JANE GEORGE                       See Jane Write

Leaving her staff, Wynne rose and went to Lord Lanthorne. Stripped of his arrogance, he appeared wounded, vulnerable. His openness overtook her, but words failed and she stood by him, awkward and silent.

As he lowered his hands, his black hair fell forward in damp waves around his face. “I know, by all that is right and decent, that I should be back in that bog, dead, my spirit on its way to its earned fate.” He turned to look up at her. “This is not right. I walk on earth as the damned. Tell me truth,” he implored her. “Tell me. Truth.”

Wynne knelt to run her hand over his back. Oh, blessed mistake. Heat ran to places that could only distract her from her mission at this crucial juncture. And she had simply meant to be kind.

She stayed her hand but kept it on his skin. Pulling it away would cost her too much. How she yearned to explore, yet she was bound by duty. And in her crone's disguise, he would be repulsed by an old woman’s touch if he suspected it carried anything more than comfort.

“Faith, every word I’ve given you is the truth,” she said.

He pulled her hand and forced her to sit opposite him.  Grasping her shoulders he said, “Then explain, before I run mad.”

“It is exactly as I said. I am your second chance. At my bidding, you were pulled from yon bog and revived. Make of this chance what you will.”

She made to stand and his fingers clutched her more tightly. Though his grip was strong, his expression fierce, she longed for even more contact.

“Please.” His tone lost all imperiousness.

“That is all I can tell you. And that you are doing well. You’ve passed two trials already.”

“Two?”

She nodded, and eventually he gave a curt nod in return.  His hands dropped from her shoulders. With a sigh, she grasped his remaining boot and pulled.

“You are relentless,” he muttered, but assisted her.

“The river is cold and cleansing.” She sniffed. “Start afresh.”

With awkward, jerking movements, his stockings followed his boots, and all that stood between Lord Lanthorne and the river were his breeches and drawers.

She reached to assist him. He dove for the water.

Blushing, Wynne turned her attention from the river. If he chose to attempt escape, he wouldn’t get far. His undress inhibited running, and the currents here hindered swimming for any distance. Besides, understanding of his situation clearly began to dawn upon him. She smiled. This one was quick.

Her smile faded. The last one had been quick, too quick and too clever by far. 

She hurried her tasks, for although wrangling Lord Lanthorne into a bath had been necessary, his recalcitrance had wasted a good deal of time. She scanned the skies and wished fervently they didn’t look so heavy with rain. After choosing a campsite not far from the clothing bush, she gathered the driest leaves and what branches she could find.

Keeping her back between the river and the pile on the ground, she concentrated solely on a single element, pointed her index finger and said, “Salamandre.”

The pile burst into a cheering blaze. Satisfaction. Perhaps she was making headway as a Wytch? She then turned to the matter of his clothing. Smells of sandalwood, wet wool, and something else peculiar yet familiar mingled in his greatcoat. Drying them with a simple evaporation charm, she turned to catch sight of Lord Lanthorne in the river.

He belonged there, kin to the river god Condatis, the flowing waters personified. Captivated, lost, Wynne could do nothing more than stand and stare.

 

Ruan sliced through frigid water, oddly comforted by its bitter veracity. Even though he could not wrap his arms around the river, the water was undoubtedly real, and as the old woman had said, cleansing. Sinking in the bog had muddled his wits. Swimming gave him a few moments to clear his head.

If this witch had indeed saved him, and had no connection to Mr. Drakes, he might bide his time with her. Her electric powers, her mastery over nature, intrigued him. Perhaps he could turn her, or her staff, to his advantage. But he had so little time. Probate was almost over, Thorne Hill House nearly lost. 

Ruan came to an abrupt decision. Nothing was more important than being reinstated in his rightful place in the world, able to protect his mother and sister. Tomorrow, he would give the witch the slip, go to St. Beryan’s church, put stop to Margaret’s wedding, and force her to honor their engagement.

Alive, dead, or in-between, it was the only way.

He ceased swimming and stood, testing the depth and current. The bottom here proved sandy and level, but darker eddies and a pull against his calves told him the river became treacherous a bit further out.

Ruan bent backward to dip his head and rinse his hair free of muck. Straightening, he shook out his hair and felt cold water droplets run the length of him. He breathed deeply for a few moments, enjoying this brief freedom, not only from the crone and her stick, but from what his life had become under a harsh father, the shackles of family duty, and the desperation of failure.

A chill current of air struck the beads of water on his skin. Wait a moment. Who stood on the riverbank?

A young woman with hair like rays of sunlight watched him intently. Wholesome, glowing, good, she looked to be the very opposite of what he’d become.

Without thinking, he swam for her. 

 

“Oh,” Wynne gasped. He’d caught her watching.

She grabbed for her stick and then saw her hands, youthful and elegant. The illusion must have slipped as she’d stared at Ruan.

He’d seen her as herself.

“Wynne, you clumsy Wytch!” Mighty Goddess, what to do?

She watched in horror as Lord Lanthorne stroked closer to the bank. Full of purpose, he rose, dripping water. All lean, strong chest, swinging arms and driving thighs, he waded out of the river, straight at her.

Before she could think of a spell to stop him, his grey eyes locked with her green-blue ones, the searing steel of his essence plunged into her. A charge more powerful than any she had known shot straight to her gut, as if he knew her soul as her oldest friend, or as if he would reduce her to ashes where she stood.

Defenseless, she could not break contact.