Heather Graham by Bride of the Wind

slipped her hand into her pocket, producing all of Jamison’s gold coins. Madame Bonnie’s black eyes sparked. She seized one of the coins and bit down on it, then stared at Beth again. Beth found some courage.
    “Give me a potion! It must work! It must. I need enough for three. Something to slip in their wine when they sup. It must cause them to grow weary, to sleep, yet they must all awake later, seduced, willing to allow their minds to believe that they are with the one they love.”
    “There are no guarantees!” Madam Bonnie warned, a crooked, bony finger pointed Beth’s way.
    “You must! You must make this happen. My master is a powerful lord. He will see that you hang if you fail—and he will give me more gold to bring if you succeed!”
    Madame Bonnie turned away. She walked to the fire and threw some dust from her raw wood mantel on it. It fumed out, sparking, taking on startling colors. Beth watched the colors, amazed.
    Drugs, Madam Bonnie thought. The peasant girl wanted magic; all that she needed was the proper chemistry. The wine itself could be a sound base as both opiate and aphrodisiac. All that Madam Bonnie had to do was add the right combination of other concoctions from her extensive larder. She thought for several moments, the colors in the fire buying her time with the mesmerized girl.
    Then she began to pick and choose among her vials and stock, mixing a colorless potion before the flames. She made it take time. She whispered incantations and pretended to add a drop of bat’s blood for good measure.
    Then she gave the mixture to Beth. “Don’t forget, old woman,” Beth told her, “you will hang if this fails!” But her threat sounded very weak. She was anxious to leave.
    Madam Bonnie smiled and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t threaten me, young woman! Death is the easiest magic of all!” She began to cackle gleefully.
    And Beth began to run.
    It was one of the most enjoyable days Rose could remember.
    The king and queen behaved as sweetly as any two young lovers, leading the party through the forest.
    Several fine bucks were spotted and brought down. The king killed one himself with a fine display of archery.
    Another was brought down, Rose noticed, by the never-faltering Lord DeForte.
    Rose found the Italian astronomer, Lionel Triolio, a very handsome and charming man, lean and dark, with flashing brown eyes. From the moment he helped her mount her mare, his admiration was alive in his eyes. She rode with him listening to him explain the way that the stars moved in the heavens, why the moon could be so full and beautiful. His accent was delightful.
    Jason Padraic was the architect, a student of Sir Christopher Wren, and he was equally amusing. He had sandy-colored hair, warm hazel eyes, and a most pleasant look of adoration on his face. A Lord Samuel Newburg was also with them, a young count from the Yorkshire countryside. All of them seemed to vie for her attention. She was enjoying herself immensely. Despite the fact that Jamison Bryant followed behind her, the day was beautiful. All that marred it was DeForte. She caught him watching her once with a silver sparkle of mockery in his eyes, and when they chanced to meet on one occasion, she discovered that he mocked her indeed.
    “You’re acquiring quite a stable of admirers, Mistress Rose. Let’s see, a count, a builder, a reader of the stars! Why, imagine, these poor fellows follow at your heels like puppy dogs, seeking some small handout!”
    “Would you please go about your own business, DeForte?” she demanded.
    He smiled, shaking his head. “The poor fellows! How you do tease and charm!”
    “I believe they’ll survive,” Rose told him wryly.
    “Maybe. Maybe not.” He was suddenly staring at her in a way that seemed to judge and condemn. “Do you have any idea at all what you do to men? Ah, perhaps you know exactly what powers you possess, and enjoy the tempest you create.”
    “I’m not doing anything,” she