Born In Water (The Cré-Witch Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Five days into her dream trip to England, the one she’d promised Deidre she’d take, and Bronwyn’s people had lost her luggage, and then behaved as if the whole thing was her fault for presuming to bring her tainted American luggage into the sanctity of Heathrow Airport. It had taken the airline two days to locate her luggage, and then they told her it would take another two days to get it to her. Two days to drive a suitcase from Heathrow across London to Canary Wharf.

  Bronwyn didn’t think England was big enough for any drive anywhere to take two days, but the airline woman had moaned on and on about a shortage of drivers until Bronwyn had relented. Her luggage had caught up with her late last night, freeing Bronwyn to trace her roots to their origin, a small town called Greater Littleton on the Devonshire coast.

  Bronwyn was celebrating her release from the jeans she’d been wearing for four days with her second most comfortable pair and a pale pink cashmere sweater she’d bought for this trip.

  The desk clerk at the Hag’s Head in Greater Littleton had sighed and eye rolled her way through checking Bronwyn in. The wooden sign hanging outside had a cutout of a witch, wart on her chin and pointy hat, above the name. It was cute. The Hag’s Head instead of the normal Nag’s Head, thus capitalizing on the swirling stories of the supernatural surrounding this tiny coastal village. Her ancestral home might not be the most hospitable place, but it was delivering on the old-world charm.

  “Good morning, everyone.” Her tour guide chirped from the front of a small group. Bronwyn had joined the tour group on more sighed directions from the Hag’s Head’s desk clerk. Bright eyed, hair in a jaunty ponytail, their middle-aged guide caught them all in the arc of her traveling smile beam. “My name is Hermione.” She twinkled at them. “Yes, like Harry Potter, and yes I am local to Greater Littleton.”

  An appreciative murmur rose from Bronwyn’s fellow tourists.

  “Now!” Hermione bounced on her toes. “This is the village, the green and the castle tour.” She paused and let that sink in. “If you’re signing on for just the castle tour, please wait here until we swing past and fetch you. Harvey.” She indicated a desiccated older man with wiry eyebrows dressed in a mismatched assortment of uniform parts that looked to be pulled together from differing shades of blue uniforms. “Harvey is another local, and he’s our bus driver for the day.”

  “Hi, Harvey,” Bronwyn parroted with her group.

  Harvey waved.

  “Now.” Hermione clapped her hands. “We will all meet for lunch at the Copper Cauldron before proceeding to the castle, and Harvey will meet us there with the bus.” A ring of steel coated Hermione’s voice, and Bronwyn wouldn’t want to be Harvey if he failed to bring the bus around at the designated time.

  As he limped away, Bronwyn wanted to catch him and give him a jar of Deidre’s liniment for his sore knee joint.

  “You may have noticed a theme to a lot of the business and names around our lovely village.” Hermione arched her brows expectantly. “Anybody?”

  “Witches.” A woman in her thirties spoke from the front of the group. “There’s the Hag’s Head, and the Copper Cauldron.” Straight out of New Jersey if her accent was anything to go by, she went on. “Sorcery Lane.” She jabbed her finger at the road name two feet away from them on the corner. “Toil & Trouble Hardware. The Speckled Grimoire Book Shop. Wands—”

  “Yes, indeed.” Hermione smiled at her new favorite pupil. “Our little slice of England is known for having the most supernatural occurrences anywhere in the United Kingdom.”

  “Even more than Stonehenge?” Jersey frowned like she had insider information that jibed with Hermione’s spiel.

  Hermione gave her the condescending look of someone who’d answered that question plenty. “To the best of my knowledge, there have been no verified incidents of the supernatural in Stonehenge.”

  Jersey scowled. “But—”

  “Now.” Hermione twirled her hand in the air. “The village dates back to the early twelfth century.”

  “When’s that?” The man with Jersey whispered loud enough for the group. “Is that like the twelve hundreds or the eleven hundreds?”

  Hermione sailed on. “The first recorded settlement here was 1127, and that was the gifting of the land to Roderick of Elwick.”

  “Who?” Jersey’s husband frowned.

  “Roderick of Elwick.” Bronwyn took pity on him. “He came here in 1127.”

  He whistled. “Now that’s what I call a family tree.”

  So did Bronwyn and her heart rate increased. This was why she was here, to unravel the mystery of her family. To discover where she came from. Why her family mostly only ever bore girls and why they all died young. Her maternal grandmother, Deidre, had lived longer than most, but even she’d died at only fifty-nine. Her car had skidded on black ice and slid her head-on into a semi.

  I’m here, Dee, I’m finally here.

  The memory of Deidre’s answering smile warmed her from the inside. Maybe because it had been only the two of them for so long, but Bronwyn had been particularly close to Deidre.

  Finally, here in Greater Littleton she might find the answers for both of them.

  “Roderick was quite the local celebrity in his time.” Hermione tittered. “They had a number of names for him: Roderick the Fair, Roderick the Bold, Roderick the Ready.” She leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “They say he had several mistresses who lived at Baile with him.”

  Jersey snorted. “Talk about your playa.”

  “Indeed. If you would follow me?” Hermione led them across the road and onto the village green. She stopped by a statute in the middle. With her best Vanna White hands, Hermione announced, “The statue is called The Lovers, and nobody knows who carved it or how it came to decorate our beautiful green.” She leaned closer. “Our village is famous for it.”

  Cell phones sprouted out of hands as the group took pictures.

  Bronwyn’s nape prickled. She stared at the statue. The longer she stared at it, the more she got the sense of it being familiar. Yet she was willing to swear she’d never seen it before.

  The statue was of a large man in what was remarkably detailed carving of chainmail—the stonemason’s talent was undeniable it was so lifelike—sheltering a slim woman in his arms. He was cradling her, but Bronwyn didn’t necessarily see how they could be mistaken for lovers.

  “Who are they?” Jersey stared up at the statue.

  The male carving drew Bronwyn’s gaze back. He was handsome in a rugged way, big and brawny, but he exuded protectiveness.

  “Another mystery. Like we don’t know who carved it or who put it here, we’re also not quite sure who they are.” Hermione grinned at them. “Rumor has it that the male figure is actually Sir Roderick himself.”

  Deidre had called it their knowing, and it struck Bronwyn now, a warm trickle of certainty deep within her. That was Sir Roderick in the statue.

  A German couple asked a few more questions about Sir Roderick, but Bronwyn tuned them out.

  Maeve. The name flitted into her head and stuck. Like she knew the man in the statue was Sir Roderick, she now knew the name of the woman. Except, having no way to explain how she knew, or at least no explanation that wouldn’t leave her looking like a lunatic, she wouldn’t be sharing with the group.

  “Some say it was magic.” Hermione giggled as she responded to a question about what had happened to Sir Roderick. “That he disappeared one night, never to be seen again.”

  Bronwyn’s flesh crawled, and she shuddered hard enough for the German woman in her Man U sweatshirt to glance at her.

  Never ignore your instincts. Deidre’s voice sounded like it came from right beside her. Something she’d said to Bronwyn a thousand times while she was growing up. Your instincts will guide you right. We have the gift in our family.

  The gift. Two words that meant so much and so little to the Beaty women. It meant their strange way of knowing stuff, especially when it came to the health of others. It also m
eant the curious ways their hands would heat when they touched someone ill or injured.

  Honey and sage surrounded her in a subtle fragrance bubble. The scent was connected somehow to her gift, but nobody had ever been able to tell her why. At least nobody in Bronwyn or Deidre’s lifetime.

  “What’s that smell?” Jersey looked around her. “Like lilies or something.”

  At first Bronwyn thought it might be her, and then she moved closer to the statue and picked up what Jersey smelled. It was lily and…oranges?

  “You smell it?” Hermione beamed at Jersey. “Some do, and some don’t.” She leaned in. “Around here, we say those with the magic can smell it.”

  Man U sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “I’ve heard people say oranges, some say lemons, others talk about lilies and some even say lavender.” Hermione winked at Man U. “But I must not have the magic, because I don’t smell it either.”

  A trick of the light, for sure, but Sir Roderick seemed to be staring right at her. The statue looked so lifelike, and Bronwyn couldn’t drag her eyes away. Nobody else was as fascinated by the statue as she. The rest of her group were all listening to Hermione tell them about how Roderick had been gifted this land by King Stephen.

  “Are we going to see the castle soon?” Jersey’s companion lost patience with Hermione’s description of the role the village green played in medieval life. “I came to see the castle.”

  The rest of the group nodded in agreement. Baile Castle was quite something, perched above the town like a huge, stone bird.

  Seeing it in real life made her gasp. She knew that castle and knew it well. She’d been seeing the same castle in her dreams since she was a little girl. Later, she’d looked it up and found pictures of it, but the real thing had them all beat.

  “Privately owned? Jesus.” Jersey’s husband grunted and stared up at the castle. “I wouldn’t want to pay the heating bill on that.”

  “I have to go there.” Bronwyn didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until all gazes snapped her way.

  Hermione looked sour. “We will go there once we’ve had lunch in the Copper Cauldron.”

  Bronwyn didn’t want lunch in the Copper Cauldron, and she didn’t want to wait. She needed to get into that castle. It was like a physical ache in her chest, as if an invisible rope threaded through her middle was tugging her in that direction.

  “It’s quite something isn’t it?” A man spoke from beside her.

  Bronwyn turned.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, a man stood next to her. Her brain slowed, and she stared. Something stirred inside her but danced beyond her comprehension. It was something more than the insane beauty of his face. Realizing she had to say something, do something, react in a manner suggesting she might be alive, she said, “Yes.”

  Sun played light and dark tricks around his head and got absorbed in the glossy darkness of his hair. He was so familiar, yet she couldn’t place him. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so.” His smile made her breathless. It crinkled the skin at the corners of his sin-dark eyes and carved attractive furrows on either side of his mouth. He was talking, and she needed to pay attention. “I’m guessing you’re a visitor to our village.”

  “Yes.” The sculpted lines of his face made her itch to trace them with her fingers. His dark eyes were set beneath strong, arching brows. “Are you sure we’ve never met?”

  “I would have remembered.” He had the most beautiful mouth, full bottom lip, perfectly bowed top lip. His lips quirked, as if he were holding in laughter.

  Heat flooded Bronwyn’s face. She was behaving like a superfan in the presence of their idol. Still, she could swear she knew him. Or maybe that was stratospherically wishful thinking.

  “I need to…” She jabbed her thumb at her group as they moved past the statue toward the Copper Cauldron. “I need to go.”

  She didn’t want to go. She wanted to stay with him.

  “What a tremendous pity.” He clipped his consonants and shaped his vowels, elevating English to a delightful auditory experience. It made her want to beg him to read anything—a shopping list, or better yet, a bedtime story.

  “I need to go.” Heat flooded her cheeks. By her count she’d told him that three times. He must think her elevator didn’t make it all the way to the penthouse.

  “Yes, you do.” He leaned closer, his breath warm on her neck and ear. “You wouldn’t want to miss Trudy’s two-day-old sandwiches.”

  “Two days old?” Bronwyn wanted to purr and press her face to his. Her fingers twitched, and she shoved her hands in her back pockets before they grabbed the front of his pressed pale blue button-down and yanked him closer.

  He smelled like linen and soap, and heat radiated from him. “Avoid the egg mayonnaise.”

  “Okay.” Her mouth dried, but perspiration broke out over the rest of her. Unadulterated lust rampaged through her. A tiny part of her brain sat back and gaped at the rest of her. She barely managed to string a sentence together. “I might skip the sandwich altogether and go for a salad.”

  He winced. “I really wouldn’t recommend that.”

  “You really must hate Trudy.”

  “No.” He laughed, deep, smooth and rich. “But I have a vested interest in your continued good health.”

  Her heart tripped over its next beat. Was he flirting with her? On Deidre’s soul, please let him be flirting with her.

  His dark eyes met hers. Heat flared in their onyx depths. Everything around them melted away, like the two of them were trapped in a warm, golden bubble. It was like falling into another human being and Bronwyn went willingly.

  “Yoohoo!” Hermione’s voice doused her in reality, and Bronwyn disengaged her gaze from his.

  He glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “I think one of us is in trouble.”

  Almost stumbling over her feet to reach them, Hermione hurried across the green.

  “Uh-oh. I’m guessing me.” Hermione must have really wanted her to eat with the group.

  Bronwyn’s brain came back online. What the hell was she doing going nuclear meltdown over a complete stranger? Her gut twisted in denial. He didn’t feel like a stranger, and her reaction felt right, inevitable.

  He smiled at her, and her doubts wavered. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  She couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about moments ago.

  “Lord Donn, how lovely to see you?” Hermione wriggled in her excitement. “We did not expect you in the village today.”

  “Why would you?” He raised a dark brow with brutal precision.

  Wait? What? She was talking to a bona fide English lord. Man, when blessings were handed out, her guy had been standing right at the front of the queue.

  Hermione flushed. “Well, we wouldn’t, would we? But we’re glad to see you anyway.”

  “Alexander.” He held his hand out to Bronwyn. He wore a signet ring on his right hand.

  She took his hand, his grip warm and calloused. Sparks shot up her arm and her pulse raced. She never wanted to let him go. “And Lord Donn, apparently.”

  “Yes, but I won’t tell if you don’t.” His dark eyes dragged her back beneath his spell.

  “Bronwyn,” she said. If he walked away now, she might never see him again, and everything in her fought that idea. “Bronwyn Beaty. I’m American.”

  “And I am enchanted.” His lips pressed hot against the back of her hand. “See you shortly, little witch.”

  Chapter Three

  Chills broke over Bronwyn’s skin as Baile Castle drew nearer. Perhaps it was the lingering sense of her encounter with Alexander making her jumpy. Her reaction to him had been weird and intense. The more time that ticked past between meeting him and now, the more ridiculous she felt about it. Probably some crazy knee jerk thing she had for men with English accents and ancestral titles. She needed to cut back on those historical romances.

  Harvey kept them on the one and only road that wo
und out of Greater Littleton and up toward the castle. As far as she could see, that was the only place the road went. The castle soared against the summer sky, even larger than it appeared in her dreams.

  On one side, the castle faced the village, behind it rose a mountain, and on the front end lay the sea. The cliff on which it perched had a staircase coming down from the castle to a large cave opening. There didn’t seem to be any other way to get there, which would really suck if you were scared of heights.

  “Baile, a word meaning home, is a classic example of a motte and bailey castle.” Hermione had the bus microphone and an endless supply of facts. “If you look to your right you will see the raised portion of earth, or motte, on which the castle was constructed.” They all dutifully looked right. “Surrounding it, is the enclosed area called the bailey. In Baile’s case, the bailey is on three sides, with the cliff edge being guarded by a stone wall.”

  Jersey’s husband pressed his face against the window glass. “Are those stairs going down?”

  “Indeed.” Hermione’s smile sent him to the top of the class. “And another unique feature about Baile. Beneath the castle are a large series of caverns. In the central cavern, there is a stream, which is believed to supply the water needs of the castle.”

  Knowing trickled through her, and she said, “No.”

  All eyes snapped her way and Hermione’s eyebrow went up. “Is there something you would like to ask?”

  “Er…no.” Heat climbed her cheeks. She had no explanation for how she knew that pool was not about water for the castle. A soft melodic chime sounded in her mind. The knowing strengthened until she was almost shivering.

  “Then I’ll continue.” Hermione gave her a quelling look. “Now where was I?”

  “The stream?” Jersey pressed against the glass right next to her husband. “Can you swim in it?”

  Hermione chuckled. “I’m not sure, but the ladies who own the castle might take issue with that.”