A Perfect Curse Read online

  A Perfect Curse

  “Nevara, why do you want to leave so badly? Are you not happy here?”

  She swung around, and then backed up, as if startled to find him so close. Her shoes splashed the Serpentine’s edge and Mark quickly tugged her onto firmer ground. This lake was shallow, but it would still ruin her day if she fell in.

  As he held her against his chest, her breath hitched. The temptation was too much. Mark had dreamed of kissing Nevara for years. This morning, he gave into his desire and claimed her.

  But instead of pulling away, Nevara kissed him back. Had they both been waiting for this moment of contact? Mark was the one who pulled back first as an alarming sense of danger brought him up for air.

  “Oh Mark,” Nevara said, and then she scrunched her eyes as if they pained her.

  “What is wrong? What do you see?” he asked, frantic to spot where the danger came from.

  “My head is pounding. It is one of my megrims, making everything too bright again,” she said in a frustrated voice. “What rotten timing for my sight to act up.”

  Mark’s alarms clanged. Wrapping a protective arm about her waist, he drew her toward the tree where his power staff rested, needing to reach it but unwilling to leave Nevara alone.

  A ripple from the Serpentine snagged his attention. He had almost reached his staff when a long green cord, covered with dripping weeds, whipped out of the water and wrapped around Nevara’s waist.

  She screamed as he clenched his staff. In an instant, she was out of his arms and in the water. Then, before his astounded eyes, she was dragged below the surface. . . .

  Books by Shereen Vedam

  A Beastly Scandal

  A Devilish Slumber

  A Scorching Dilemma

  A Season for Giving

  (From One Winter’s Night: A Regency Yuletide Collection)

  A Perfect Curse

  by

  Shereen Vedam

  ImaJinn Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  ImaJinn Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-656-7

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-638-3

  ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2015 by Shereen Vedam

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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  Cover design: Deborah Smith

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo/Art credits:

  Apple © Didora | Dreamstime.com

  Background (manipulated) © Omela | Shutterstock

  Silhouette (manipulated) © Littlepaw | Dreamstime.com

  Regency art (manipulated) © razzdazzstock | Dreamstime.com

  :Ecpo:01:

  Dedication

  For brother

  Prologue

  Sevilla, Spain, September 1814

  AFTER AN ABSENCE of six long years, eighty-year-old Anna Louisa was traveling back across Spain to her father’s land. A few villages back, she had acquired a criada joven, a maid of fifteen years. The girl’s parents had been happy to send her off with a wealthy señorita to a better life. Fools.

  Anna Louisa sat at the edge of her seat as her carriage clattered up the driveway of her beloved hacienda. After being away for so long, she was anxious to return home. Now that the French had been chased out of Spain, she planned to re-claim her rightful place as caretaker of this little piece of heaven. The only thing she dreaded was stepping into her bedchamber upstairs and encountering her rancorous old great grandmother who had been haunting that room for centuries. Unfortunately, that could not be avoided; Anna Louisa’s greatest treasure was hidden in that room.

  She managed to unearth only one candle in her deserted home before climbing the stairs. The sound of her clicking bones made her all too aware of her fragile elderly state. She was months overdue in replenishing her strength. She gave the maid an assessing side glance. At least the joven had not tried to escape, which saved Anna Louisa from wasting precious power re-capturing her.

  Once in her sitting room, she cautiously approached her bedchamber’s doorway. The moment she stepped inside, her great-grandmother’s spirit swooped toward her. After berating Anna Louisa for her long absence, the ghost then scornfully labelled her descendant old and feeble. Despite all her preparations for this meeting, every one of Anna Louisa’s many years sank into her bones and her confidence shrank.

  With effort, she shook off her dejection and sent the joven, who was holding their lone candle, to light the fireplace. The dark specter sniffed and snarled around the girl like a hungry hound while Anna Louisa approached the south wall of her bedroom to check on her golden treasure.

  She opened a small concealed cavity and, in the darkness, managed to verify that her foot-high statue of the ancient Spanish Huntsman had not been compromised. She trailed a trembling finger over his hat. Relief, as vibrant as the vigor she planned to regain soon, coursed through her veins. Satisfied he was still hers, she shut the safe door.

  It was time to disprove her grandmother’s caustic remarks about her. Anna Louisa went over to the hearth and caught the joven in a death grip. “Do not struggle.”

  The warning was hardly necessary. The girl succumbed with hardly a whimper and Anna Louisa proceeded to steal every drop of her precious, youthful, life energy. By the time she was done, the joven was dead and Anna Louisa was exhausted. She retreated to her comfy bed and fell into a deep healing sleep before her head touched her pillow.

  The next morning, she awoke refreshed. It was as if the years had fallen away behind her. She would soon, once again, live the life she was entitled to, thanks to her Huntsman. Her Huntsman!

  Anna Louisa flung back her bedcovers and raced across the cold floorboards to the south wall. With satisfaction, she noted that her bones no longer clicked or ached. She depressed three pressure points and the hidden cavity’s door sprang open again. Sunlight pouring in through the window pierced the gloom of his hiding place, making her man of gold gleam. A raising spell supported his heavy weight—equal to that of a full-grown male—as she carried him to her dressing table.

  She could have used his counsel these last few desperate years when she had fought against the French forces that had invaded her homeland. In a bid to conquer all of Europe, Napoleon had forced the Spanish king to abdicate and proclaimed his vile brother, Joseph Bonaparte, as King of Spain. Then the French marauding armies began to ravage her precious Spain.

  Forced to flee to safety, speed had been paramount. Painful decisions were made and one of them had been to leave her golden Huntsman behind. Centuries ago, her grandmother had spelled a particularly bothersome mago cazador, a wizard huntsman, into a portable size, no taller than Anna Louisa’s forearm. Once triggered, he would awake and his magic could foretell the future. The statue’s talent had made it possible for
her to keep an eye on her enemies.

  Yet, with French soldiers overrunning the country, Anna Louisa had panicked. What if the French caught her and confiscated the heavy statue?

  Even if the fools were ignorant about how to wield the Huntsman’s power, she could not risk losing him. They might have tried to melt him down for the metal, not realizing they were destroying a far more valuable commodity. So she left him behind, hidden inside her hacienda.

  Now, she faced him at her dressing table and tenderly stroked his golden arm. How she had missed this Spaniard of old, with his knee length jerkin over doublet, hose, and half boots. Activating him should refute her grandmother’s disparaging remarks about Anna Louisa’s command of herself and her world. The one thing she had not missed was that old witch’s caustic tongue.

  “Man of gold, speak to me plain. Who is the most powerful woman of Spain?” On the chant’s third repetition, seeing no discernible reaction, niggles of worry ran up her spine. Had she grown weak fighting the French? Or, having lain dormant, was her Huntsman dead within his golden cage?

  Suddenly, a shimmer overlaid the statue, and beneath her fingertips the Huntsman stirred. Joy sprang in her chest as his gaze met hers.

  He instantly flinched, his lips turning downward.

  Ignoring his sour look, she smiled in triumph. She was still worth her weight in salt. “See what I can do grandmother!”

  A glance over her shoulder revealed the ghost feasting in a corner of the room by the hearth on the spiritual remains of the joven, Anna Louisa’s latest victim. The old hag must have been entertaining herself by stretching out her long-denied meal.

  Repulsed, Anna Louisa turned back to the Huntsman. His gaze was horrified, for his attention, too, had settled on her ghostly grandmother as she consumed that writhing soul. It was time to show both this recalcitrant Huntsman and her belittling grandmother who was once again in charge.

  She stroked his arm with firm pressure. “Man of gold, speak to me plain. Who is the most powerful woman of Spain?”

  With reluctance, he answered, “You, my lady, are powerful by far—” His gaze swung to the window where a wind billowed the curtain. “—but she who shadows you, comes from afar.”

  Anna Louisa’s heart shuddered.

  Her grandmother’s ghost swooped to her right shoulder, her interest well and truly snared. “What did he say?”

  She glanced at her grandmother in shock. “You said there was no one else who was equal to my power.”

  “He showed me the corpses of the only woman and her child who could ever harm us. Unless he deceived me! Order him to repeat what he said. For if even one of our enemy’s descendants lives, we must root her out and destroy her.”

  “Speak again,” Anna Louisa directed the statue, “and not in vain.”

  “You, my lady, are powerful by far,” the Huntsman chanted in glee, “but she who shadows you comes from afar.”

  Chapter One

  London, England, September 1814

  MARK DIMAS ALVARO detested goodbyes, yet another painful one loomed directly ahead.

  Once his carriage arrived at his friend, John’s, townhouse, Mark told his tiger to return for him in two hours. Then, sprinting up to the front door, he knocked. Despite the sadness associated with this farewell, he looked forward to one final meeting with his closest friends.

  A footman guided him toward the drawing room. The moment he stepped inside, John’s six-year-old granddaughter, Ariel, flew into his arms with a cry of delight. He swung her up and around as she chanted, “I want to play.”

  With a chuckle, he set her down and allowed her to tug him from the room before he had even had a chance to wish John and his wife, Mary, a good evening.

  “Try not to annoy the cook,” Mary called out.

  “At least not until after dinner,” John added.

  “John!” Mary chided.

  The door shut, cutting off John’s rejoinder.

  A half hour later, however, they all sat down to a dinner of congealed carrot soup because Ariel and Mark had played, “Hide the Kitchen Ladle.”

  As soon as Mark noted the sad state of the first course, he clandestinely spun a spell that swirled like a hot wind through both his and Ariel’s bowls of soup, and they dug into their meal without complaint. Since John had already tasted his, Mark was unable to tamper with his friend’s bowl without revealing something magical was taking place. So John and his wife ended up sending their food back to the kitchen to be warmed.

  “I am so glad you were able to join us tonight,” Mary said, as a footman filled her wine glass. “John tells me you are planning to spend time with family in Wiltshire.”

  “I intend to move there, permanently.” Mark said, feeling his mood plummet with that reminder. Now that his elder brother by two years, Miguel, was dead, he was duty bound to take up family obligations.

  The Alvaros were charged with protecting Miss Nevara Wood, a descendant of the original de Rivera family line. In fact, Miguel’s last words before leaving to fight in Britain’s war against Napoleon’s forces on the Spanish Peninsula were, “Watch over her until I return.”

  Mark had paid little heed to his brother’s dictates, knowing that the one he should be worried about was Miguel, who was marching into battle. Nevara, on the other hand, was perfectly safe under his grandmother’s watchful eye. But now that Miguel was gone, Mark had no choice but to return home to assist his grandmother in guarding Nevara.

  Dreading his departure, he had delayed as long as possible. After all, he had to ensure his financial concerns were attended to and that his vast holdings were in good order. Finally this week, having run out of excuses, he had dismissed all his servants, except for his butler, valet and tiger, who had agreed to stay on with Mark when he moved back to the southwest of England. He had put off one of his most painful chores—to bid goodbye to his dearest friends—to the very end.

  “For ever and ever?” Ariel asked, sounding unhappy.

  “Surely not?” Mary said, no less disappointed.

  “Wiltshire is not that far,” John said. “Only a couple of days travel, if the weather holds. You could check in on her as often as you needed while still living in London.”

  “Check in on whom?” Mary asked.

  The resulting silence to that innocent question deafened Mark. His heart pounded with fear. He did not dare blurt out anything that would trigger the spell of silence an ancient witch from Spain had laid on his family.

  No Alvaro was allowed to say a word about Nevara Wood or her history to anyone outside family, not even to the girl, herself. If they did, they would be instantly transported back to Spain, have their magic stripped from them, and then have to face the wrath of a witch.

  The idea of being left as vulnerable as an ordinary human was an unthinkable punishment. Without magic, how could he protect Nevara, or even himself? He may disparage the use of magical arts as unsportsmanlike during competitions, but he knew its value in a time of crisis.

  “His grandmother,” John said.

  Mark’s breath gushed out in relief. John had not meant Nevara. How could he? He did not know about her.

  “Better yet,” John continued, “your grandmother could move to London. That would eliminate the need for you to leave at all. Now that your brother is gone, there is no reason for her to remain in your family home, surely.”

  “John,” Mary said, in warning.

  “It has been six months, Mary. If he is planning to leave us, I see no reason why I cannot mention Miguel this last time.”

  “The matter is decided,” Mark said. “My grandmother’s last letter was most telling. She needs me at home. Though to her—” he added with a wry smile,”—home will always be Spain.”

  “Has she never returned there?” Mary asked.

  “We have
no family left in Spain and war made travel difficult. Now that she is older, a weeks-long sea voyage is out of the question.”

  “How sad,” Mary said.

  But safer.

  “All the more reason for her to move to Town,” John said, like a dog gnawing on a juicy bone, “where there are surely more conveniences, from shops to services, than at Wiltshire.”

  “I will put the matter to her upon my return,” Mark said, more to end this line of talk than in agreement. The only reason his grandmother remained in Wiltshire was because that was where his family had hidden Nevara’s ancestor when they first arrived in England and where Nevara currently resided. John’s suggestion did give rise to a new possibility, however. Could he convince Nevara to move to London? Her aunt was dead, so nothing tied her to that region of England. That prospect cheered him.

  “I suppose it is good that you have not formed an attachment to a young lady in Town,” Mary said. “For then, leaving here might have been more difficult.”

  The only attachment Mark had was to a too-bewitching young girl he was sworn to protect, not woo. Their grandmother had taught both him and Miguel that lesson early on. Forming a close relationship with Nevara was taboo. If he accidentally said the wrong word about who he really was during an intimate moment, the curse might be enacted, and then he would find himself back in the witch’s hunting grounds in Spain, while the woman he was charged with safeguarding would be left with one less protector and that much more vulnerable to discovery.

  In fact, one of the reasons Mark had left Wiltshire, other than to pursue a taste for adventure, was to put as much distance between himself and Nevara as possible. At sixteen, she had seemed irresistibly alluring to a virile, eighteen-year-old.

  The thought of seeing her again—now as an adult of, what, nineteen—?—was both tempting and disconcerting. But what if, during his absence, she had acquired a beau? Could he stand by and witness Nevara marry another man and have his children? His delicious soup turned sour in his mouth at the idea and he pushed his half-finished bowl away.