Thankfully Uncle Jonathan had disappeared once she exited her chamber, and Miranda hurried down the stairs and out of the house. She could do this. She must do this. It was the only answer.

  Just as she was about to reach the drive, the doors leading to the garden from the family sitting room swung open and Uncle Jonathan appeared before her again.

  “You are not seriously contemplating traveling onto Keyvnor land?” Uncle Jonathan appeared before her.

  “Fears must be faced.”

  “And fools seldom return unscathed by ill-advised ventures.”

  “I need to do this. I can’t live in fear.”

  “You need to prove to Epworth to see beyond his narrow view of his surroundings,” Uncle Jonathan countered.

  “Perhaps,” Miranda reluctantly agreed, though it was unlikely he’d ever know either way as she was doing this on her own. “I need to do this for myself. How do I know that Barnaby just threatens and can’t really do any harm?”

  Uncle Jonathan just arched an eyebrow.

  “I need to do this myself.” No matter how foolish, she knew that it had to be her, and nobody else. There was more at stake than the villages of Bocka Morrow and Laswell. She needed to face her fears.

  “You don’t need to do anything,” he roared.

  “I’ve let Barnaby keep me from Keyvnor for three months. Yes, he gave me a warning, but that doesn’t mean he’ll really harm me. And it’s quite possible he may have forgotten me.”

  Her great-uncle frowned.

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life having to sail anywhere or be bound to Hollybrook Park for the rest of my days, which could happen if Endellion is not appeased.”

  “He will remember you, Miranda,” Uncle Jonathan warned gravely.

  “You don’t know that for certain.”

  “It’s not something I wish to test.”

  Miranda notched her chin. “I will be fine.” She prayed with all of her might that her words were true.

  Maybe she was being foolish, but she’d need to step on Keyvnor land one day and today was as good as any.

  “I will not allow you to go,” her uncle bellowed.

  “You can’t keep me here,” Miranda yelled back.

  “He will kill you, Miranda,” Uncle Jonathan warned.

  “Or, perhaps not,” she mused aloud.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Uncle Jonathan barked.

  Wesley had gotten little sleep, and when he did slumber, Miranda came to him in his dreams.

  It was a fitful rest and he finally pulled himself from his bed as the sun began to rise. He then dressed for the day and wandered along the cliffs, looking out to the sea.

  The water was still rough, violent even, and had risen even higher than it had been yesterday. With each crash of a wave, water came over the cliffs.

  Wesley stared off into the distance, searching for storm clouds, but none were to be found.

  Given the state of the seas, and the time of the shipwreck in Laswell, Wesley could understand why everyone believed Endellion was angry. And, if he had a fanciful imagination, he might even believe that to be the case. But mythical gods were just that, a myth, and no more real than ghosts or pixies. Though a part of him wished he could believe, then he wouldn’t have lost Miranda, but it simply wasn’t logical.

  At one time he did believe, with his whole heart. Wesley had pushed those memories far way into the darkness because the most unpleasant memories of his youth were connected to that fairy tale. But those memories were in the forefront this morning, haunting him.

  So often his grandmother had taken him and his brothers to the shore to watch the water, searching for mermaids and she’d tell stories of King Merrik and the secreted island of Atargatis.

  He smiled at the memory of her pointing to mermaids in the distance. His five-year-old mind believed what he saw to be just that. As an adult, he now knew that they were probably dolphins.

  Most boys would have stopped believing in magic and fairy tales before they went off to Eton. His tutor had certainly tried to dissuade Wesley from believing in nonsense, but Wesley had held onto the possibility that there was a world that nobody could see, except for a lucky few. When Wesley had insisted that the Sea God of Cornwall and mermaids did exist that first quarter, he’d first been laughed at, then the boys had gotten rougher in their assaults and called him any number of names, and told him to go home to be with the other infants in his family The humiliation had been so great that he hadn’t wanted to return to school, but his father forced him to do so. That’s when Wesley had made up his mind that he’d never spoken of magical creatures again and over time, and as he matured, realized how ridiculous it was to believe in such nonsense in the first place. It didn’t matter that he’d been just a boy, he’d been old enough to have known reality from myths. And the more he studied the sciences, the more convinced he became that anyone who truly believed in mermaids, ghosts, and all other mythical creatures were fools because there was no logic supporting their existence.

  Remembering those days was painful and his stomach knotted, much as it had every day that first term, whenever those boys noticed him.

  A part of him wished he could believe. He envied Miranda's acceptance of what was beyond. She didn’t need proof to know something was real. She simply accepted it as fact. And as much as he attempted to do so last night, to open his mind to the possibilities that maybe it all was true, it couldn’t be done.

  Wesley pushed his fingers through his hair and decided to return to the manor as it was now a reasonable hour to break his fast.

  As he was nearing the manor, Miranda bustled out and nearly toppled into him.

  She placed a hand upon her bonnet to keep it from falling and looked up. “Lord Epworth. I apologize, I did not see you.”

  “You are in a hurry this morning.”

  “Yes, I must go into Bocka Morrow.”

  He glanced to the sea. “You aren’t taking a boat, are you? It’s far too dangerous.”

  She sniffed and notched her chin. “I’ve decided to walk.”

  “So you do walk into Bocka Morrow.” He hitched a brow. “I thought perhaps you didn’t given everyone mentions you taking a boat.”

  Miranda blew out a sigh. “I’ve not crossed onto Keyvnor land since I left it in June.”

  “Because of Barnaby?”

  “Yes!” she bit out. “He threatened my life and I took it seriously.”

  “Why risk it now?”

  “Because those in the village need to know what happened in Laswell and that if they seek revenge, they will be destroyed as well. Though I’m certain you think I’m feather-brained for believing and fearing what is to come.”

  He winced. That is what he’d called her that first season and it was likely he’d never hear the end of it.

  “If they take any action against Laswell, none of us will recover from it.”

  Her prediction was a bit melodramatic, but Miranda believed with all her heart that what she said was true.

  “It’s dire enough that you’d risk encountering Barnaby again?” She was too afraid of him to return to Keyvnor for the ball, yet she’d face him now to appease a mythical god.

  Miranda bit her bottom lip and tears formed in her eyes. “I’ve no choice.”

  Whatever it was that Miranda had encountered that day at Keyvnor had frightened her. She was still frightened, but willing to risk her safety for Bocka Morrow.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “That’s not necessary, Lord Epworth, since you believe this is all nonsense.”

  “I’ll go with you into Bocka Morrow, walking by Castle Keyvnor. If this Barnaby appears, I promise never to doubt the existence of ghosts again.”

  She studied him, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed. Then the corner of her lip twitched. “Only if you promise me one thing.”

  Wesley couldn’t imagine what she wanted but was certain it couldn’t be anything difficult. “Anything,” he said with sincerity.

  “If something happens to me, you must promise to deliver the message.”

  “Of course, I’ll advise them of the damages to Laswell.”

  “Not just Laswell but warn them about Endellion.”

  Wesley stilled. He was not going about claiming the supposed Sea God of Cornwall was going to destroy them all.

  “If you are correct, and there is no Barnaby, then I’ll deliver the message. However, if you are proven wrong, then you must also accept the possibility of merfolk as well.”

  When she put it that way, Wesley lost all concern. Of course, there was no Barnaby and maybe this trip past Castle Keyvnor was exactly what she needed to prove she’d imagined the ghost. When such an encounter didn’t take place, hopefully, he’d be able to convince Miranda not to share dire warnings of a merfolk king before they reached Bocka Morrow and thus save them both embarrassment.

  “Very well. I promise.”

  Miranda smirked. She was confident this Barnaby would make an appearance and Wesley was just as confident Barnaby didn’t exist. Either way, one of them would be proven right, which would be him.

  As they passed the Gypsy camp that sat between Hollybrook Park and Castle Keyvnor, Miranda’s steps began to slow.

  “Perhaps he’s even forgotten me,” Miss Miranda offered hopefully.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” Wesley agreed. Perhaps she was trying to find an excuse for why Barnaby would not appear. Something that she could convince him to accept, or perhaps herself.

  Miranda took a deep breath and marched forward with determination and a bit more speed than she’d displayed while approaching the border. Wesley, however, held back and felt no need to rush, as nothing was going to happen and they’d stroll into Bocka Morrow, perhaps purchase a few items and deliver the message to the Woodfords. He’d promise that he’d make certain they’d never lure a ship again and then they’d return to Hollybrook Park without incident.

  He watched as Miranda seemed to relax with each step. She’d been stiff, chin up and hands fisted as if she were ready for a fight, but the further they drew away from the gypsy camp the more her posture seemed to soften and her hands relaxed. After they’d walked a little further, Miranda let out a sigh and held out her arms, fingers spread and turned. “Thank goodness.”

  Wesley could have told her that nothing was going to happen, but Miranda needed to learn on her own. And just maybe, after she accepted that Barnaby didn’t exist, the two of them could come to an agreement. He really didn’t mind that she believed in other-worldly things, it was Barnaby that had come between them. After she returned to Hollybrook Park, unscathed, maybe she’d finally admit that perhaps she had imagined him and that her imagination was overactive.

  And, maybe, just maybe they could still have a future. Wesley would confess his heart and pray she loved him as well, and possibly marry him. That would certainly settle the issue between the two villages and they could even sign another agreement.

  Further, marriage to Miranda would make him happy. Very happy, and he’d be able to go about filling the nursery as his grandmother hoped.

  All they needed to do was walk to Bocka Morrow, deliver the message and return. Given it was only still morning, their future might be resolved by luncheon.

  And, just as he was about to step forward and suggest they hurry because he was now anxious to be done with this mission, the air filled with the most nauseating stench that Wesley had to turn away, gagging, his stomach revolting. For a moment he thought he was going to toss up his accounts.

  “Oh God,” Miss Miranda gasped, a gloved hand over her face. “Just go away, Barnaby.”

  As she said the words, dark smoke rose from the ground, twirling and swirling like the clouds of a storm.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she yelled.

  “You should have stayed away,” a rasped voice responded just before the most gruesome creature with black eyes materialized.

  For a moment, Wesley could not move or speak, too transfixed by what he was seeing.

  This was not possible.

  It was a trick. It had to be. Yet, there were no magicians about.

  It was at that moment, terrifying fear shot through his being.

  Chapter 16

  Panic filled Miranda as Barnaby lunged for her. She skirted his reach, but barely.

  “I told you not to return,” he roared.

  “I’m sorry,” Miranda cried. “I’ll go home. I’ll stay home,” she pleaded and promised.

  “Too late!” He reached out a scorched, scarred, and blackened hand toward her throat.

  Epworth rushed forward but Barnaby struck him in the chest, sending him flying.

  He lay crumpled on the ground and Miranda ran toward him, only to be pulled back by her hair.

  She screamed in pain as Epworth rose from the road and rushed forward again, only to be struck again, Barnaby’s touch burning Epworth’s clothing. Just as he was burning her hair. It was a stench Miranda knew all too well from the heating irons. However, better her hair than her neck.

  Terror filled her being, but she managed to pull away and ran toward Hollybrook Park only to have Barnaby materialize before her, blocking the way.

  “Please!” she begged, backing away, trying to remain out of his reach and glancing left and right for an escape. Epworth rushed from behind Barnaby and grabbed him, only to let go instantly and cursed, shaking his hands as if trying to cool them.

  Epworth had been injured because she wanted to be brave.

  “Please let go. Leave us alone,” she cried. “I’ll never return. I promise.” Tears from fear or stench filled her eyes and Miranda swiped them away as she tried to find an escape, but Barnaby lunged for her again.

  At that moment, Uncle Jonathan appeared between them.

  “Leave my niece be,” Uncle Jonathan ordered. “Or, I will see you in hell.”

  “We are in hell, Captain,” Barnaby retorted as he reached right through Uncle Jonathan and grabbed Miranda’s wrist.

  Searing, dizzying pain spread from his touch, so intense that Miranda’s knees gave out and her stomach churned. It was at this point that Miranda was certain that she was about to die, even though Epworth continued to try and beat Barnaby off with his fists, wincing and jumping back with each touch, but returning in an effort to save her.

  “You bloody bastard,” Uncle Jonathan roared. “You will soon pay.”

  Barnaby’s only response was his malevolent laugh as he knew as well as Miranda that Uncle Jonathan was helpless against him.

  Through it all, Epworth kept trying to save her, and each time he was burned, or his clothing began to smoke. She feared he’d catch fire if he didn’t stop.

  Tears clouded her vision from pain and panic. She wanted to tell Epworth to save himself, but panic and pain had tightened her throat and it was becoming difficult enough to breathe, let alone speak.

  “Please,” she croaked out, begging.

  There was nothing but evil in the depths of Barnaby’s black eyes and a terror Miranda had never experienced before filled her being. This was the end and it was all her fault.

  As searing pain spread up her arm, Miranda dropped her head, the tears flowing down her cheeks as she tried to keep the screams of pain inside. Uncle Jonathan was no help and Epworth was only going to be more seriously injured if he kept trying to help her when it was useless.

  In the distance squawking of birds drew closer, seagulls she assumed, and they’d be the last pleasant sound she’d ever hear. A familiar echo of home.

  Except, the birds weren’t in the distance but were coming closer and closer and she glanced up when Barnaby let out a roar as he swatted at the yellow birds that circled and pecked at his burned flesh.

  As he let go of her wrist to fight off the birds, Miranda scrambled back, nearly tripping on her skirts, but Epworth was there in an instant, scooping her up in his arms and backing away from the menacing ghost.

  What seemed like from out of nowhere, Sacha, a local witch appeared, holding a bucket. The two yellow birds then transformed into the twin witches, Rowena and Gretchen and the three began chanting, a language Miranda didn’t understand, as they circled Barnaby. He roared but could not break from their circle. Then Sacha lifted the bucket and tossed water onto Barnaby.

  The ghost cried out as heavy smoke, similar to what happens when water is tossed on hot embers, rose, and surrounded him. When it cleared, Barnaby was gone and where he once stood was only ash.

  Relief flowed through Miranda as she once again became aware of the searing pain enveloping her wrist and the rest of her grew cold, shaking, and suddenly weak. As darkness invaded her vision, Miranda’s last thought was that if Epworth wasn’t holding her that she’d surely faint.

  Miranda went limp and heavy in his arms. Not that her slight form was a burden, but it was the weight of someone who was no longer conscious—or dead, and Wesley glanced down in panic. Her skin was deathly pale, and there was a blue tinge about her lips. Worse, her wrist looked as if it had been held over a flame.

  “We need a doctor!” he yelled.

  “Take her to Madam Boswell,” one of the three strange women said.

  Madam Boswell was the fortune-telling Gypsy. “She needs a doctor.”

  “She can help,” the raven-haired woman insisted.

  “She waits for you,” another said. “Hurry.”

  Though none of this made any sense, now was not the time to question, and Wesley ran to the gypsy camp all the while carrying Miranda in his arms, holding her close and willing her to live.

  As he crossed the field, an old, hunched woman exited a red vardo, her arms laden with jars, and pointed to a pallet beside the fire.

  Wesley placed Miranda upon the blanket and put a pillow beneath her head as the old woman knelt and took Miranda’s wrist, tisked and frowned, then dipped her fingers into a jar of creamy golden lotion and began rubbing the burn.

  Wesley knelt on the other side of Miranda, holding her uninjured hand and mentally berating himself for not believing her. She’d been afraid to step on Keyvnor land and he’d dismissed that fear, nor had he believed her story about Barnaby. Then there were the birds…“Where did they come from?” he asked.