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Authors: Lydia Dare
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member of the family. “You appear to be a smart boy.”
Brannock Lindsay puffed out his chest proudly. “Thank ye, sir.”
“Show me how smart you are, lad.” He sat in an old high-backed chair and began to tug the high-heeled boot from his foot. “Do you know who the monarch of England is?”
The boy frowned a bit at the question, and James tried not to let on how important the answer was. Was he being too obvious with this tactic?
“Are ye tryin’ ta trick me?”
Damn. He was being too obvious. James shook his head, hoping to give off an air of nonchalance. “Of course not. Just a simple question. One must always be up on such things.”
“Well,” Brannock sat at James’ feet and twisted his face up, “King George III is king…”
James sighed with relief. He couldn’t have been imprisoned too long if George III still sat on the throne of England.
“…But,” the lad continued, “since the Prince Regent is the actin’ ruler, I think ye are tryin’ ta trick me.”
Acting ruler? What the devil did the boy mean by that? His expression must have given something away, because Brannock leaned closer to him, worry on his face.
“Are ye all right, my lord?”
James forced a smile to his lips. “You are indeed a clever boy. You are impossible to trick.” Acting ruler. Good God. “But can you tell me why the Prince Regent is the acting ruler?” he asked as though he already knew the answer to the question.
The lad appeared as sober as a vicar on Sunday morning. “On account of the King’s madness.”
Madness. George III was mad? James shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact. There’d been rumors to that effect for many years. Still it was a bit shocking to hear aloud. “And how long has the Prince Regent been sitting in for his father?” he continued conversationally. Meanwhile, his mind spun. The Regent must be the Prince of Wales. George III’s inept, debauched oldest son. How the devil was England faring under that oaf’s rule?
Brannock shrugged. “As long as I can remember.”
That wasn’t helpful at all. Perhaps the boy couldn’t remember as far back as last week. “How old are you, Master Brannock?” James tugged at his other boot.
“Ten,” the boy answered. “I just turned ten.”
“Which means you were born…?”
“November 20th.”
The year , damn your eyes. “What year?” He hoped he kept the frustration out of his voice. He’d not get any useful information from the lad if he lost his temper.
The boy laughed. “Are ye testin’ my mathematics now, sir?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I was born in the year of our lord 1806.”
And ten years later meant James found himself sitting somewhere in late 1816. He’d slept nearly twenty years. Twenty bloody years! A red rage clouded the corners of his vision. Never in his life would he forget the faces of the five witches who’d trapped him; but if he saw even one of them now—twenty years later—would he recognize her?
Miss Lindsay was his only solid lead. She was a witch, and she knew the five that imprisoned him were witches as well. If anyone could lead him to the bloody coven, it was Blaire Lindsay. How would he ever get her assistance? Of course, he already knew the answer to that question. It was the same way he got what he needed from any woman. Seduction. He smiled to himself. With Miss Lindsay, he would enjoy the journey as much as the destination.
Captain Lindsay barreled through the door with another bucket of water. “I think just a few more will do it, sir.”
***
Blaire listened to the splashing of water as Aiden filled the tub for the stranger. She shook her head in dismay. There could be nothing good about this situation. Nothing at all. In fact, it could be very, very bad.
Kettering had been imprisoned by the Còig , by her own coven. Even if a different generation of witches had done the deed, the reason for his imprisonment was still of concern. The group of five would never make such a
Brannock Lindsay puffed out his chest proudly. “Thank ye, sir.”
“Show me how smart you are, lad.” He sat in an old high-backed chair and began to tug the high-heeled boot from his foot. “Do you know who the monarch of England is?”
The boy frowned a bit at the question, and James tried not to let on how important the answer was. Was he being too obvious with this tactic?
“Are ye tryin’ ta trick me?”
Damn. He was being too obvious. James shook his head, hoping to give off an air of nonchalance. “Of course not. Just a simple question. One must always be up on such things.”
“Well,” Brannock sat at James’ feet and twisted his face up, “King George III is king…”
James sighed with relief. He couldn’t have been imprisoned too long if George III still sat on the throne of England.
“…But,” the lad continued, “since the Prince Regent is the actin’ ruler, I think ye are tryin’ ta trick me.”
Acting ruler? What the devil did the boy mean by that? His expression must have given something away, because Brannock leaned closer to him, worry on his face.
“Are ye all right, my lord?”
James forced a smile to his lips. “You are indeed a clever boy. You are impossible to trick.” Acting ruler. Good God. “But can you tell me why the Prince Regent is the acting ruler?” he asked as though he already knew the answer to the question.
The lad appeared as sober as a vicar on Sunday morning. “On account of the King’s madness.”
Madness. George III was mad? James shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact. There’d been rumors to that effect for many years. Still it was a bit shocking to hear aloud. “And how long has the Prince Regent been sitting in for his father?” he continued conversationally. Meanwhile, his mind spun. The Regent must be the Prince of Wales. George III’s inept, debauched oldest son. How the devil was England faring under that oaf’s rule?
Brannock shrugged. “As long as I can remember.”
That wasn’t helpful at all. Perhaps the boy couldn’t remember as far back as last week. “How old are you, Master Brannock?” James tugged at his other boot.
“Ten,” the boy answered. “I just turned ten.”
“Which means you were born…?”
“November 20th.”
The year , damn your eyes. “What year?” He hoped he kept the frustration out of his voice. He’d not get any useful information from the lad if he lost his temper.
The boy laughed. “Are ye testin’ my mathematics now, sir?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I was born in the year of our lord 1806.”
And ten years later meant James found himself sitting somewhere in late 1816. He’d slept nearly twenty years. Twenty bloody years! A red rage clouded the corners of his vision. Never in his life would he forget the faces of the five witches who’d trapped him; but if he saw even one of them now—twenty years later—would he recognize her?
Miss Lindsay was his only solid lead. She was a witch, and she knew the five that imprisoned him were witches as well. If anyone could lead him to the bloody coven, it was Blaire Lindsay. How would he ever get her assistance? Of course, he already knew the answer to that question. It was the same way he got what he needed from any woman. Seduction. He smiled to himself. With Miss Lindsay, he would enjoy the journey as much as the destination.
Captain Lindsay barreled through the door with another bucket of water. “I think just a few more will do it, sir.”
***
Blaire listened to the splashing of water as Aiden filled the tub for the stranger. She shook her head in dismay. There could be nothing good about this situation. Nothing at all. In fact, it could be very, very bad.
Kettering had been imprisoned by the Còig , by her own coven. Even if a different generation of witches had done the deed, the reason for his imprisonment was still of concern. The group of five would never make such a
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