I like to fight.”

“Where is Alexander—I mean, His Grace?”

Julius started to speak, then shook his head. “I have not the English.”

“Myn?”

Myn would not answer, and whether he understood or not, Meagan could not tell. Frustrated she sank into the soft cushions of Alexander’s carriage, wishing her Nvengarian lessons had progressed further.

She tried to draw comfort from the fact that Myn had said Your husband. He needs you. Not Your husband. He is dead. Needing her implied that Alexander was at least alive, a hopeful thought Meagan clung to.

They rode out of London and headed southeast as darkness thickened and rain sheeted down. For four hours they traveled country lanes, neither man volunteering where they were going. Meagan knew from the roads they’d taken out of London that they rolled toward the heart of Kent, but she could tell nothing beyond that.

She huddled in the corner and tried to slow her racing thoughts. What would she find at the end of this long journey? Alexander hurt, ill, dying?

Please, God, let him be all right, she prayed with all her strength. She could not formulate more elaborate prayers, just the simple plea over and over again.

At long last the carriage turned into a small lane, the outside lanterns throwing spangles of light against tall grass and worn gateposts.

“Where are we?” Meagan asked.

“Alexander,” Myn said.

Meagan cupped her hands against the cold glass and peered out, but she could see little. “Where?”

Myn said nothing, and neither did Julius.

“I know,” Meagan sighed, sitting back down. “You have not the English.”

The lane was not very long, perhaps a quarter of a mile. At the end of it, Meagan was startled to see a large country house, one left over from the period of the Tudors, with deep gables and half-timbering, rambling away into the darkness. The coach pulled up in front of a wide, dark door that stood open, giving Meagan a glimpse of a lighted flagstone hall.

“Who lives here?” she asked.

“Alexander,” Myn repeated.

Meagan had no way of knowing if he understood the question, and Julius offered no help.