Honor Bound Read online

  Honor Bound

  The Witchblade Chronicles #1

  By C.J. Archer

  Copyright 2011 C.J. Archer

  Visit C.J. at http://cjarcher.blogspot.com

  Other kindle ebooks by C.J. Archer:

  The Adventures of Miss Upton and the Sky Pirate

  The Mercenary's Price

  Kiss Of Ash (The Witchblade Chronicles Book #2)

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  A note from the author about this book

  If you've read any of my other ebooks, you may notice the similarities between Tilda, the heroine in THE ADVENTURES OF MISS UPTON AND THE SKY PIRATE, and Isabel, the heroine in HONOR BOUND. They both have the same supernatural powers—telekinesis, healing, pyrokinesis and finding things with a talisman. This is entirely intentional and stems from my fascination with paranormal phenomena. Stories about people with these "abilities" have been around for centuries and I've often wondered if there's any truth in them. Aside from this similarity, these books are not connected in any way.

  ***

  CHAPTER 1

  1583 - London, England

  Lawrence Shawe burst through the apothecary shop's door with far more vehemence than usual. Considering he never undertook any activity that required enthusiasm on his part, it was enough to distract Isabel from her herbs. She glanced up from the jar she’d been filling with dried juniper berries to glare at him but the look on his face dampened her temper. His cheeks were flushed and his hat sat lop-sided on his silver-streaked hair. He'd certainly exerted himself on this occasion. Indeed, he might even have been running.

  "What is it, Lawrence?" Isabel asked. "What's happened?"

  "Someone tried to poison the queen."

  She dropped the handful of berries onto the workbench. "Dear God, how awful! Is she all right?"

  Lawrence nodded and squeezed his finger and thumb into his eye sockets. When he drew them away again, he no longer looked exercised, just exhausted. His reddened eyelids sagged like old porch roofs over his blue eyes and even his clothes, usually so fastidiously tidy, had creases. Creased clothing equated to utter disarray in Lawrence's book.

  As physician to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, Lawrence would take a poisoning attempt on her life very seriously. Any threat to her health was a direct threat to not only his career, but perhaps even his life if he failed to save her. As the only son of Isabel's aged employer, she had a vested interest in Lawrence's wellbeing, and therefore Her Majesty's health too.

  "Perfectly all right," he said. "Lady Manningham, however, is quite ill." He crossed the rush-covered floor of the small apothecary shop and stood beside her at the workbench. He picked up a berry and rolled it between his thumb and fingers until it crumbled. "Her Majesty’s Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber ate the poisoned sweetmeats intended for the queen." He snorted out a laugh as he sniffed his fingers. "Silly woman. I’ve told her on numerous occasions her taste for sweet foods will be the death of her."

  Isabel didn’t think the joke terribly funny considering the circumstances. Nevertheless she breathed a sigh of relief over the queen's condition. "Is there any remedy you require for Lady Manningham? You’re welcome to anything from the shop, of course. Your father would wish it."

  He sprinkled the crushed remnants of the berry onto the bench and dusted his hands. "How is Father today?" he asked.

  "The same." She sighed deeply and swept up the crumbs with her bare hands. "His limbs ache and he’s confined to his bed most of the time, but he still insists on personally greeting his favored clients." She smiled. Old Man Shawe, as everyone affectionately called the apothecary, would rather die than give up his work entirely. Even so, his ill health meant Isabel now ran the shop and the Shawe household since Lawrence lived elsewhere. She dealt with customers and suppliers, servants and apprentices. She prepared remedies, dispensed advice and kept the accounts. Old Man Shawe was apothecary in name only—and a well-known name at that, bringing new clients from all over London—but she included him in all the decisions out of courtesy. It was the least she could do for the man who had helped her at a most desperate time.

  "Have you been massaging a hot poultice of comfrey into his limbs?" Lawrence asked.

  "Every morning and night."

  "Yes, but with vigorous strokes. Like this." He took her arm and rubbed his thumb along her sleeve with far less pressure than was correct. "The massage itself can be more soothing than the poultice." He used gentle, low tones as if speaking to one of his ill patients. She wondered if he spoke to the queen that way, in and out of bed. Or so the rumors went.

  Isabel pursed her lips to stop the wicked smile threatening to betray her thoughts. "Yes, Lawrence," she said, withdrawing her arm. "I am caring for your father as best as I can."

  "I didn’t mean... I’m sorry, I..." He blushed, turning his milky cheeks rosy, then tried to hide it by dipping his head. "Forgive my rudeness. I know you're giving Father the utmost care. I wouldn’t entrust his health to anyone else." He smiled an apology and at that moment Isabel could see why so many women found him attractive. He was only a little taller than her but still handsome for a man past his fortieth year. With his good looks, pleasant manner and a favored position at court, the widower was considered a catch by many women.

  Isabel wasn’t one of them. She liked Lawrence well enough, but he meant nothing more to her than a friend and fellow scholar of medicines. And as her employer’s son, she was as much indebted to him as to his father.

  "Forgive me?" he said, with a raise of his eyebrows.

  "There is nothing to forgive." She moved towards the door at the back of the shop which led to the rear storeroom and the stairs up to the living rooms. "Do you wish to see your father?"

  "Yes but I can only spare a moment. There is much to be done at Whitehall."

  "Of course. Poor Lady Manningham. Has the villain been caught?"

  "Not yet. Burghley and Walsingham are investigating."

  "I suppose you’re here because you need a tonic."

  "And to see your pleasant face." Although his words were playful, he wasn’t smiling. In fact, his gaze had turned alarmingly tender.

  Isabel laughed in an attempt to rescue them both from a potentially humiliating situation. "Then I’m sorry to disappoint, as I’m sure my face is hideously red from spending all morning beside a bubbling cauldron."

  He lifted one shoulder as if shrugging off the tension that had threatened to engulf them. "But still a pleasing sight, nevertheless."

  "You’re too charming for a humble apothecary’s assistant, Lawrence," she chided. "Go use it on one of the ladies at court."

  He leaned back against the bench, smiling. The moment of tender seriousness had passed and Isabel wondered if perhaps she had imagined it.

  "Not a single one of them can match you," he said.

  "Now I know you’re teasing me. There are many beautiful women at court. And some very eligible ones who I’m sure harbor a secret admiration for a handsome physician."

  "I’m not merely talking about external beauty, Isabel, although you certainly have that."

  She had been wrong. Laurence was merely attempting a different tactic. She quickly rounded the long counter which doubled as her workbench and scanned the earthen jars shelved above it. "If you tell me what was in the poison, I can provide you with something to counteract Lady Manningham’s discomfort," she said, re
turning to a safe topic. "I assume she didn’t ingest a large dose, considering she is still alive."

  "Fortunately she merely nibbled on one of the poisoned sweetmeats. I left her in Doctor Lopes’s capable hands," he said, referring to Her Majesty’s chief physician. "She’s taken a purgation but there is not a lot more to be done except perhaps a soothing tonic to settle her stomach. Ah, horehound." He pointed to a labeled jar on the lower shelf.

  Isabel unstopped it and carefully poured some of the liquid into a phial. "It should ease her pain somewhat."

  He took it and thanked her. "Add it to Whitehall’s account."

  "I’m sure your father would want me to give it to you without charge, particularly if it’s intended for Our Sovereign’s lady."

  "He would but I insist you charge the palace the full amount."

  Isabel reached under the counter and pulled out the accounts book. She dipped the quill in the ink and wrote down the quantity and price. "Now, was there anything else or would you like to see your father?"

  "Ye-es." He pocketed the phial. "Isabel." He looked up and a sense of foreboding crept over her. "My real reason for coming here today was to warn you to be alert. Someone from Whitehall will probably want to ask you and Father some questions."

  The sense of foreboding turned to dread. She should have known that her past would one day find her. "What sort of questions? What has the poisoning got to do with us?"

  "I could smell the poisons used in the sweetmeats."

  "And?"

  "Hemlock, henbane and monkshood. This is one of the few apothecary shops in London that sells all those ingredients."

  She tensed. "They all have legitimate purposes if used in their correct dosages. And we keep them in the locked storeroom. I’m the only one allowed to dispense them. Besides, there must be other apothecaries who sell those three herbs."

  "I know of only five."

  Isabel picked up the jar of horehound and tried to replace the stopper but it didn’t seem to fit no matter how hard she tried to force it. "Stupid thing," she muttered, casting it aside.

  Lawrence passed her another stopper. "I think this one belongs to that jar." Concern made his angular features even sharper. "Don’t be nervous."

  "I’m not nervous," she said, willing the hairs on the back of her neck to flatten.

  "This has nothing to do with your father," he said.

  Papa. Poor, dear Papa, seven years in his grave and still unable to rest in peace. "I know." But would the authorities agree? When they discovered her connection to him she would become their main suspect. And a capable investigator would surely discover it.

  Well, she would just have to hope for an incapable one. "Papa was innocent." The words slipped out from habit. It seemed she had been thinking them, if not saying them, every day for the last seven years.

  Lawrence said nothing. Since his mother’s death, he was one of only two people in Isabel’s new life—as she thought of her years living in London—who knew her background. His silence was damning.

  "I must see Father." He caught both her hands in his. "Be careful what you tell the authorities when they come."

  "Of course," she managed to whisper through her tight throat.

  He left through the rear door and his footsteps retreated up the stairs to Old Man Shawe’s room. Too distracted to work, Isabel looked out the window at Bucklersbury Street and wondered what an official from Whitehall would look like. Whoever he might be, he would wear finer clothes than the merchants, tradesmen and servants going about their business in the muddy apothecary’s street. She was sure she would know him when she saw him.

  It had begun to rain, scattering people forced to be out on such a bleak February day. Some retreated indoors while others sheltered beneath the overhanging upper stories of the grocery and apothecary shops lining the street. Isabel thought one or two might make use of her warm fire, but none entered. The rain would keep trade slow that afternoon but she didn’t mind. There was much to be done.

  She pulled the rickety ladder out from the gap between two sets of shelves and picked up the jar of juniper berries from the workbench. The bottom two rungs groaned under her weight. It seemed Fox hadn’t got around to fixing them yet. She would have to have another word with him, and this time she would make sure he knew the consequences of avoiding his duties. If Fox couldn’t take orders from her instead of Old Man Shawe then he would have to seek an apprenticeship elsewhere.

  She frowned at the layer of dust on the top shelf and considered wiping it off. But the jar grew heavy and since no one except herself and Fox would ever see the dust anyway, she decided to leave it. She heaved the jar up but there wasn’t enough space for it on the shelf. The entire row, every single jar, needed to be moved along. That meant returning the jar she held to the workbench, shifting the ladder down to the end then climbing back up and shuffling the other jars one by one then retrieving...

  For a fleeting moment, she considered using her powers to move the jars, but she forced the instinct from her mind. She hadn’t used her witchcraft since that fateful day six years ago and she wasn’t about to start now.

  With a sigh, she descended the ladder, resting the jar on her hip like a baby. The front door to the shop opened and she was about to call out to the customer that she would be only a moment, when he spoke first.

  "Let me take that for you."

  That voice...

  She looked down into the face she hadn’t seen for six long years. And dropped the jar.

  He caught it, although she suspected it was unwittingly done because someone who looked as shocked as he did couldn’t consciously work their body with such quick finesse. She should know. Her legs felt as stable as water and she gripped the ladder tighter to stop herself from falling. She certainly wouldn’t attempt the next rung yet. Making an ungainly descent in front of the man she hadn’t been able to banish from her dreams would be too horrible.

  "Isabel?"

  "Nick." She was sure she said it out loud but she couldn’t hear it so she said it again. "Nick." His name felt strange on her tongue.

  "It is you," he whispered, his dark gaze lifted up to her. As if his legs had grown weary, he sat down heavily on the stool provided for customers near the workbench. "Oh my God," he said. "It is you."

  Taking very careful steps, she slowly descended the ladder. When her foot touched the second last rung, a loud crack shattered the thick silence. Isabel fell to the floor in an undignified heap just as her husband, Nicholas Merritt, rushed to her side.

  "Isabel, are you all right?" He knelt and touched her shoulder.

  For a brief moment the connection recalled shared memories—of affection, passion and finally of pain. It was this last that made her shake him off. That and her embarrassment.

  "I’m well." She got to her feet unaided and smoothed down her woolen gown wishing she could smooth away her erratic heartbeat as easily.

  "Are you sure you’re not hurt?" he asked. "You landed rather awkwardly."

  "I’m fine!" Good Lord, this was not the way their reunion was supposed to happen. It was supposed to involve her being perfectly serene and looking her prettiest, and Nick groveling.

  He didn’t grovel. He didn’t say anything. He was so close she only had to reach out to touch his hair. The power of his presence, something she’d always found enthralling, sucked her in. She gripped the bench at her back to stop from flinging her arms around him and doing the groveling instead.

  "Isabel." He spoke so quietly she had to strain to hear him. "Christ!" he said with sudden vehemence. He dragged a hand through his hair but said nothing else.

  She turned away because seeing the shock on his face made her feel more insecure than she had in a long time.

  "Am I so awful that you cannot even look at me?" he demanded.

  Her breath escaped in a whoosh and tears stung the back of her eyes. She must look at him. If she wanted to put him from her mind once and for all, she must first face him. She waited until
her vision cleared, then slowly turned around.

  He looked the same, and yet so different. He still had the boyish face she held so dear in her memory, and although he was yet to laugh, the twinkle in his eyes and the dimples in his cheeks were only a smile away.

  But the boy had become a man since she’d last seen him. It was as if a sculptor had chiseled a little of the youthfulness away to reveal a harder, leaner and even more handsome face. A small furrow at the bridge of his straight nose and a few lines around his eyes and mouth only enhanced his new masculinity. There was power and intensity in his features and stance where before there had been only carefree frivolity.

  She wondered if her appearance had altered as dramatically in the last six years. His expression gave no indication as he studied her. Under the scrutiny, Isabel resisted the urge to straighten her skirts and check that her cap hadn’t slipped in the fall.