Free Bewitching by Jill Barnett Page A

eerie glow. A sign proclaiming the establishment to be the Shovel and the Boot hung at a drunken angle from a rusty cast-iron mount over the heavy oak door.
    Mist hovered around an ancient mossy gray stone fence that circled the carriage courtyard, where the duke's outrider dismounted and stood speaking to a post lad. The door to the inn creaked open, and light bled gold onto a flagstone walkway, only to be blocked by the shadow of an aproned innkeeper.
    At the same instant the carriage door opened and the footman pulled down the steps. The duke was the first to step down. He waved the servant away and turned back, holding his hand out to Joy. She scooped up Beezle, settling him around her neck, and started to rise, but glanced down at her foot, unsure if she could stand on it without assistance. She needn't have worried, for the next thing she knew, the duke lifted her out of the carriage and strode toward the inn door, cradling her against him and giving orders that sent those within a twenty-foot range scurrying like rats in the tower room to do his bidding.
    For Joy the damp English air held no chill; the cold didn't bother her. In fact, when she was in his arms she could imagine the man inside that cold shell, and her fantasies warmed her, along with his brawny chest. He had such a wonderful shoulder, on which she rested her head after a brief sigh. Just perfect.
    Even through the layers of cashmere and wool, she could feel the strength of his arm behind her knees.
    A burgeoning tingle picked that very instant to flutter its way from her head to her toes and then to her heart. She wondered if it was the same thrill that some witches experienced when they flew. She'd heard that flying was one of the most profound and joyous rewards of being a witch.
    Yet Joy didn't know that feeling. Try as she might, she could not remember the one time she'd flown. Of course she had been forbidden to fly after she did so that once, and had the misfortunate experience of blasting herself right through the two-hundred-year-old stained-glass window in the Catholic chapel atCraignure. Her aunt had rescued her and had offered a graceful apology to the bishop, as soon as he came around. It was truly unfortunate that the poor man of God had been praying beneath that window at the time.
    Joy still had a three-inch-long white scar on her left hand and a longer ragged one on the back of her neck. Her aunt told her that both scars would serve to remind her that flying was not for her. But those puny scars were nothing compared to the one she carried deep inside her—the one that reminded her she was only half a witch, and the half she had wasn't very good at making magic.
    But her unflagging hope carried her through the tough times, the times when everything she did seemed to go awry. Hope was her ballast. Hope was her salvation. It made her dream her dreams and pray her prayers. Someday perhaps things would be different.
    She looked up and caught the duke watching her again with that open curiosity, as if she was something foreign. I am, she thought, figuring she was probably the first witch the man had ever encountered. She smiled again, hoping to receive one in return. She didn't get it. A wall of ice frosted his look again. His guard was up.
    Don't touch me, it said. Stay clear.
    He was so strange. There was no smile in him. How very sad. He needed someone who would dig deep enough to find that treasure he'd buried. He needed someone with hope, because he had none. Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie had plenty of hope. She'd needed it to get this far. And she needed a purpose. Was that it? Was that what bound them in some strange way? She sensed it was, because this man desperately needed a little magic in his life.
    ***
     
    Alec sat on a hard bench at a long tavern table and studied the piece of paper on the table in front of him.
Granted herein, by the archbishop of Canterbury, is special license to Alec Gerald David John James Mark Castlemaine, Duke