The Witch of Tin Mountain(49)

Esme scooted closer, until their thighs touched, and her warmth bled through Deirdre’s cotton nightdress. She pulled in a quick breath, opened the grimoire, and laid it across both their laps. There was no defiant clap of thunder, no unearthly show of supernatural displeasure. Only Esme’s soft gasp as she gently turned the fragile pages.

“Why, Deirdre, this is just marvelous! Is this German?”

“Yes. That passage is a recipe for a tea to soothe menstrual cramps.”

“How useful!” Esme turned the pages, pausing now and then to exclaim over Anneliese’s artistry. When she came to the drawing of the blazing tree, her eyes widened. “It’s just like the mark on your back.”

“I suppose so. My pa says my Oma had the same mark.”

“Fascinating.” Esme turned the page. “Oh, look.” Her fingertip hovered over a drawing of a young woman gazing into a mirror, a lit candle in her hand. “That’s called mirror scrying. Some use it to see the image of their true love on the winter solstice. I did it once, right here in this room. It works.”

Deirdre smiled. “I’d imagine you saw Samantha.”

Esme dipped her head, suddenly demure. “No, I didn’t see Sam. I was disappointed at the time. Thought it false. I suppose one can’t know whether or not such portents are true until they’ve played out and come to pass.”

Deirdre’s curiosity was piqued. “Tell me who you saw. What did they look like?”

After a moment or two of silence Esme raised her head. Her eyes were soft, limpid, flashing with sparks of golden light. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Oh, now you’re just being difficult. I’ve shared my book with you, so you must tell me a secret. Tit for tat. Was it a man, or another girl?”

“Fine then. I’ll tell you.” Esme’s voice had taken on an uncharacteristic tremble. “A girl. A woman, really. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Skin as fair as a lily petal.”

The air in the room suddenly became heavier. “I . . .” Deirdre looked away from Esme, searching for the right words to say.

Surely Esme didn’t mean her. But what if she did?

“Deirdre?” Esme’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. Her eyes searched Deirdre’s face. “It’s silly, but . . . I believe that woman I saw in the mirror was you. On the day you arrived, I felt a pull. A strong one. I thought it a passing fancy. It wasn’t.” Esme’s words tumbled out in a rush. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

Deirdre leaned back against the headboard in shock. She had certainly felt a pull of her own upon meeting Esme, though she hadn’t known how to name the feeling, exactly. Time had only deepened her infatuation. She never had such stirrings for Ingrid. Never wondered what it might be like to kiss Ing’s mouth, never watched her undress the way she watched Esme, though they’d undressed in one another’s presence many times, and had even bathed in the creek together.

No, what she felt for Esme was more than friendship, but dare she be so bold as to confess it?

“Sometimes . . . I think I might have feelings for you, too, Esme.” The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

A whoosh of breath fluttered beside her. Esme laughed. “Really?”

Deirdre closed the grimoire, put it aside, and turned to Esme. The thrill of something dangerously new flittered through Deirdre. She gazed at the pillowy softness of Esme’s lower lip and had the urge to take it between her teeth but bit her own lip instead.

Esme lacked the same self-denial. When she reached for Deirdre, all her doubts ended with a whimper and a sigh. They tumbled together onto the mattress, Deirdre’s pulse quickening as Esme’s hands roved over her. Their lips met, and Deirdre welcomed Esme’s kiss, sweet and teasing at first, then more urgent. A fierce hunger, a need to feel the press of Esme’s bare flesh against her own, made her fumble with the ribbon on Esme’s nightdress, finally succeeding in freeing the knot. She pulled the thin fabric down to kiss the freckled, soft skin on Esme’s shoulder, in the same way Robbie used to kiss her own.

Robbie.

It was as if a bucket of cold water had washed over her.

Deirdre pushed away from Esme, her face on fire. “I . . . I can’t do this.”

“If you don’t . . . if you don’t feel the same, after all, I’m content with things as they were.”

“No, no. It’s not that.” Not when her desire burned like fever beneath her skin. “It’s Robbie. Do you think this is a betrayal?”

Esme sighed and sat up. “I suppose it is.”

Deirdre lay there, staring at the ceiling. “Do you think it would hurt him? If he knew?”

“How would he ever know?” Esme laughed. “I’ll have to marry, too, someday. Otherwise, I’ll never receive my inheritance. I’ll be betraying my future husband every time I lay with him, because I’ll be thinking of you in order to endure it.”

“I don’t want to think of that—you with someone you don’t love.” Deirdre reached out, traced the arc of Esme’s spine with her fingertip. “I don’t believe these feelings will go away. Do you?”

“No. Not for me.” Esme looked over her shoulder. Raised an eyebrow. “He’ll never guess unless you tell him.”